RAIN

The Renegade's Chronicle

2012-02-05T07:51:00.000+05:30

30th January, 2012 – Monday

The venerable professors of ‘The Department of English’, Sree Kerala Varma College summon me to ‘Merry Lodge Palace’ [an erstwhile rest-house of some modest king, now housing the departments of Hindi, Political Science and English]. A sermon follows. The H.O.D categorically states than unless I evince any intention to ‘redeem’ myself, I shall be shown the door. That is to say, my exploits as a dedicated truant must come to an end and for the remaining three semesters of my post-graduation, I should abide by the norms – a bare minimum of 75% attendance, assignment submission, seminar presentation, internal examination and so on. Besides the imposition of these rigorous stipulations, my parents are contacted and briefed about the sorry state of their son’s academic repertoire.

The Following Days

Family, friends, teachers, classmates, acquaintances – all of them variously counsel, coax, warn, plead, advise and remonstrate. I’m at the end of my tether: only a week ago did I get through a nagging stretch of university examinations, for which I had to ‘earn’ my hall-ticket by paying a condonation fee of Rs.350 for attendance shortage, procuring a medical certificate and filling up numerous forms.

‘Either rein yourself in and be a proper student or prepare to face expulsion. We can no longer entertain your insolence, having tolerated it for three years of under-graduation and one semester of post-graduation.’ – read the writing on the wall. Hard Times.

3rd February, 2012 - Friday

Having made up my mind on the matter, I compose “An Open Letter”, meet the teachers in person and deliver the letter ---

AN OPEN LETTER

Respected Sir,
Bygone days have been most enriching. Trifling predicaments like the one I’m going through right now make an otherwise monotonous life eventful, don’t you think? Well, they made me think. Seriously. And I am thankful to you for catalysing a chain of events that are ultimately leading up to the inevitable. After much deliberation, soul-searching and battling (self-doubts), I’ve made my resolution. It might sound blasphemous but brutal honesty, despite all its ugliness, is better than elegant lies, right? I think so. Hence the decision to remain true to my own spirit. No classrooms for Rohith Ramdas, come what may. I’ve already embraced the idea of a disgraceful expulsion. Whatever.

Now, please don’t misinterpret this as the arrogance of a rash youth, sir. Rather, it is simply the nonchalance of a thoughtful fool. I don’t see why I should continue to hold on to an educational system that judges the pupil’s merit by the virtue of questions like – “How many characters die in the course of the play ‘Hamlet’?”

The answer to which would be – “Strictly speaking....Eight, with the exclusion of ‘Hamlet, The Senior’ who had courted death afore the ‘course of the events’ narrated in the play unfolded. But in case a ghost claims his right to be counted among the dead -- Nine. As you like it!”

Such not-so-funny-jokes apart, let me tell you that I’ve always been an outlaw in the academic circles. In fact, I am amused by the queer sensation of déjà vu instigated by these recent developments. Higher secondary days – perpetual truant....caught in flagrante....threatened with rustication....meek subjection of the 16-year old....railing teachers....sulking parents....confused teenager....holding on....falling apart....16 out of 100 in Chemistry – Failed.

You see, I just can’t allow myself to make the same mistake twice. I was born to be the lonely black sheep. And I must confess that I am enjoying this desolation.

Before winding up, I have the obligation to make certain clarifications – about myself. The most important being the misconception that I’m a ‘bookworm’. I initially took it in the stride, considering the title a casual compliment from people who knew little about me. But now, I find to my dismay that it is a grave accusation. To think that people think of me as a heartless, irreverent scoundrel who breaks his brain over innumerable volumes of literature in a musty library room a-nights and a-days, and gives not a damn to what’s going around! A serious error of judgment, sir! In fact, I haven’t read even half as much as many of my friends have. But well, why should we be delving into such matters as gauging how many tonnes of paper I ate! Back to the point, then.

Give me eight hours of absolute freedom and I will spend 4 hours wandering, 2 hours slumbering, 1 hour idling and a few minutes reading – all the while dreaming, thinking and observing. Being a proven egotist, I like to call myself, ‘The Observant Wanderer’ – honestly, I don’t think I’m good in anything else, but I bet not many can match me when it comes to wandering – may it be in my thoughts or on my foot. In fact, on this very day, I’m embarking on a journey to a certain ‘Never Land’ – I need to celebrate this unfettering. Therefore, henceforth, when you mention my name to your students while dissertating on subjects like - ‘Bad Examples: What-not-to-be-in-your-life’, do so by casting me as ‘The Observant Wanderer’ rather than ‘The Insolent Book-WORM’. I don’t deserve that distinction, I guess.

The college library card assures me a membership till 30th June, 2013. I would be grateful if I’m allowed to continue till that period in the campus and the library (not in the classrooms though! As Poe’s Raven says, “Nevermore!”) as an ‘outlawed student’. Unreasonable request, but then, when have I spoken or acted in accordance with the accepted norms of reason in the course of my 42 months at Sree Kerala Varma College?

Finally, a fundamental question that anybody would like to confront me with – “Why the hell did you care to join after all, thereby depriving another student a chance to get ‘educated’? Where was the god-damned rebel all this while?”

Answer: My middle-class upbringing had taught me to adopt the ‘middle-path’ of conformity; well, not always, but more or less. That fine balance between pleasing your parents/living up to the standard societal regimen/the prudent man’s idea of insuring future with the rigours of formal education and silly hopes, you know! It took a few good people and considerable thought to embolden me to throw caution to the wind and espouse this path of enlightenment. Better late than never.

Apologies for the insolence and thanks for the impetus, sir.

Your Erstwhile Student and Would-be Master of Arts,
Rohith.

P.S - I’ve always felt that I’m abysmally bad at expressing myself in speech, which is why I remain the passive listener in almost all the ‘conversations’ that I’m forced into. May be, that’s why I took to writing. Still, I’m aware of my limitations when it comes to pen-wielding as well. So before the swansong, I would like to make an unlikely revelation – I wish to make cinemas. Chances are high that I might find myself incompetent in that vocation of passion as well. Doesn’t matter. Better go down pursuing your passion rather than clinging on like mildew to the rough plain of banal life. As the Zen master said, “We will see...”

As for the next 18 months....well, I’ve never been quite good at planning the way ahead, but still, the circumstances demand me to be foresighted. I shall travel far and wide, resume my violin classes, read a bit, watch a lot of movies, learn swimming, learn driving.....you see, life is a perpetual learning curve!

Now, that might sound like the snobbish middle-class lad’s rant, reclining on the cosy cushion of financial security. Thankfully, I’ve a bit of self-respect intact and hence, my resolution to find some kind of occupation in the coming days so that I may earn on my own and support myself to some extent. I see that in abandoning that “life full of care, with no time to stand and stare”, I’ve compromised the happiness of my parents. It’s my only regret: despite the best of my efforts, I’ve ended up being a bad son. But in the long run, I hope to make amends and bring them all the happiness possible in this not-so-reasonable world. Vain hopes? May be. Let it be. And let me move on. Adieu!

***

The Present
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING....

The Outlaw & The Devil

2011-12-30T17:51:00.000+05:30

The devil, having found a perfect abode in my idle mind, refused to leave.The lonely me, after much deliberation, made an excellent resolution: Let thewretch stay. After all, I'm badly in want of some company. Time has passed byand I must tell you this. Despite his despicable credentials as the agent ofchaos, I've found the whore-son an excellent companion. He always has the mostinteresting things to say. His persuasive, eloquent tongue leaves you inthrall. Take his hands and he will take you to places. Such exotic visions!Strange that he has got an exterior that is as identical to mine as it couldpossibly get. Whatever.

His gifts are manifold. My sorrows are manifold. He has got these bigauricles that resemble a gramophone....so invitingly big that you can't helpbut venting out your frustrations and pent-up emotions, to which the wretchlistens patiently with a bloody sneer. And then he comes up with incrediblyawesome solutions. Oh, no scruples for the bastard! Well, that's the veryreason why he is called a devil, ain't it? But that doesn't necessarily meanthat I don't occasionally try my hand at reforming him. To which, he has thisexcellent repartee that he is after all, only doing what he is meant to do. Hesays that he has this terrible obligation of living up to his name. Such akarma yogi, eh? But the best part of it is the way he screws up the otherfeller, God, by the virtue of his sharp tongue and quick wits....arguing thatwhile one can trust him (the Satan) to be an out-and-out crook, the Almighty isa real charlatan who bribes, extorts, hoards, robs, rapes, murders,deceives....in toto, fucks up everything - a scumbag who dilutes one drop ofthe milk of goodness with an ocean of wickedness and reaps quite some fortuneout of it! I can't help feeling for the wretch. Poor, honest devil!

***

The other day I asked him what he thought of women. And the demon brokeinto his customary recitation -

"The rotten rat, ravenous -

Pounced on the piece of cheese.

The poor wretch's damned folly,

An enticing bait and an egregious end!"

I said fine. So what did he think about the women I fell for?

"Bitches!", said he.

"Now, isn't that a lie to gratify my ears? The God take you fortelling such a confounded lie!", said I.

"Nay, mate! Upon my word, outright bitches!" reassured he.

"Really?" I felt happy, grinned and shook his hands.

"Well said. But then, given my propensity to make repeated advances tovarious bitches....I mean, only a son of a bitch would court bitches -- am I,then..!?" queried I, in half-jest.

"Precisely! A stray dog!", said he, with a giggle.

I growled. I barked.

***

"My soul is up for sale! Take it and give me a few years of absoluteomnipotence - knowledge and power!", raved I, with Faustian gravity.

"Douchebag!", said he and sang a song most unmelodious -

"Behold the ragged outcast who--

Sought to trade some crap for crap.

Little does the wretch know of life--

A silly nightmare before the awakening!"

"Shut it, scumbag!", retorted I. "And better leave suchpretentious gibberish for able men like me! Empty talks are my forte! By theway, if we don't make a pair even half as good as Faust and Mephistopheles,what are we, then? What inferior facsimiles?"

"Calvin and Hobbes, may be!" said he.

Grrr, such an awful devil he is! Deserves a demotion to the office of theadulterous almighty. Off with your horns and find some wings! Begone!

***

"Comrade fiend, lady-love eludes me. What love-potion could possiblydrive the pack crazy and make them swoon over me. Do enlighten!", pleadedI. And the ogre sung thus -

" 'Roasted duck!', my tummy craved.

Soon set in motion, the typewriter!

A request letter in two shakes of a lamb's tale,

And I headed for the rendezvous!

Fatty, fleshy, juicy duckie duck,

Refused to shift from pool to pan.

My plea summarily rejected

I trod back, utterly dejected.

'Roasted duck!' my tummy craved.

Enough of petition, out came the club!

One good smite broke her neck,

A sumptuous dinner, I've had! "

"Darling, no plea, no prayer, no date....just predate!"

***

"Villainy has its charms, you know. I’ve had my own moments of darknessover the years and I must confess that I’ve been awed by the immensepotency of the evil. Pray, what do you think of The Joker, who to me, remainsthe epitome of diabolism? Quite a philosopher, ain't he?” queried I.

"The Joker", said the Satan drawing a deep breath, "iswhat this damned world makes out of even the best of men. Who knows, in his prime,he could have been a vigilante himself! And then, the world being the infernothat it is, must have hunted him down, ostracised him and driven him insane. You don’t believe me, eh? Hearken to the words of our anti-hero then --

"You look nervous. Is it the scars?You want to know how I got them? So I had a wife, beautiful, like you, whotells me I worry too much. Who tells me I ought to smile more. Who gambles andgets in deep with the sharks… look at me! One day, they carve her face. And wehave no money for surgeries. She can’t take it. I just want to see her smileagain, hmm? I just want her to know that I don’t care about the scars. So… Istick a razor in my mouth and do this…...to myself. And you know what? Shecan’t stand the sight of me! She leaves. Now I see the funny side. Now I’malways smiling! "

"You truly are incorruptible aren’t you? You won’tkill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, and I won’t kill you,because you’re just too much fun. I think you and I are destined to do thisforever. "

"You see, madness, as you know, is like gravity. Allit takes is a little…push."

"Wanna know how I got these scars? My father was….adrinker. And a fiend. And one night he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy getsthe kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn’t like that. Not. One. Bit. So,me watching, he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it. Turns to meand he says “Why so serious?” Comes at me with the knife,”Why so serious?” Hesticks the blade in my mouth. “Let’s put a smile on that face!” And….Why soserious?"

“You know... You know what I'venoticed? Nobody panics when things go "according to plan." Even ifthe plan is horrifying!”

"The only sensible way to live in this world iswithout rules. "

“If you’re good at something, never do it for free.”

“You’ve nothing, nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to dowith all your strength.”

“I don’t want to kill you. What would I do without you!?No...No...No...NO! You...You complete me!”

"You know, they’re schemers. Schemers trying tocontrol their worlds. I’m not a schemer. I try to show the schemers how,pathetic, their attempts to control things really are."

"Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the establishedorder, and everything becomes chaos. I’m an agent of chaos. Oh and you know thething about chaos, it’s FAIR."

"Don’t talk like one of them. You’re not! Even ifyou’d like to be. To them, you’re just a freak, like me! They need you rightnow, but when they don’t, they’ll cast you out, like a leper! You see, theirmorals, their code, it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble.They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you. When thechips are down, these… these civilized people, they’ll eat each other. See, I’mnot a monster. I’m just ahead of the curve."

“It’s a funny world we live in. Speaking of which, do youknow how I got these scars?”

Interlude.

“Now, tell me...”,continued my evil half. “Read between the lines. Aren’t they suggestive? Don’t theybespeak a man whose unimaginably horrific past transformed him into a viciouspsychotic. And believe me, that ‘Son-of-a-Bat’ is just a nonexistent brainchildof foolish optimism. He would remain 'The Incorruptible Son-of-a-Bat' in reellife. But in real life, he would metamorphose into something as terrible in a jiffy! Tell me, why did The Joker insist on his arch-enemy taking off his mask and unravelling himself? A simple hypothesis: May be, he is cocksurethat the mask is just a spectre....an unpleasant reminder – a visitation from thedays of yore where he'd foolishly cherished dreams about an ideal world." (Pause)

"Do youreally believe that if people were indeed taken hostages in two ferries rigged withexplosives and were given a remote-control, to choose between blowing others upand surviving; or playing the selfless, Good-Samaritan and upholding ‘thespirit of humanity’, thereby courting death....do you really believe that they would be virtuous enough to tread the path of the angels? Answer me! The Joker got the joke, laughed out loud and lost his mind. He was keen to share the bad joke with the world...hence his 'seemingly' abominable acts. Indeed, he ain't a monster! He's just ahead of the curve! He's an excellent teacher! He's more real than any hero! He's more just than any villain!”

The Devil grinnedtriumphantly. Such a devilish grin! With a bowed head, I sat silently....musing...

A Selection from the Diary of the Lost...

2011-12-11T17:38:00.001+05:30

Because I am 'down in the doldrums'....because I am searching for so many answers and find myself mystified by enigmas....because I don't have anything new to say...a selection from the diary of the lost...

~ In the dark room. Burdened by emptiness. What is missing? I ponder. A long, long pause. Voila, I have the panacea! The spirit of the dead makes a visitation! I think of the moments I spent with the dead. The hand that clasped mine desperately – Ammamma. The over-sized, nevertheless snug sweater that she wore till the end – the old woman whom I sketched in ‘The Talisman’. The wanton talks on the advantages of being a women’s cricket team coach – Arun, the college-mate who raced to netherworld....whose facebook display-picture still remains, ironically reading, “I am Back!”

The realisation that your existence is so pointless is most audacious....most empowering. You are nothing but an absolute outsider with a ticket to watch and an obligation to partake in this absurd drama. You begin watching, wide-eyed....you learn the tricks of the trade....you are in the play, you are playing....you try to stitch together, a convincing script with no loose ends...and from here on, you lose yourself entirely by being so myopically engrossed in the inconsequential details...you start losing the plot. You are in oblivion about the truth staring you in the face – that you are as much an indifferent observer as you are an impassioned actor. That this is a farce. That staring for too long at the reflection would delude you with the illusion that the reflection is the reality scrutinising the real you. Oh, not the tongue of oriental mysticism, I hope...never my cup of coffee!

Play your part, spare a moment to appreciate yourself and your co-actors...and proudly sneer at the screenplay, for you are now beyond its mind-boggling absurdity.

on the extreme left can be seen a portion of the shack/store
wherein i met 'the girl with the paper necklace'

~ Time and again, a particularly beautiful visage with the saddest of eyes makes a visitation from the land of memories, filling me with a strange sort of ‘heavy emptiness’. No, I’m not here to lament about a lost love. A woman alright. But my feelings for her have dimensions which I myself am at a loss to comprehend. To begin with, I’ve met her only once. And chances of another rendezvous are as bleak as that of a fish surviving in a desert...

25/07/2011. From Hubli to Marmagao. 6 hours in the Karnataka SRTC bus through an absolutely enchanting landscape, for the state highway runs right through the woods, along lush green fields, across hills...

It must have been somewhere around Ramnagar. The bus halted at what seemed like a makeshift bus-station in the foothills. A few shops - roofed either by tarpaulin or asbestos – stood by, offering minor refreshments to the weary travellers. In one of these stores, I met this girl...she with a pair of beautiful, almond eyes that brimmed with thoughtful melancholy. Bare hands. A black string adorning her slender, white neck. A piece of plain, white paper neatly folded and tied to the string - a paper necklace! In the ensuing 10 minutes or so of the sojourn, I was hopelessly fighting the impulse to talk to her, despite the fact that she knew nothing other than Kannada and I didn’t have a clue about the language.

“A packet of peanuts...mouth fresheners...how much?”

“Six rupees.”

“Here, thank you.”

I smile. She smiles. I gaze. She gazes. The driver honks the horn. The passengers - Buddhist monks, migrant workers, locals, tourists, kids - hurry back to the bus. The acute pang of parting...of pining. Strange romances? The footloose wanderer discovers the limits of his liberty. I walk away. My dramatic sensibilities are stirred. I turn back for one last glimpse. She's nowhere to be seen.

Time and again, a particularly beautiful visage with the saddest of eyes...

footloose in 'hampi'...on a rented bicycle...

~ “So when was the last time I felt really ‘alive’ ?” I ask myself. I search for an answer. Retrospection. Well, a long while back, it seems. Ah, there! June-July, 2011. “Alone and happily wandering....Dharwad, Hampi, Mangalore, Chennai, Goa....” As soon as the backpack is ready and the ticket is pocketed, the metamorphosis happens. The disillusioned observer with his smouldered unrest gives way to the footloose and fancy-free wanderer. I must travel!

~ In memory of a beautifully dark evening, wherein the torrential rain inspired me to cycle miles and miles....to the beach....wherein the surreal synergy of the grey sky and the grey sea, creating the illusion that I was lost in infinity, made me delirious with joy and lightness...wherein the sight of dead fishes and dragonflies, tossed hither and thither by the waves, instigated me to write an epitaph on the sands, 'Life Is Queer'....only to be washed away by the tides...and the rain...

Black & White

2011-10-01T18:42:00.003+05:30

"R. 20 years old. 5ft 2in. Fair complexion. Slender. Bespectacled. Missing since 10/06/2011" - says this newsprint dating back to late June. 440 good-hearted but not-so-curious gentlefolks shared the photograph above, on their 'Facebook Walls'. So much for playing the Good Samaritan without anything at stake. Eventually I came across it, today morning that is...and it goes without saying that the burden of this knowledge sank my heart. My unreasonable/unjustifiable obsession with beauty - with women, I must confess - drove me to think what I thought and do what I did in the ensuing hours.

Those who know me well enough would know that my whimsical world-view alternates between the extremes. I may fall asleep with a smile and wake up with a scowl. Sleep acts as the perfect interstice for caprice to change attire, I gather.

"Upon cloud nine, ecstatic, one day

Down in the doldrums, remorseful, the other!"

This photograph, therefore, had a tremendous significance - in rekindling my spirits....from dull indifference [that had been rooting in and gnawing me for some time] to passionate anguish. All of a sudden, the monotonous world metamorphosed into an intriguing labyrinth...

A journey, I thought. A quest. Oh yes, that characteristic surrender of reason before instinct! Emotions! A sepia-toned image of a hurtling train and a grim-faced Rohith at the door [gazing into infinity], crossed my mind. Heroic! But well, the attractions of such fairytale chivalry was only secondary. The gist of the matter was that my heart was pining for this unknown girl. Where could she have possibly ended up? An accident? Human trafficking? Elopement? Abduction? Suicide? Murder? My head was rife with dark thoughts, conspiracy theories and most of all, anguish. Ilonged to venture out daringly into the darkest corners of this treacherousworld...seek her...find her. I felt like writing poetry. Heck!

But well, why should you be listening to my self-important rants when your prime concern is that pretty face in the photograph, eh? Oh, come on dear reader! I won't be lounging lazily and typing this out, had I not known that she is safe.

The combined effect of curiosity and anxiety prompted me to contact the numbers provided below the photograph and an old woman finally answered my call. Despite my nervousness, I stuttered out my query. Obviously, the woman at the other end was disturbed. Suspicion, may be? Or embarrassment? Or distress? Anyway, she replied curtly that the girl is alright...safely home. And disconnected. I would love to believe what she said, even though it means that my poetry, my journey, my reveries....all of them must once again return to their graveyard.

A close friend of mine, on hearing all these, exclaimed. He rebuked me. What if things aren't as simple as they seem to be? What if tomorrow, the policemen come knocking at my door? Why the hell should a stranger give a damn to a 'missing case' as old as four months? I smile. But I know that within, I'm beginning to fret a wee bit. I begin typing out this post. An alibi. A case for pleading innocence, this blog-post. I am an ingenious stupid!

I really hope that R, the 'missing girl', is out there somewhere, happily reunited with her family....knowing not a thing about this 'strange well-wisher' who is as much a mystery to her as she is to him.

And well, the world is beginning to shed its hues, yet again. Colour-blind. Allow me to slip into a slumber...

Journals of an Unknown Gentleman - 01

2011-09-23T18:30:00.001+05:30

Prologue

" 'Twas a night of raging rain
My searing temples, sleep refrained!
Thence I sighed, "Death is nigh!"
Whilst dark rain neighed his war-cry.

Anon I had a fleeting vision
Of a haggard man, glum and musing,
A parched quill pining to drown in ink
And a candle illumining barren parchments.

A balm it proved to my throes
Unease allayed, I eased to sleep.
Quite a start the morn did gift
For on my quilt, lo! a diary lay!

Whence I found that queer chronicle
Of an unknown gentleman, I know not!
Neither can I, an artless plebeian
Make sense of the wretched ravings.

Wouldst thou then, O wise wayfarer,
Hearken to the phantasms of the nameless?
And pray, enlighten me, O wise wayfarer
On these reflections of the anonymous."
***

~ Vignettes From The Diary Of The Unknown ~

~ The ant persisted, despite being shoved away. Now, the precept is that the daring to endure and stand for a cause ought to be richly rewarded. Hence, I bestowed upon him, a grain of rice, clinging on to which he proceeded to his dining hall. I felt like God.

~ Solitude is a choice...and loneliness, an imposition.

Even as I relish solitude, my shadow feels the pangs of loneliness...

~ Be grateful to death. Because, it is the period that lends some sense to the absurd sentence called life.

~ I want to be the lone dentist in a country of gold-toothed folks.

~ I have done enough gardening to realise that parenting ain't my cup of tea.

~ "What if I were to drop dead the very next moment?" I keep reminding myself of this question, so that death, when he arrives, would find me waiting for him. My passiveness would surprise him for sure. In death shall I triumph! I wait. That scoundrel keeps me waiting. Either way around, you manage to make us look ridiculous. Admirable!

~ Strange that all of us go around the same star and end up seeing different things...

~ "It is dangerous to entrain or detrain a moving train." Poetic! The man who devised this must doubtless resign from his current vocation, for he has the heart of a bard!

~ A dream. Rather, a nightmare? She is dead. I can still sense the morbid coldness of her feet in my palm. Yet I saw her, with a new-born baby by her side. She smiled...

~ Cosmic powers conspired to send an asteroid. Crash! The dinosaurs are no more.

Cosmic powers conspired to endow the ape with an intricate brain. Voila! The earth is no more!

~ Speaking in a 'Pickwickian' sense, I think that Tom and Jerry share "a steady and reciprocal attachment which nothing but death will terminate".

~ The atheist rails at religion with a fervour that is somewhat annoying. Despite my conviction that there can never be an almighty, I won't entirely dismiss religion and indict it on the grounds of encouraging evil. The devil can always find excuses. If you take the dagger out of his hand, he will procure a pistol. At least that the knife can serve better purposes! The whole notion of an inscrutable providence is at best, a poetic expression of man's optimism. Confounded by the unreason of his existence, the imaginative but faint-hearted man conceived God. That sums it up. Every believer is a poet of sorts.

~ Despite all that damned certitude, death somehow manages to shock...surprise...instigate drama. How ingenious of him!

~ The words I write are characterised by a long-windedness that I find wanting in the words I utter. And the words I utter are characterised by a reticence that I find wanting in the words I write.

~ Many a tale to tell

But words elude me

Thoughts confound me

And imagination deserts me...

~ I don't mind an anti-climax, as long as I'm assured that it is watertight...as long as it is definitive. But the tragedy is that I end up tangled in loose ends.

~ Again, what if I 'really' drop dead the very next moment? Well, I won't regret much except that I didn't realise that long-cherished dream of sleeping with a woman. Sigh!

~ They say that an infinite number of invisible universes overlap each other. If that is indeed the case....aha, if that is indeed the case, I could literally be EVERYTHING! Everything that was, everything that is and everything that would be!? And if I could be everything, I must be a god. What? An oblivious almighty? Oh, You? But 'I'...? Get some sleep, you wretched dog!

~ The flickering flame consumes the candle. It has to be the most selfless thing in the world. Some day shall I write an ode to the selfless candle...

~ Given the skies, waters and lands they wing past, with such vantage at their command, it is only natural that birds are but philosophers in disguise...

~ Another dawn...I feel closer to that glorious gloam...

Streaming....Thoughts....

2011-07-14T16:52:00.001+05:30

Night

Downpour. Halting the train of thoughts, I spring from my bed and open the balcony door. The feebly flickering street-light lends a dull and depressing air to the rainy night. On that note, I board the train of tangled thoughts once again. Mumbai blasts, invariably. The devil's apprentices had a field day. I utter profanity, feel better. Rain hardens. The articulate scavengers and the expressive narcissists engage in rant and mourning, all the while fostering their conceit obliviously. Of course, I'm only one among them. Perplexed.

My gaze somehow fords past the darkness, into my grandmother's graveyard. March 13 it was. Four months have fled past since her death. Remembrance. Her agonising final days. Morbidity fills my universe. Death has its merits though. Omniscient shadows. Footloose and fancy-free, they must be wandering....I feel. Should I pity or should I envy? Eerie sentimentality.

I walk up and down the length of the corridor. I resolve to scribble some nonsense. I start re-arranging the jumbled notions and resume thinking, for writing's sake. The first thing that comes to my mind is an urge to journey. Some day, I will visit Mumbai. I badly want to. Cold. Back into bedroom. I struggle into my t-shirt and grope my way back to the balcony. Life, I think. Life - Absurd - Bubble. Succinct and complete. The perfect mnemonic. Satisfied with the conclusion, I proceed to my bed. On the way, I stop to enunciate the findings of the night to Anupama and Pia, my confidantes. Don't mistake. Paintings, they are. Some day, I shall write an ode to them. And you shall know. Period. 03:24 am.

Day

Overcast. Breakfast at 12:00, noon. I skim over the newspapers. I see a grievously injured young man in underclothes, sitting amidst the rubble. Honestly, my first instinct is to smile, for I'm momentarily reminded of two cartoon characters, Tom [of 'Tom and Jerry'] and Coyote [of 'The Road Runner Show']. Remorse inevitably follows. Yet again, I take a walk to grandma's grave. I somehow feel that she has the answer to all the riddles....it is the prerogative of the dead. The place is a verdant wilderness now. Shaded by the mango, covered with shrubs, ensconced in nature. The final abode has all the romantic melancholy usually associated with it. After every visit, I get this illusion of being wiser. Despite all that certitude, death still manages to surprise, arouse emotions and instigate drama. Admirable!

I must journey, roam alone without a purpose....simply because it elevates me to that vantage point of a dispassionate observer, sporadically. Thankfully, I shall be wandering solitarily and contently, through rural Karnataka next week. Under the pretext of attending an entrance test for M.A English at Karnatak University, I've pulled off a five-day trip. Hospet, Dharwar, Hubli....most of all, the ruins of Vijayanagara empire at Hampi, by Tungabhadra. The perfect getaway.

I must slumber and dream. I'm slowly mastering the art of lucid dreaming [or at least that I like to believe that I am], and I'm extremely proud of it. Death - Sleep - Dispassionate Vagrant. Succinct and complete. The perfect mnemonic. I feel like crying. Honestly. Period. 04:30 pm.

The ephemeral bubble floats, devil may care! Reflecting through and through....reflecting and reflecting on those reflections [just a pretentious wordplay]....a transparent veil....an oxymoron that serves no purpose in an absurd world....just float, savvy??

Mr.Righteous' Inadvertent Homicides - Part 02

2010-12-11T22:45:00.005+05:30

"Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold...."

Anybody who had had the good fortune of getting to know Mr.Righteous would have concurred upon the opinion that he had a heart, that was as commodious and heavy as his purse: 'commodious', because he was 'rich' in every possible sense of the word; and 'heavy', owing to the loneliness and bereavement he had to endure, following the death of his beloved wife. The final and finest scion in a lineage of affluent landlords, the illustrious Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian, was as much a man of the world as he was a virtuous idealist. We could have delved further into the history of this gentleman, citing each and every instance of magnanimity he evinced; but for the reason that it won't be of any help - either to the narrator in the course of his recital, or to the reader - we shall cut that long story short, remarking that he was ideally what his appellation signified and that the denizens of his rustic land loved and revered him like anything.

So when the car met with an accident and the claws of death mercilessly ripped off the better half of Mr.Righteous' life along with their unborn child, everybody mourned deeply and even shed a tear. But what good could pity have done, to a shattered spirit! And when all the mourners had left, only one man remained: he was the alter ego, mentioned afore by the latter in his fantasy, as Mr.Editor aka Mr.Sceptic. With a heavy heart, Mr.Sceptic silently watched his comrade pining away - full of self-contempt and remorse for having recklessly driven his dearest ones to death. And gradually, the nervous breakdown worsened and verged on to insanity, with the hysteric frequently engaging in imaginary conversations and playful arguments with his deceased companion, about whether it would be 'a lass or a lad'. The sight was too much to bear that Mr.Editor aka Mr.Sceptic, being a man of action and enterprise, resolved to take the matters into his hands and set out on the arduous task of rehabilitating and reclaiming his bosom friend.

Thus, by the virtue of all possible assistance from his friend and above everything, that impeccable cure-all called Time, Mr.Righteous reconciled with (what we consider as) reality; though certain notions that gave him company in the phantasmic world, lingered within.

Reclusive, bookish, austere and superstitious - abstracted from reality. This was the rediscovery of Mr.Righteous. Indeed, he was very much that same old 'Rich-man-in-every-sense-of-the-word', thanks to the huge fortune bequeathed by his father and the innate goodness imbibed from his mother. The longing to be good and do good fuelled him still; only that the devout spontaneity was supplanted by a desire to purge himself of his imaginary sins: a proof for which was the strange habit of recording all his 'virtuous' actions in a diary, so as to reassure himself that he wasn't a felon. Not that such calculated gestures of generosity deprived the beneficiary of anything; but in the innermost recesses of Mr.Righteous' conscience, disquiet nestled quietly. Yes, he was haunted by peccatophobia.

It is from here that we return to our intricate man who's now asleep under the mango, and voyage along with him into the realms of that most singular dream of his.

Night. Under the mango. The wingless cherubim, despite the fact that it was 'handicapped', still managed to defy the laws of gravitation, and stood suspended in the air. It was difficult to discern whether it was 'a she' or 'a he'; but the visage of the little angel reminded Mr.Righteous of his dear dead lady. Bewildered, he gazed on at the apparition as it unrolled a scroll and began reading out abruptly in a feminine voice, "In which is enumerated...."

"I'm Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian. He who thinks that good things would befall good people who think good and do good things; and therefore, thinks good and does good things. I've a diary to speak for my merits and an even better friend, Mr.Editor aka Mr.Sceptic who would testify with all conceivable earnestness that I'm not as bad as you imagine me to be. Ah, yes! By the way, let me tell you how capital a man my friend is! Back in our native land, he champions every cause that goes against the conventions. Proprietor of the journal - "1+1=2 ?". Indeed, that is the eccentric title that this ingenious old rascal devised for his diurnal. Now, pay attention to the question mark at the end! You see, he even challenges the veracity of such axiomatic propositions, on principle. Daredevil, eh? And yes, occasionally, I wield my pen for his "1+1=2 ?". Indeed, poetry is my forte! Thank you, very!" rounded off Mr.Righteous, considerably excited but highly satisfied with his effort.

The supernatural being was immutable. Not caring to address any point mentioned in the aforesaid monologue, she carried on thus, "In which is enumerated, the strange sins...."

Growing pale and restive, Mr.Righteous interrupted hastily, "I'm he who thinks that good things would befall good people who think good and do good things; and therefore, thinks good and does good things! And presently, I'm on a pilgrimage to the shrine at the hilltop yonder; for our land's soothsayer told me that the mighty deity residing in there is renowned for his prowess in the supreme art of forgiveness and exculpation; that on full moon days, the potent being would be in a particularly jovial mood and hence, more susceptible to ingratiation. Therefore, have I undertaken this Dantesque journey, to make amends for....."

Pause. The impassive cherubim proceeded with an air of finality, uttering thus, "In which is enumerated, the strange sins committed by Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian on the very day he embarked on his journey to the 'land of salvation', that is to say, Yesterday!"

The mental projector was once again availed, and Mr.Righteous digressed further from his own dream, to an even darker world. The improbable visions about the fruits of his actions terrified him....

----

The Seed Of Death

The day before. Morning. Two minutes past seven. Afar, in Mr.Righteous' land.

The unrelenting assault of seasons and natural forces had badly weakened the bough of the old mango, that it was time to take leave. A strong gust of wind brought about the sad demise: not only of the decrepit branch, but also of the ill-starred folk, who chanced to get himself beneath and between the bough and the earth. So, who was culpable for this unforeseen misfortune? Why, the one who'd planted the sapling of the ominous tree, two decades back, though with the best of intentions. And lo, it was Mr.Righteous!

The Contagious Yawn

The day before. Noon. Thirteen minutes past the thirteenth hour of the day. A building under construction, by the bus station; Mr.Righteous is on the way, somewhere in between his homeland and destination.

Fatigued by his long expedition, Mr.Righteous cast a look out of the window of his bus, and then yawned a seemingly inconsequential yawn. Somebody in crowd, who happened to behold him, followed the suit. Another took his cue from the second one; and then again, a fourth from the third....so, on and on it went - this process of aping the gape - till it reached the doomed workman perching on the scaffold of the above-mentioned construction, who yawned involuntarily, compromising his precarious balance; and toppled....nosedived to death. And he who triggered this 'fatal' sequence of gaping had by then, slipped into a slumber....

The Holy Tramp's Reward

The day before. Evening. Forty-one minutes past five. The very same bus, laboriously meandering and climbing past the numerous hairpin bends, through the rocky terrain. Mr.Righteous is only moments away from reaching his destination - the highland hamlet of the mighty deity. The boulders flanking hairpin bend number eight are unique. Crudely carved upon these monoliths are odd shapes and contours, and the task of deriving a meaningful interpretation - as to what they implied - is entirely left to the whims of the onlooker. A 'holy tramp' squats by these rocks with an air of owning the place: applying vermilion, burning incense sticks and offering flowers to the stones; the effect of which is not lost on the passers-by, as is evident from the wayside strewn with coins.

As the bus proceeded idly along hairpin bend number eight, Mr.Righteous surveyed the spectacle with acute interest, and satisfied by the elating effect it produced, flung a paper currency of reasonably high denominations onto the road. A gentle wind wafted as the bus approached curve number nine, and the holy tramp frantically started chasing the fluttering note; only to be run down by another wagon, heading downhill.

The Fatal Correction

The day before. Morning. Five minutes to seven. The train that connects the hinterland - the homeland of Mr.Righteous - to the town, from where he intends to head for the 'land of salvation'.

"Excuse my intrusion sir, but I'm afraid that your eager watch is erroneously ahead by three minutes. I see that you are a white-collar worker and I believe it is important that diligent, astute and punctilious people like you, get the best out of every moment. But of course, it is ultimately a matter of personal convenience, you know!" remarked Mr.Righteous, smiling affably.

The commuter, being as courteous a man as Mr.Righteous, complied with the suggestion and corrected the wrist-watch; and the worthy gentlemen engaged in rambling talks till they reached their station.

Evening. The very same day.

Elbowing his way through the crowd, the white-collar worker scrambled across the platform to catch up with the moving train. As he kept running, once or twice did he disbelievingly consult his rectified watch. And just as he caught hold of the iron railing, the suitcase slipped, the man fumbled, fell and was trampled between the carriage and the platform.

----

Period. Back to stratum one.

"So shall you be condemned to hell, for all your atrocious sins!" quoth the cherubim, and vanished. Mr.Righteous protested, pleaded....and collapsed....

With a puzzled but amiable smile, the innkeeper wished Mr.Righteous, a very good morning. Though his physical body did stir from the slumber, the sensibility of the gentleman remained incarcerated in the phantasmagoric sphere. Now, when a man, who is gnawed by the past, overwrought by emotions and bedevilled by hallucinations, makes a decision, it is bound to be a far cry from what normal people consider as rational and reasonable. Therefore, the raconteur doesn't have an answer, as to why our beloved Mr.Righteous contemplated suicide. He's equally in the dark about why this good soul chose to self-annihilate by concocting a mortal mixture of rat poison and his breakfast. Even more incomprehensible is the truth that at length, he retracted his resolution and calmly disposed of the venomous victuals.

But the queerest of all was the outrageous absurdity that having gratefully procured and consumed the discarded food, a beggar and a stray dog lay dead on the 'land of forgiveness, deliverance and salvation'; while Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian , unaware of his first "real" inadvertent homicide, ascended the hill with new-found serenity....and a determination to master his senses....

Mr.Righteous' Inadvertent Homicides - Part 01

2010-12-10T20:45:00.005+05:30

WHICH SERVES MORE AS A PRELUDE...

Pervasive haziness. So dizzyingly murky. Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian is apparently uncertain as to whether he is the master of his senses; not to speak of the misgivings he has, about the autonomy over his pair of feet. Nevertheless, being someone endowed with an appetite for adventures, he ventures forth, tentatively feeling for terra firma beneath. No clue. Settles upon a satisfying assumption that he might as well be floating, and proceeds.

A flight of stairs. White marble. Solid alright. Ascends. Compounded fuzziness. A doorway. Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian, being a man of honour and good breeding, ignores the temptation to peep through the keyhole; therefore, knocks. Pause.

"Who be there?" queries an imperious voice, that emanates from who-knows-where and permeates throughout the amorphous space.

Mr.Righteous, despite being unsettled, gathers enough courage to utter thus, "It's me. Mr.Righteous aka Mr.Hyper-Humanitarian. He who thinks that good things would befall good people who think good and do good things; and therefore, thinks good and does good things." Gasps. Continues, "But may I have the good fortune of knowing where am I and what am I....well, sorry....'who' am I talking to?"

Pause. The verbiage seems to have benumbed the possessor of the stentorian voice. An annoying drone. Mr.Righteous, more confounded than ever, scratches his chin. Pause again.

The voice resumes emphatically, "Mister, you're at the threshold of heaven. And I'm the angel who keeps the door."

Mr.Righteous is overwhelmed. Dazzled. Obviously. But being a man of fantastic sensibility, he regains his composure and pronounces, "Oh! We...ll, well! Thank you....I'm very much obliged! May I come in? My pleasure....most welcome....!?"

Least impressed, the bodiless voice interposes arrogantly, "Curriculum Vitae. Do you have one?"

Mr.Righteous evinces no sign of comprehension at all. Somewhat irked, the voice continues, "This ain't a gratuitous inn, feller! No freebies! Produce testimonials for your good deeds....we judge....meritorious enough...you're IN. Or else, head straight to hell."

Another pause. Nagging drone again. Mr.Righteous is most bewildered. But being a resourceful soul, he scratches his back, reclaims his equanimity and says, "Apologies! I'm afraid that I've nothing of that sort so as to stake a claim. Down there, the folks take it for granted that ethereal beings have enough time and vantage to loll and gaze upon us; palm on cheek, with the other one leisurely scribbling on a scroll, the balance sheet of each and every life; so that they can be assorted and consigned to either of the three afterworlds as per the 'net assets'. I mean....I am not making an accusation....definitely not! Who am I? But...er, just wondering what else can the populace of paradise be preoccupied with!"

Breaking into a fit of laughter, the disembodied voice retorts, "Ha ha! Capital question, that! Must say that your race is endowed with a commodious upper storey. Just that too much of imagination gets the better of you at times. Delusions! Curious bloke, realise that there are too many pleasures up here, to be engrossed in anything else. So what say ye? Testimonials?"

Mr.Righteous ponders hard and at length, lightens up as if some remarkable thought has struck him. Continues, "Wait! My personal diary! Will it do?"

The cynic doorkeeper resumes, "Self-attested proclamations are sound enough, feller. After all, even our Lord has a propensity for self-promotion and publicity stunts. Survival skills, we call it!"

Mr.Righteous is particularly intrigued by the heretic undertone of the discourse, which reminds him of something. And being an upright man who speaks his mind, he voices thus, "Pardon me if I'm wrong, but I presume that you are Mephistopheles. The rebellion in your voice reminds me of my bosom friend, Mr.Editor aka Mr.Sceptic. In fact, your observations give me a sense of deja vu, for they are nothing but verbatim vocalisation of Mr.Editor's sentiments. However...."

Here, the incorporeal voice interposes peremptorily, "That much will do, boyo! Stake your claim and be done away with!"

Mr.Righteous obliges, shuts his mouth and searches for his diary. Alas! It is nowhere to be found! Greatly consternated, he frisks himself over and over again, but to no avail. He's outrightly confounded even as the drone escalates, vagueness intensifies and the whole scenario begins to fall apart. A sharp pinprick....no, a bite! The poor good man winces and cries, "No......!"

PERIOD.

A dark chamber. Against the background of the feebly lit windows can be seen, the writhing and palpitating silhouette of Mr.Righteous. His senses have only just begun their return journey from the dream-world. Therefore, the fine gentleman is presently moaning under the illusion that having been unjustly cast into hell, he is being subjected to gruesome torturing (with mosquito bites amplifying as piercing lances). However, the retrieval of common sense is soon effected, thanks to some violent shaking and rocking.

The very first thing that impressed the ophthalmic faculty of Mr.Righteous was a pair of fiery, searching eyes, glistening in the waning light of a matchstick. And his rational brain immediately resorted to incorporating this vision to the aforementioned irrational dreams; thereby stirring up those phantoms yet again.

"Where are you? What am I? Who is this place?" stuttered he, even more terrified by the fadeout.

The stranger in the dark addressed these coherent queries most calmly, saying thus, "Panic not, sir! Remember? Travellers...inmates...wayside inn...halting for a night...neighbours for the night...acquainted and wished good night....there! Slept...you dreamt...you whined...I woke...I shook...you, wide-awake....there!"

The odds and ends were gathered and reeled at 24fps in the mental projector, and finally, Mr.Righteous regained his sensibility. The 'strange neighbour' was duly thanked, Mr.Righteous was rightly welcomed, attempts to shake hands were made; an endeavour which, thanks to the darkness, ended up in the parties involved warmly wringing each other's cervices instead of hands. So they apologised, laughed and gave it another try: this time finding the hands, indeed, of another man who lay in-between. Having exchanged courtesies to their mutual satisfaction,the bedfellows retired.

It took another half of an hour however, for Mr.Righteous to come into terms with the dismal truth that sleep had forsaken him for the night. A tiring journey, an obnoxious dream, a stuporous head and an insomniac night in an antique, shabby, dingy and overpopulated countryside inn was a most disconcerting prospect. Therefore, after much rumination, Mr.Righteous collected his belongings, groped, stumbled and finally made it to the yard that was benevolently illuminated by a waxing moon, just another night shy of full bloom. Now, given that such a night of celestial splendour in an idyllic countryside at the foot of the hills would move even the most dry and unfeeling mortal, what wondrous sentiments would it have evoked in an ardent aesthete like Mr.Righteous! So he settled under the huge, canopying mango; rummaged his trunk, produced a pocket lantern and a book of verse; drew a deep breath and smiled: anticipating a night that would nurture the poet in him, and a dawn that would sublimate his soul....

***

At this point, the curious reader might well be reproaching the narrator for being unjustifiably wayward and obscure. Well, the fact is that he was initially unsure about finding the right way through the labyrinths of this queer tale that, having deliberated considerably about the matter, he ultimately chose to tread the alleyway that seemed most promising and comprehensible. Hence, just as the subject of our attention is reposing and leisurely wading in the poetic waters, we shall venture to journey into his inner world; hoping to unearth some sense out of all the absurdities awaiting us.....

(To be continued...hopefully!)

Thanatophobia

2010-10-20T12:30:00.002+05:30

This post is the fruit of a morbid sensation of an imminent death. Yes, at this very moment, my heart is vehemently beating against my chest. I am overwrought, because I feel that if I fall motionless here, at this very moment, then it'd remain an unsatiated life; for the simple reason that my departure would leave a tale that I hold dearest to my heart, untold. Honestly, I won't complain even if I perish just as I am about to kiss the most beautiful woman in the world. But an unuttered thought would leave me a discontent, miserable ghost.

Now, let me confess a strange trait of mine: That with the mental inception of every single thing that I write, this apprehension about death sprouts within. Until now, I survived this persecution by the virtue of a self-devised antidote. I would confide the gist of the particular notion in all its rawness, to any three of my closest friends: one, my alter ego, Mahesh; the other, my college mates - the wonderful twin sisters - Deepa & Deepthi; so that the thought wouldn't vanish altogether into thin air, alongwith me.

For about a month and a half now, a queer little tale has been revolving in my mind. And on this occassion, the audacity of the complementary haunting sensation (of death) is overwhelming, owing mainly to two factors:

1) That I consider what I'm writing now to be my most potent work, that is, it has as much potential to be my best writing till date, as it has, to be the most ridiculous one. I'm unsure about its merits; for it is a rather 'absurd' idea. But surely, it is closest to my heart. And this very nature of the thought inhibits me from spilling the beans even to my beloved confidants. In fact, in my telephonic conversations with all the aforementioned buddies last night, the talking point was very much this dilemma: Wouldn't it be better off if they acquaint the thought after its having found appropriate expression through written letters? Delusions, delusions, delusions!!

2) Following an insomniac night in which I barely slept for 2 hours, I woke up and walked straight to my didactic table calendar and casually turned the flap over, so as to keep it updated. Who daresay that life ain't dramatic? For stupified, I beheld the thought for 20th October:

'Prophetic!?'

"A good idea is never lost. Even though its originator or possessor may die without publicising it, it will some day be reborn in the mind of another." - Thomas Alva Edison

PRESCIENT!!?? Well, Edison was a great man. I amn't. True, and quite possible that after going through all this bloody grandiloquence, you might find yourself victimised and cheated sooner or later, by being subjected to read a hackneyed story with very little to be called 'novel' and 'worthy' {provided that I manage to complete it, in the first place :)}. Well, I am extremely sorry...in advance. But as of now, I should shut myself in my room hoping that death won't come knocking at the door, and begin 'wielding my quill'. In all likelihood, I might fall asleep and wake up with a conviction that it was all too hubristic; that it was all rubbish; that I should rather go back, learn the lessons of humility and await inspiration: for the fruition of the thought, so that it would become an end in itself.

Or maybe, I will....my fears might just come true....and mind you, I'm ruminating about the possibility with a smile now. At least that I managed to vent this much!!

"The denouement of an odd farce

Chose an odd hour to intrude..."

LOL

The Legend of The Idle Idealist

2010-10-10T01:59:00.020+05:30

“This award is bestowed upon a fellow blogger whose blog’s content or design is, in the giver’s opinion, brilliant.”

Some rules of the Game:

a) Show off your honesty (and modesty) by thanking the person who gave you the award and link to their post.
b) List 15 honest things about yourself. Cheating makes you lame, so just play along, all you taggees.
c) Select 7 other bloggers you think deserve this award and pass it on to them.
d) Notify said bloggers about the award and invite them to be the honest ones next.

First of all, Thanks, Srishti and Ketan! :)

Now, this is the first time I’m employing “RAIN” as…..well, what I'd call a ‘Personal Diary’. My resolution was to abstain from using it for such purposes. But since my lovely, wondrous, intelligent, imaginative and inventive blogging friends have been so good as to coax me into it, I indulge, with pleasure! (Too verbose?)

So, let me brag.

The Good-for-Nothing Revelations

01. Let me begin from the beginning. And the first revelation is that I’d never have been into the world, had it not been for a certain Dr.Krishnan. My parents, perhaps obsessed by the slogan at the rear of National Permit lorries - “We one; ours one”, thought it better off to clear the cache and consulted the aforementioned doctor. They were in mortal dread about the idea of another ‘daughter’, which would mean that they would be denied of peace and penny for the entire life. But our fine, old doctor had other ideas. His cajoling paid off and my parents decided to take a chance. And here I am.

02. On the 83rd day of my existence, while peacefully dozing in the cosiness of a cradle, I was nearly assaulted to death by a ‘mysterious animal’ (presumably, a cat) at my father’s ancestral house (in Palakkad). Nights in a rural village of early 90’s might seem a romantic prospect. But not when an infant is nearly bleeding to death with no means of conveyance in sight. Finally, thanks to the timely intervention of a policeman who passed by, I survived. My parents recall those hours as the toughest of their life.

03. I’m 20. Most of my friends think I should’ve lived in the age of the dinosaurs for the following reasons: I hate celebrating birth days; or any 'particular' days, for that matter. I'd rather choose to celebrate each and everyday. I don’t know how to swim. The only vehicle I’ve mastered is a bicycle. In fact, I don’t have any idea about the significance of a ‘clutch’. I consider them to be the vestigial organs in more evolved forms of transportation, and seriously think they should be done away with. ;)

04. Two things I find missing (and would love to have) in my profile are: ambidexterity (I am, more or less.), a dimple and a spectacle. While, distant acquaintances consider me as a sombre geek of feeble smile and few words, close kiths and kins consider me as a temperamental character and witty jester; and I consider myself a good actor. B-)

05. On a rainy day, I am the undisputable master of the world. Rain is very much my essence.

06. As you may already know, I’m an ardent fan of cricket and the great Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. (Am a reasonably good left-handed opening batsman.) On a test match day, provide me with some popcorn/potato chips (or oranges, if you can afford it) and a Television set. I would be obliged to you for life. My dream is to watch a Test match featuring Sachin, Dravid and Laxman (now that Ganguly and Kumble are gone) at Chepauk.

07. I’ve got a queer longing to live in the 1850’s, in company of all those great litterateurs like Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov etc… [Besides, I can also fight for Indian Independence and eventually, have my bust installed reverentially at every nook and corner of this country.]I don’t mind going back further to be a contemporary of the great Romantic poets and even further to have a tete a tete with Shakespeare. Now, this is something serious. Let me reveal that more often than not, I write in the light of a candle or lolling under a tree. Besides, I’m obsessed with ink pens. My favourite ‘gadgets’ are: magnifying glass, binocular and compass. I’d give up anything in this world for exchanging this anachronistic existence for an antique life.

08. I’m a pukka vegetarian. I must say that this habit was rather cultivated [thanks to my sister, whose stupid prank led me to this path of abstinence, 9 years back]. It was a horrendous spectacle, watching an ill-fated man in toilet being gobbled by the ‘Jurassic’ dinosaur. I felt that being an omnivore was equally ghastly.

09. To reframe Chekhov’s words, ‘literature is my lawful wife; while cinema is my mistress’. [For some strange reason, I feel like refraining from naming my favourite movies and books!] In fact, I'm as much passionate about cinema, as I’m about literature. Of late, I’ve been in dire straits as regards my quill. I have a story to tell, and I find that I don’t have words to juxtapose. Now, one of the principal reasons for this sudden mutation is the fact that gradually, thoughts are beginning to be projected as moving images rather than words, in my mind. In other words, I am increasingly beginning to contemplate on the visual possibility of a certain thought than its literary merits. On a lighter note, I won’t mind not winning a Nobel if I can manage an Oscar. Well, I would even consider accomplishing the Shavian feat of winning both. ;D

10. I am the worst when it comes to: concentration, political awareness and mathematics [no clue!]. Besides, I’m in mortal dread of English grammar and phonetics!! I’m good at neither. So, those who think that I’m good enough remember that: I’m not used to speaking English [most keralites are] and that I can easily falter when it comes to intricacies of grammar.

11. On a more personal and selfish note, I consider 'The Diary of a would-be Suicide(click)' my best work of fiction till date; and 'A Virtuous Death(click)' my best verse. Now, my emotional quotient is very high. The aforementioned poem was written in a night when I was disturbed and moved to tears by the disturbing news (and footage) of a medical student's suicide; and 'The Death Of Noah(click)' was the fruit of an interaction with a relative of mine employed in IR as a loco-pilot. One of the reasons for my lack of prolificacy has got to do with the fact that emotion is very much my muse.

12. I managed a more-than-adequate 446 out of 500 in my AISSE [10^th form] examinations. And I failed in Chemistry in the AISSCE [12^th form] examinations. The story is a long one, and most of my close ‘virtual’ buddies must have heard it from me. To cut a long tale of ordeal short, I made the mistake of opting science [had an inclination for humanities] and transplanting myself midway through the academic year into another school. What followed was disaster, and I was forced to the verge of absconding from homeland to Kolkata. It must be said that it was during this era that the evolution of the person I’m now, began.

13. I'm possessed by a strong desire to wander. Every now and then, I venture on an impromptu, long journey or a bicycle expedition, purely out of the need to satiate my wanderlust. One thing I’m sure of, is that one day or the other, I would set out on a voyage….and feel ‘the wonder that is India’….

14. I have pen-friends. I love making pen-pals. I cherish the quaintness and warmth of the whole affair. And I hope I shall tell a little tale about it some day. :)

15. When it comes to women and love, I can impudently challenge any man in the world and claim that I’m second to none. I too have fallen in love. I keep falling, everyday. I have made epic journeys, I’ve braved the odds, I’ve climbed trees and jumped over the walls to woo the ladies who had the possession of my heart at various points of time. [See 'Confessions of a Casanova(click)' and 'To The Enchantress(click)']. And yes, I’ve been dutifully remonstrated and chased away by their parents. The last of my sallies [do I sound like "Casanova"?:)] was the most remarkable and the most theatrical of them all. I saw “The Enchantress” on 27^th November 2008 at Chembai Music Fest [She’s a violinist]. I managed to get her address from the very mouth of her father by employing my imaginative powers to their fullest. I made my first ‘pilgrimage’ on 2^nd December 2008 and found out her dwelling (thanks to my friend Mahesh and Google Earth) and since then, till the 27^th of September 2010, have travelled 55 times to Palakkad; which is roughly about 100kms away from home. And the status quo? Game Over!! Very much alike the previous cases, she too was ‘booked’ even before I met her. Just that it took almost two years for her to utter the divine truth. So, the hunt goes on.

So much for all that raving...

Finally, I tag: Ketan, Karishma, Srishti, Darshan, mgeek, Neethu and Aativas

As Ketan says, you folks have 'inadvertently enriched my life'. Thanks. :)

An Ode to the Mountains

2010-09-06T20:09:00.021+05:30

Hail thy sorcery, O mighty mountain

What wondrous legerdemain dost thou do!

Toying with the Helios as if,

He were an hare in sorcerer's hat!

Hail thee, O lascivious charmer!

What enticing spell didst thou cast

To enamour the vagabond clouds that

Condescended to caress thy sensuous contour!

Awestruck, I behold thee in twilight

Flanked by the Selene and stars

Whilst the gushing cascades sing a lullaby
And the sylvan wind howls, "Encore!"

What occult yarn didst thou spin

To make the heaven and earth yield to thy whim!

Art thou some divine maiden in accursed sopor?

Another victim of Athena's envious wrath?

Shalt thou arise on some doomsday, and -

Renounce the sublunary sphere for the sublime?

Hail thee, O mystic mountain
Whose beauty is eternal tranquil....

Note - "Athena's envious wrath" is an allusion to the story of Arachne - the conceited yet gifted weaver, who was challenged into a weaving contest and eventually turned into a spider by the greek goddess Athena. Here, the adroitness of the 'esoteric mountain' in weaving the (elements of) heaven and earth together is so great that it might have earned her a fate similar to that of Arachne.

The Death of Noah

2010-06-26T00:10:00.003+05:30

As if an umbilical cord of concord between the grey sky and the green landscape, the rain went on. The vast expanse of lush green fields, drenched by the downpour, was sublimity in one of its grandest manifestations. The only anomaly that marred the splendour of this panorama was the railway line - invariably one among those incorrigible human elements that taint the beauteous finesse of nature.

It is unfortunate that our present story has to begin and end within the narrow confines of these tracks: a sad, dark, humane tale that ought to be told; even as around it, shrouded in that emerald expanse and waiting to be narrated, were vivider tales - of frogs and rats chasing each other and being chased by snakes; of cranes, kingfishers, fishes, fishworms and what not. But then, Adam's snobbishness in thinking it unworthy of him to choose an accomplice from among all those beasts and birds, is wont to reflect in his descendants. Hence, we shall content and concern ourselves with such a tale, that remains within the narrow spectrum of humanity.

****

The relentless patter of rain stifled the ominous hoot of an advancing train number 6225 and the terrified bleat of a stranded goat that had been bound to the rails by some negligent idiot. Its prospective messiah trod along the track - an outrightly soaked stranger; apparently buried in deep thought that he heeded the poor animal only when he was a few yards away from it. Crossing himself and saying a prayer, the unknown volunteered to don the saviour's garb. And having managed to unknot and set it free, he smiled and waved with queer contentment, as the animal fled deliriously through the fields. Even more odd was the fact that his eyes were brimming as he proceeded his pilgrimage towards train number 6225.....

****

Train number 6225 shuddered momentarily, but soon regained its equanimity and heaved forth; for it had a long journey to make. Beneath its colossal might though, a journey had ended.

In that evening, had you - yet another of those strangers - been amongst the crowd witnessing the aftermath of that gruesome tragedy, it would have struck you that despite the severe mutilation, the corpse was identified by the gangmen; thanks to the familiar sky-blue shirt, navy-blue trousers and the wrist watch on the right hand. And had you been curious enough to listen to the buzz among the assembled crowd, you would have gathered from the testimonials conjured up by the acquaintances of the deceased, that Daniel (31) - the locomotive pilot who lived in the adjacent Krishnapada station's railway quarters - was an agreeable, amiable bachelor who didn't have any obvious reason or enough sophistication to commit suicide. If you had allowed your inquisitiveness to be quenched by these superficial talks which were nowhere near the truth, you would have comfortably ignored that bloodstained scrap of paper that stuck out of the ill-fated victim's trouser pocket. But surely, wouldn't you - a keen, good-hearted stranger - have got hold of that gory letter before its metamorphosis into a mere piece of soulless evidence in the hands of authorities? For, therein lies the grim story of a tormented man that you long to know....

****

13th June 1996

"The recapitulation of this wretched life shall begin from a toy train, which was my prized possession in childhood days. How I enjoyed upsetting those poor, puny insects with that gaudy plaything! Rather than ensuring that those crassly daubed passengers reached their ambiguous destinations, my chief concern was to chase those little creatures till they scrambled and managed to find a refuge. But in spite of this instinctive sadism (which, I think, is inherent in every human), never did I crush a single being to death. The anecdote might seem an inappropriate and incoherent way to begin something as grave as a suicide-note. But when you have massacred as many as eight lives under the remorseless might of a railway wagon, you can't help reminding yourself of such seemingly trifling instances; for only they could have alleviated the self-doubt that kept gnawing you and reassured that you are not some ruthless slaughterer.

Four men, a dog, a woman and two children...trampled to death in the course of eight years of service. Don't I deserve retribution? No? But then, this is the ultimate chastisement. To be deprived of recompense...to be tortured by guilt...to be haunted by those pale, macabre, strange but familiar faces...to be alive. But I shall self-prescribe my expiation: the journey should end. And I see no better terminus than this Noah's Ark; where lives confluence, overlap and jostle against each other, spawning infinite tales. In those brighter days, my narcissism derived pride and pleasure in projecting me as a part of these lives...these stories...as I imagined myself to be the shepherd who guided the herd to its destinations. Indeed, I was the Noah who gave them a hand in fording across the audacious currents of the flood called life. Or, in the least, a cogwheel that aided them in moving forth.

Precisely these thoughts shattered me when the first man turned up, and turned me his executioner. Hitherto, I was just a fragment of a small passage in all those epics. Now, I constituted the dismal denouement of a sad tale. The whistle sounded as if it were knelling. It was the beginning of a realisation. For plebeians like me, rather than its metaphysical implications, death resounds with chagrin. Five out of my eight unforgivable sins were cases of suicide: A fact that offers some respite, since they couldn't have been helped anyway. But surely, I must account for the three souls - that of a dog; and two little children who were dragged to death by the woman. Their mother, perhaps. I never enquired or rummaged through the newspapers for the whereabouts of any of those deaths, sheerly owing to a guilty conscience. I could have excused myself with the word 'accidental', like all my fellowmen do. I tried to. But my conscience pined away, finding itself bound to the dark end of all those disconsolate lives. It was a strange case of victims victimising the inadvertent slayer. And with every departure, morbid clouds aggregated in my horizon, transforming my Noah's Ark into an eternally travelling coffin; whence bones piled upon each other were hurled helter-skelter. Yes....all the hopes & despair, fortunes & falls, goodness & spite, enmity & bonhomie....into an inconsequential pile...if this wagon were to go on forever. Such a thought disillusioned me. I found life worthless and absurd for two reasons: I couldn't comprehend it; being used to scheduled timetables, I couldn't tolerate death's gross lack of sense of time and occasion.

The semaphore signals red. It shall remain so forever. In these final moments, I am undeceived of yet another of my childhood fancies:
Gazing at the interminable railway tracks, I apprehensively asked my father, "What would the trains do when they reach there...over there, where the tracks intersect?"
He replied tersely, "No Danny. It's just an illusion. They never meet."

Nothing ever converges.

DANIEL

(To be buried alongside my parents' graves at St. Lourdes Church.)"

****

This, dear stranger, is the story of the cadaver that you saw this evening. You could call him a fool, a milksop, a saint, an unlucky soul....whatever. The thing is that he won't mind. Neither would this humble storyteller; for it is just another of those innumerable stories that keeps bubbling and blowing up around you...

As if an umbilical cord of concord between life and death, the rain went on.....

The Diary of a would-be Suicide

2010-01-11T03:59:00.006+05:30

6th June 1999

My father, being a farmer, died for the very reason that he professed something as unrewarding as that. I was only nine then,but still, I do have a vague notion of what transpired on the day he was found dangling on the mango tree at our backyard. Quite a commotion broke out: almost the whole village congregated around our shack, my mother wailed unrelentingly and I wept bitterly; all the while wondering where our beloved cow had vanished to. And before the funeral pyre was made, learned folks with their pens and lens rushed in to claim their share of the sensation. I won't go further into the finer details of that day; not that they are particularly painful to be reminded of; for over the years, a sense of stoicism has descended upon me owing to the cumulative effect of all those travails. Infact, on a retrospection, it does seem all too ridiculous, particularly considering the fallibility of the premises upon which father assumed that his end might spell a new beginning for us.

In a sense, father's was more of a 'politically motivated murder' than a suicide. The reason for my assertion being the following parenthesis: With the elections imminent, the then ruling party found that they were losing ground among people and only some drastic policy change could have saved them from a debacle. Soon enough, the shrewd political think tank devised an ambitious and elusive propaganda: "All sort of debts and farm loans of suicided farmers shall be waivered and an incentive to begin anew shall be distributed among their families, once we are vested with the power to serve our people."

A lucrative proposition, one must say. And it did make an impact.

To her delight, our cow found herself unleashed and to my terror, I found my visionary father's swaying cadaver. A suicide note - which contained a confident declaration that the almighty has been entrusted with the task of looking us after and a direction to my mother to exercise her franchise in favour of those shrewd servants of people who inspired him to commit such a valorous deed - was all that was left behind. And when several other fathers followed the suit, the eager servants managed to retain their coveted seats, thanks to the fidelity and dutifulness of widowed mothers. As for the promise, it goes without saying that it was comfortably breached.

This being the case, I grew up and with me, or rather outgrowing me, our debts. Consequently, I had to grapple with the posers that life kept throwing my way even before toys and fairy tales ceased to amuse me. Only if life were as simple as the run-of-the-mill celluloid scripts which had heroes who were impudent enough to challenge the predicaments and fortunate enough to emerge victorious. Or some windfall....only something as fantastic as that could have saved us from the claws of compounding troubles. But it was not to be. And by the time I gave up hope in any such miracles, I found myself labouring hard to eke out a living. Since then, that is to say, from the eleventh year of my 'survival', it has been nothing but indifferent toil. And the only outstanding and unforgettable event in the course of two decades of confinement occured a couple of months back - it was the death of my poor mother, which further aggravated my dispassion for life.

Sitting back and reflecting upon that unsavoury past, I can't help heaving a sigh of exasperation. Has life been worth living ? At least that till her death, I had my mother to live for. But now ? Back in my village, I have proved myself a worthy successor to my father and enjoys an even better reputation as a debtor. As I wish to emulate him in all aspects to the very end, I have chosen to tread the very path in which he finally sought refuge. The only difference between us being that while he (fancied that) he had everything to die for, I (find that I) have nothing to live for.

I presume that either the owlish, old receptionist cum room-boy or some police constable would be reading this suicide note. Hopefully, I have furnished enough reasons to qualify as a dignified corpse. After all, in an age when fools kill themselves for reasons as trifling as a love failure, I feel that I am completely justified. A few hundred rupees left herewith - provided that the old owl keeps his hands off it - shall be employed in arranging a decent funeral and for other related expenses so that I can rest in peace thinking that at least in death, I managed to salvage some respect....

P.S:- Our wise village postmaster had told me that dead bodies are subjected to mutilation so as to identify the exact cause and time of death. I beg you not to meddle with my corpse. I tell you that I intend to die by consuming pesticide (so that it might prove to be a symbolic protest on behalf of all those wretched peasants) at around eleven in the night, after having a final ramble through the streets of this alien town, observing with a disillusioned yet arrogantly mocking air, how dearly the plain folks cling on to their invaluable life........

Yours Sincerely,

The Deceased

7th June 1999
I feel guilty for being anachronistically alive. Perhaps, fate has it that I should perish on a rainy day as this. Yesterday, when the dreariness of all those years were shaken off, I felt so light that fluttering contentedly among those chained beings who milled about in the streets, my eyes fell upon a hermitage that promised even more tranquillity. A tavern it was. Half an hour later, I was feeling unbearably light that the senses digressed into some other world.

Waking up from the trance, I found myself by the roadside gutter. A new day had dawned and I was outraged for outliving my expectancy. Only then did the afterthought strike that I don't have a clue about where my lodging was. The only idea about the inn's location being the opposite medical shop with a pretty girl - of whom I had vantage from my window - and that it was a shabby, old structure with dingy rooms and an owlish, old receptionist cum room-boy. It was only after a frantic search in every nook and cranny of the labyrinthine streets that I found my way back. I hope that this answers the intrusive questions that the owl raised this morning - as to where I was on the previous night - which I evaded then.

Perusing what I have written down till now, I see that a mere suicide-note has now attained the dimensions of a 'suicide-diary'. Since I don't have anything in particular to be preoccupied with, I write on. Out of the desire to save myself from living further, I have resolved not to heed the temptation of tavern any more. Hopefully, this drizzle would be my swan song.
Yours Sincerely,
The-late-to-be-Late

8th June 1999

"What if after all the tribulations, fortune is finally beckoning ?"

Precisely this thought prevented me yet again from self-annihilation. Though the assumption went terribly awry, it was helpful in making me aware of the existence of an alter ego that harboured an intense desire to live.

So unforgiving was the untimely rain that I was confined into my room all the day. In the noon, the old owl knocked at my door and asked if I needed a bucket. Noticing the bemusement upon my face, he explained bitterly that since morning, all the inhabitants had been reproaching him for the leaking roof and the only solution he could have offered was providing an extra bucket and a promise to refund a small amount for the inconvenience caused. Feeling sorry for the old man, I assured him that I won't be asking for any refund, and he happily provided me with two buckets.

In the evening, fording across the inundated street to have what I imagined to be my final cup of coffee, I noticed a quartet of guttersnipes who squatted under the awning of the coffee house. At this point, I must confess that I am a reasonably good man and the plight of these urchins filled me with empathy, from which arose sympathy. An invitation for coffee was gratefully accepted and in return for the favour shown, they presented me with a lottery ticket. Back home, being a proletarian, I used to spend a considerable share of my daily wages upon purchasing tickets. Therefore, these tokens of probable fortune being an old addiction, I decided to give one more chance for a prospective windfall to occur, only to find this morning that I made a fool of myself.

And now, it seems as if even death has forlorn me. The resplendent images of the other world that I fancied are slowly falling apart. And with the money (that I managed by selling odds and ends of housewares and my tools) running out, it is inevitable that I must be done with as soon as possible.

Hopefully,
The would-be-suicide

9th June 1999
Today, I have no qualms or conflicts to trouble me whatsoever. World is not entirely hopeless, afterall. For if I were to die on any of those foregone days, it would have been an injustice to myself. Not that I have given up the idea of suicide and contemplated upon living on. No, not even for a split second. But an end without savouring the primal pleasure would have been absolutely juvenile. Indeed, carnality is the quintessence of life and death.

The dire straits that I had been thrown into from time immemorial was instrumental in driving my basic instincts into oblivion that it took an obscene poster of some porn film to remind me of that unsatiated appetite. By the time I walked out of the theatre after the show (the audience of which were mostly senile men for some queer reason), the decision to break my celibacy was made.

Delving any further into the details of the night would prove distracting for the constable or even the old owl. I would sum up by saying that the whore was a very fine, professional lady and the bitch remorselessly snatched all the money that I had, sparing a trivial sum of twenty-three rupees, with which I couldn't have hoped for a decent funeral or even afforded to buy some pesticide. Blasted be the bloody village postmaster who thinks of himself as an omniscient and dares to blabber about the incredibly virtuous prostitutes, of whom he had read in classic novels of yore.

As for now (and forever), it seems as if I must follow my father's modus operandi and hang myself. But all that I have is a dhoti, which I am presently wearing and availing it would mean that my cadaver would be bottomless. And it would be quite dishonourable - especially with the perpetually open window - if the pretty pharmacist finds tomorrow morning that I didn't show the solemnity to properly clothe myself before hanging. As such, I am filching your dhoti, my dear old owl and as an atonement, I bequeath my twenty-three rupees in your trunk. Go and have your tea, while I shall have my peace.
Yours Sincerely,
The Sure-to-be-dead

19th June 1999

There is as much of a reason for some things to abstain from happening, as there is for some things to precipitately fall into place. Lying in the hospital bed as a disgraced 'attempted suicide' specimen, I can't help laughing at myself in spite of an aching jaw, broken neck and disfigured body. For I can't think of anything more slapstick than my bid at death. Thanks to the antiquity of the inn and the unjust rain, the termites had feasted upon the wooden framework and consequently, the emaciated joist found me too cumbersome.

Two days later, I opened my eyes to the more promising concrete ceiling of the government hospital. Most humiliating. Even more disconcerting was the fact that the old man at the inn, who had read my diary, took a liking for me despite being aware of the derogatory manner in which he was addressed in it. Returning the irreverent manuscript, he told me that initially, he was angry for all the troubles that I had caused him; for, with his dhoti being wound around my neck and my wallet being found in his trunk, he found himself to be a suspect in the eyes of those stupid policemen, at least for a while. But then, he felt that I, being an extremely ill-starred youth with a good heart, deserved pity. And he, being a solitary soul without any kith or kin, thinks that he has found a worthy successor in me. He says that as soon as I recover, I shall be employed as his apprentice. My job would be to coax those in search of a lodging into the inn and serve them as a room-boy. But I won't object to the idea of such a vocation as proposed by the old man. Particularly considering that besides the comforts that it offer, it means that I can afford to have the vantage of that pretty lady forever.

20th June 1999

Thanks to the stiff neck, I now have a steady head, in every sense of the word. On an introspection, I discover that perhaps our old man is feeling for me, what I felt for those urchins the other day. Perhaps that all human beings, despite the seeming disparities, are miserable for some reason or the other. If so, then why mind living ? Maybe because they are afraid to die, maybe that they don't take themselves so seriously, or that they are way too optimistic, or perhaps, they think that happiness lies in identifying oneself with others and loving them unconditionally. But the bygone days have taught me a thing or two, resolved my problems to some extent and most of all, answered my question in the affirmative....that life is worth living.

Gratefully,

He-who-loves-life

A Virtuous Death

2009-10-07T17:04:00.010+05:30

The denouement of an odd farce

Chose an odd hour to intrude
"An unjust twist!" cried the spectators
Their fate was to behold and lament
"Devil take the wretched playwright
Blasted be his deplorable whims!" swore they
And at once echoed the proprietor's voice:
"I am he who scribbled the script
With the mighty quills of destiny
Hearken the truth, O deluded oafs
Death is the father of untainted equity
Under whose aegis thrives rectitude
For the final justice is mortal's right
Swear not but hail that inevitable reason
Grieve not but envy the fortuity of those
Whose toils are now but things of past
If ye seek a charm to evade death
Unto ye I say, never be born!"
"How come?" quoth the sceptic audience
And the omniscient uttered hence:
"Forsake the gnawing sense of self
For restive waves of life shall rest in peace
And cease to break against the boulders of death
Once they recede from the shores of desire!"

To The Enchantress....

2009-10-02T10:43:00.028+05:30

Enchantress, whither thee vanish!

Eons hath eloped since my eyes thee blest

Miles hath I traversed in quest of thee

Doeth I yearn for ye in vain?

Whilst despair overwhelms an overwrought soul

I seeketh succour in the afterglow

Of that exotic night's ecstatic moments

Though sweet sorrow does it bequeath to savour

Surreal seems that mirthful night

Of Venus' rendezvous with Jupiter

Conspired by an august moon

Amidst sublime sidereal glory

Even as, down upon the austere earth

Connived by an auspicious destiny

Serendipitously, my gaze met thy grace

Amidst the divine musical fiesta

How I long for the eternal return

To hark back infinite past against infinitesimal chance

But world has its reasons, it can't be absurd

An exultant past aggravates traumatic present

"Folks fall in love" they say

But thee made me rise, gramercy!

And thou art my fiddle's bow

Bereft of thee, I am but fiddlestick

Unblenched melody of unflinching love

Shalt attune our souls with eternity

Then, vanquished realms of time shall servilely wait

For me to ordain,"Enough of servitude, thou art unleashed."

Why? For love is relative!

PS:- The poet's incapability to convey his thoughts and ideas with clarity makes this footnote inevitable.

"The divine musical fiesta" - refers to the Chembai music festival held annually in memory of Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar in the temple town of Guruvayur.
The allusion to the tryst of Jupiter and Venus under the auspices of Moon is inspired by the occurrence of the very celestial phenomenon on the 1st of December 2008.

Confessions of a Casanova

2009-09-11T17:43:00.014+05:30

"Love, how it sells poor bliss for proud despair."

- P.B.Shelley

The following being the chronicle of a chronically lovesick and perpetually lovelorn soul, the reader shall find a semblance of herself/himself between these lines if she/he is empathetic enough; or disgusted, shall swear at the very soul from whom issues forth these heresies, if she/he is a hypocrite. As for the latter case, Mr.Casanova has insured himself against any such censure by the virtue of the conviction that honesty, in these days, is distorted and projected as obscenity. And the case being that this unforunate tendency cannot be helped, Mr.Casanova would like to leave these torch-bearers of modern morality to their peace and get on with the depravity that he is accused of. He wishes in the earnest to propagate his ideas and beliefs like all those illustrious men; so that they shall survive through the loyal disciples, thereby, preventing the premature death of the same.

Now then, the epicenter of all these thoughts being women - those tender, tentative, mellifluous creatures; rightly addressed by some cerebral man as 'sweet poison' - a considerable degree of 'vicious delicacy' is bound to be reflected in these writings. Hence, let the 'love-patient' begin by distinguishing the disease that afflicts him.

In light of the experience that he has acquired through his relentless pursuit of feminine affection, Casanova thinks it wont to call woman-kind a 'bait'. Of course, there are innumerable enticements in this little world, but as the mouse prefers cheese over coconut, men prefer lady-love over everything. In the end though, both men and mice are ensnared.

At this point, it ought to be clarified that it ain't with any bitterness that Casanova is speaking out his thoughts. And in the name of the first woman who possessed his heart (of whom, he shall discourse in due course), he avers that even at this very moment , women, to him, are sweeter than any honey and more intoxicating than any wine.

"Love be the lightning that occurs,
When the cloudy eyes converge."

- Himself (!)

See, an artless man like Casanova turns a poet at the thought of love! Indeed, love happens whenever eyes meet!

Casanova believes that all the men and women are smitten at the very first sight of each other, though only for the fraction of a split-second. This love, ephemeral like the lightning, is unfortunately effaced by the villainous intrusion of reason, discretion and discernment. Now, the verity of this proposition, you can self-attest by listening at the precise moment to that part of your body where the heart is supposed to be.

"lo, that tremor in thy heart!

At the stroke of Cupid's arrow!!"

- Himself(!!!)

All being told about the disease and its cause, Mr.Casanova shall now speak of himself - of his wondrous sallies to woo women, of his fiascoes and most importantly, of his indomitable spirit. At the end of it, in all likeliness, men would envy him and his feats; and women might beseech for his affection. As such, to save himself from the trouble of being bogged down by the avalanche of pleas to be loved, Casanova puts forth some criteria, qualifying which, the lucky lady can be assured of his affection.

He, the beloved, shall only court those damsels who were fortuitous enough to be born within the span of half-a-decade, before or after him. This is purely out of consideration that any further deviation would almost amount to a generation-change and consequently, a disparity in thoughts and aspirations. Casanova's idea is that silence precedes love, loquacity succeeds it. If on a fine evening, he and one of his sweethearts feel that they should sit and engage in a rambling talk upon some subject, say, great wars (for they are quite common these days), and to their embarrassment finds that one is talking of the Trojan war and the other takes it for World War........what else can explain this discrepancy than generation gap!! So, no to those unfortunate senoritas who were ill-fated to be born quarter-of-a-score (putting it plainly, five) years before or after him. Casanova begs you not to commit, out of despair, any folly like suicide. If you are so importunate, he shall think of making exceptions.
Casanova doesn't have any insistence upon the colour and contour of his prospective 'other halves'. Fair or dark, pumpkin or hourglass, tall or short - it's all the same. For he isn't all that concerned with the 'material' portion of love. But then, 'ideal' love is essentially reinforced by the virtue of this material dimension. In fact, this is yet another reason for his imposition of restriction upon the ages; so that neither of the concerned would - in the act of fortifying love - be haunted by the sensation that she/he is cuddling a parched, old log of rotting wood.
Grace, is a quality upon which Casanova won't, at any cost, afford any compromise. Now, one mustn't mistake grace for beauty. Beauty is peripheral; grace is innate. She who conducts herself with utmost dignity and always has an air of purposefulness about her shall find herself residing at the highest echelons of Casanova's heart. And so does she, who is as innocent as a lamb, and carries herself with utmost simplicity and daintiness, that comes naturally to her.

Provided that these standards are met, any girl can expect a knock at her door at any moment. But before she rushes forth, impassioned, to receive her idol, the happy houri must hear those incredible, amorous tales of the Great Casanova, which might further overwhelm her with awe and amazement ; all the while filling the hearts of those poor men with envy.

Casanova shall, as he had promised earlier, begin from the very beginning - from the first lady who vanquished his mighty heart.

Of his maiden valentine venture

Ah.....have you seen the moon in full bloom? She was very much the same! Casanova kept gazing and gazing at her, waiting, dreaming of that day he takes her hand in his. But then, one fine day, some Neil 'Arm-stong' set his foot upon her and leering, said, "That's one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind." How right the wretch was! For, had it not been for him, the Great Casanova would

have ended up in moon; and the earth would have been denied of a phenomenon like him. Thus, he left the moon distraught, seeking consolation in the fact that afterall, even in her full glory, moon was never free of that blot upon her.

He has come to know, from hearsay, that 'Arm-strong' has left the moon due to lack of oxygen and that she has been suffering from desolation for a while now. And Casanova being a magnanimous man with a heart that has too much space and too many windows, it is highly probable that he shall relieve her of the painful loneliness. But now, time has come to speak of his second sally, and guess who the object of his affection was......she was the star!

Of his second sally

Indeed, she was the star!! Though farther than the moon, she unlike the former, never faded from the sight. There in the sky, she kept twinkling and delighting. As she sat a few notches higher in the heaven (prosaically speaking, she dwelled on the third floor of a multi-storeyed apartment), Casanova had much trouble straining his head, but nevertheless, did some serious sky-gazing everyday braving the cramped neck.

But alas! As he couldn't take his eyes off her, he failed to notice what went around her. The fact was that she constituted the very centre of a constellation - ORION, THE HUNTER!!!

What followed was the saga of Casanova being hunted and chased away, until he vanished out of their sight. Today, he comes to know, that too from hearsay, that she is engaged to some 'pole star'- an impassive man who turned an android by the virtue of education he had. Casanova wishes couple all the world's good.

But now, he must go on to tell the world about his most illustrious, most daring, most celebrated feat of exceptional gallantry, that qualified him as the greatest lover ever to have sanctified this earth; surpassing Romeo and Don Juan......

She was nothing unearthly.....she was very much the soul of earth.......she was the flower.......

Of the tremendous, tempestuous, third temptation

..................Somebody is knocking vehemently at Casanova's door.........seems like impatience has got the better of some enchanted signorina.........no, there is a plurality about the knocks.......

BY JOVE!!!!.........TO HELL WITH THE SCOUNDRELS!!!.............

Casanova told you good souls of those envious pantaloons, right?! Well, these men, consumed by jealousy, are craving for Casanova's blood!!! They shall, at any moment, break into his house and liquidate him........

Casanova has no desire to live and no fear to die....but for the sake of those fine ladies of this great world, he must survive......AND TO SURVIVE, HE MUST RUN AT ONCE!!!

Dear folks, Casanova avers in the name of Lady the third, to whom he surrenderd his heart's monopoly (of whom, he shall speak at another occasion.....if you are lucky enough) that he shall be back at the earliest to amuse you and even in his grave, shall maintain that women, to him, are sweeter than any honey and more intoxicating than any wine. As for now.....ABSCOND!!!!!

"Give me women, wine and snuff

Until I cry out, 'Hold, enough!' "

- John Keats

Soliloquy of a Son of a Bitch

2009-08-28T20:00:00.037+05:30

PRELUDE

This, is the soliloquy of a son of a bitch. Now, at the very utterance of the aforesaid, you might have fallen prey to the preconception, which is a misconception, that these are the damned words emanating from some foul 'human' mouth. Nay! For I, the speaker, am verily a dog. Having righted and thereby, taught you that such presumptuousness is bad, let me, the dogmatic dog, begin ceremoniously.

Bloody-minded ladies and not-so-gentlemen, on this surreal occasion, I would like to condemn and rebuke you for what you are, and educate you on what you ought to be. During this lecture, I shall illustrate the veracity of my ideas with instances from my own experience most concisely. So let me, the intelligent dog, bark out my thoughts.

A SYNOPSIS OF MY EXPLOITS

Having had a puppyhood which was as ordinary and adventurous as that of any others of my kind, I survived to become what you call a stray dog. In those days, I didn't have anything against the human race and you seemed as good a fellow-being as the trees or the birds or the butterflies. I even remember being thankful for the occasional loaves of stale bread or rotten meat that came flying my way. As such, when a stone was hurled at me for the very first time, I thought that it was an accident. But as the accident became a habit, I learned that vice was innate among men. Nevertheless, I, being a wise dog, forgave by reasoning that such impishness was instinctive and inherent in you idiots and that they cannot be helped. However, it must be said that these very stones thrown at me were the corner stones of my antipathy for humanity.

Ultimately, it was the death of my dear buddy at human hands that turned me a misanthrope. I won't like to delve into the painful details of his unfortunate end. All I would say is that it was an accident. The truck that rammed him down went past as if nothing had happened and there his carcass remained, unheeded on the road for two long days. Wheels insolently ran over his insensitive body, spattering and spouting and smearing themselves with blood and slimy fluids.....mangling, squeezing and pasting him to the tar.....Oh! Bloody Son of Humans!!! I resolved to have my revenge. Humanity became my most despicable foe, the peril of whom became my ambition. And I resorted to battle....

I began by pilfering footwears(Leather, Rubber and PVC. All that mattered was that I managed to trouble you) and disfiguring them. Soon, I took to tearing the clothes and blankets that had been left on cords to dry off. This wasn't enough. For though my attempts seemed to annoy you, they didn't consternate. My next measure was to assault the pet dogs - those traitorous bourgeoisie, those epicureans - and impassioned by vengeance, I vanquished even those of higher and mightier breeds. It was a revolution. An underdog's triumph over the powerful antagonists. And panic began spreading among the bloody masters. Though it began raining stones, I was in no mood to relent. I stealthily made my moves and plotted my ambush.

Things were aggravated when I chanced to know that some scoundrel called 'union minister' had convened a meeting to discuss the issue of sterilization of stray dogs. It was said that a consensus was formed among these group of rascals to check the burgeoning population of street dogs by enforcing strict birth control measures like sterilization. Our autonomy to live and reproduce as we wish being challenged, I was infuriated beyond barks. Not that I was particularly desirous of having any offsprings(for I am a dog who did his 'duties' without yearning in the least for its fruits), but what about my kiths and kins who nurtured the dream of a family life?! Up in arms, brothers! Devil take the wretches!! Let us get rid of these bloody sons of humans....

So audacious was my rage that I vowed to defy the homo sapiens outright - materially as well as ideologically. Now, my latter resolve demands an elucidation. You men, think that you have a sound notion about everything. You take it for granted that cat and dog are eternal enemies; that a dog's tail would perpetually be curled; that at every lamp-post, we fancy raising our hind limb and pissing and that we would accept whatever you offer with a wagging tail. I set out to debunk these axiomatic idiocies. You know what, I befriended cats! And in my desperation to straighten my tail, I thrust it into the exhaust pipe of some vehicle, as a consequence of which, it was incinerated. Nonetheless, I was happy that I had that looped tail done with. Firmly footed, I vehemently refused to swallow even those rare stale bread loaves that came my way, thereby, denying the donor the gratification at being being benefactor. On a few occasions, my fangs even pierced the human flesh with relish. All these gave me intense pleasure, and by being a dog beyond human comprehension, I felt heroic. Yes, I was the Super dog.

VENGEFULLY......FROM THE LIMBO

It was in the midst of such a content life that I was assassinated. I was strolling thoughtfully through the woods when all of a sudden, as if out of thin air, a noose knotted around my neck. I struggled, tossed around, howled, twisted, rolled on my back and was strangulated to death. The last thing I saw was the leer of the triumphant dog catcher and the final sensation I had was thudding against the carcasses of my compatriots heaped in a corporation lorry.

Lurking in the limbo, I have communicated to you through this surreal medium. Even in this ghostly existence, I declare myself to be the enemy of humanity. If I am to be born again as a dog, I will resume from where I broke off. On the contrary, if I am to be born against my wishes as a human, then I would love to be the son of that dog catcher or any of those stone hurlers, so that I can torment them as I will. And if I am never ever to be born again, then I, wandering within the confines of this limbo, shall hope and beseech earnestly for the earliest occurrence of that incredibly great phenomenon 'Evolution', so that a species mightier and worse than human race shall evolve, and that these potent savages shall subjugate, strangulate, sterilize, molest, massacre, vanquish and ultimately efface the Homo sapiens by subjecting them to all those atrocities that they themselves have done to their fellow-beings. It shall be the day of infinite justice, and then,beneath the full moon of unreasonable reason, I will howl out ecstatically.......

The Eclipse

2009-08-16T07:21:00.026+05:30

In the temple town of Krishnapada, as in any other of its kind, where it rains divinity, it is only too natural that mendicants sprout like like mushrooms. But despite their presence en masse, these wraithlike wretches are inert and inconspicuous, thanks to the humanity's growing insensibility. In the present narrative, however, the raconteur is least inclined to avail the wide and wild scope for sentimentality that the straitened plight of these destitutes offer. On the contrary, we shall concern ourselves with the lesser known, lighter side of this purgatory.

There, among these aforesaid multitudes of mendicants, lived a quixotic hermit, who fancied himself as a demigod on the verge of enlightenment. Indeed, this idle man had a fairly good knowledge of Holy scriptures and incantations, the very thought of which deluded him with conceit. Now, his routine needs a special mention here. Woken up everyday before cockcrow by the virtue of incredibly punctual and diligent mosquitoes, the hermit would first have his ablutions and then, seating himself under the banyan, would resume his eternal quest for beatitude. An ambitious venture, one must say. Unfortunately, as a rule, his endeavour for transcendence invariably failed. Every now and again, one thing or the other - say, a passing sensation or the slightest sound - would induce a flitting thought or memory into the vacant mind, thwarting its equanimity. But the man was hell-bent in having his way, and never lost hope. A hopeless case, one must admit.

As for the morning in question, it was the sudden remembrance of a nightmare he had had last night, that broke his peace. It was his death, out of starvation, without attaining salvation!!! He shuddered at the thought of such an unceremonious end to a great soul, and sagging down onto the root of the banyan, kept pondering about a possible solution to tackle such a catastrophic contingency. After raking his brain for quite a while, he stumbled upon a seemingly brilliant idea - entitle some 'blessed soul' to serve him as his disciple. Putting it plainly, our parasitic hermit resolved to find a subservient host - a disciple - to nurture him for the rest of his life.

By the end of the day, the ascetic managed to rope in a credulous cripple as his apprentice. He had confronted him on the roadside, even as the latter was preoccupied in enumerating his alms. At the sight of the sagacious wretch, he fumbled for his wooden leg and made a courteous bow, and it immediately struck the hermit that the handicapped was a prospective follower. After engaging in a rambling talk - in the course of which the hermit discovered that the lame one had an appetite for the occult - he launched an eloquent and imaginative spiritual verbiage. He projected himself as a saint who had procrastinated his attainment of nirvana for the sake of humanity. To fortify his claim, he wove a fairytale about a divine vision he (never) had, in which the almighty commanded him to bestow his spiritual wealth afore his holy ascendance, upon those unsatiated spirits whose thirst remained unquenched for the want of a master. Enticed and overawed by the bombast, the naive cripple besought at once to be the faithful disciple of the mortal god.

With the passage of time, as expected, the association proved beneficial for the quasi-saint. Now that he was assured of a dinner everyday, there was no qualm whatsoever, about that dreaded privation. That his host was a cripple was an added advantage, for such a misfortune aroused pity in the benefactor; and charity always came along with that pity. All through the day, as the disciple went on begging, the master amused himself with reveries and, of course, meditation that invariably swerved off into a slumber. In the evenings, squatting by the pavement on the roadside, they would count the day's earnings, prepare and have their dinner, with the master preaching his infallible doctrines and reciting holy incantations all the while. If anybody chanced to overhear their conversation - rather a hyperbolic monologue by the ascetic on his philosophy of life; accentuated by allusions to holy scriptures and accompanied by the most obliging monosyllables of approval from the disciple - and felt impressed by their profundity, then, it must be said that he, like the poor disciple, was lost in the dark woods; for having broken his brain over those incoherent postulations and wild conjectures of the mystic, he had surrendered his sensiblity. Thus, with the ease and authenticity with which he stuffed his mouth, the wretch went on preaching self-contradicting and baffling sermons, the hollowness of which could only have been deciphered and resented by an equally stubborn and eccentric mind. And lo, there was one.......

One evening, as the beggars were desperately striving to rekindle the dying fire - all the time carrying on with the ostensibly brainstorming conversation - a drunkard came by. Swaying as if in the wind, he had fluttered towards the duo and abruptly settled down beside them. Taken aback by this unwarranted intrusion, the master and the disciple surveyed the trespasser questioningly.

"Water?" queried the inebriated casually, as if he had known them for years. They stared at each other, the master nodded and the disciple handed over a bowl of water to the stranger. Unscrewing a half-emptied bottle of intoxicant, he filled it to its neck with the bowl's content.

"Hail the lord! For had it not been for his grace, water would have rebelled against the spirits. Think of it dear fellows, a world where water is immiscible with gin! Infernal, I must say!!" remarking thus, he returned the bowl and gulped down a mouthful.

"Excuse me, but men have far better reasons than that to extoll and revere the almighty. Gin is nothing but the wretched devil's blood that knocks the sense and goodness out of a man." retorted the hermit in a tone that resounded with the conviction - that it was his obligation to educate the alcoholic about morality and thereby, free him from the stranglehold of the evil spirits.

"There, I must admit that you are dead right, holy man." conceded the drunkard and had another gulp. Now, this was a stalemate; for the hermit had expected the other to contradict him, and hence pave way for a debate, at the end of which he envisaged to debunk the latter's claims and excuses, whatever they may be. However, he was in no mood to relent.

"You cannot accede and deny at once. It seems to me most unreasonable that you denounce addiction with the very booze somersaulting in your tummy." said he, in a somewhat severe tone.

"Well, I have as much of a reason to drink and denounce as you have, to blabber about renunciation of worldly pleasures; all the same continue to dwell within its bounds, driven by some desire, may it be salvation or whatsoever. In fact, my reason is far sounder than yours, for I don't veil my desires with hypocrisy." replied the invigorated drunkard.

The hermit was dumbfound. Not even in the wildest of his dreams had he imagined of being confounded as such. Nevertheless, his pride being at stake, he quibbled, "Whatever you utter in defense of your deed won't substantiate as an excuse. As to the 'spiritual hypocrisy' you accuse me of, my faithful disciple shall enunciate about the so-called 'desires' that drive me to remain bound to the elusive world."

The cripple, who had been struggling to keep the fire going while listening attentively to this verbal duel, was startled at his unexpected induction to the scheme of things. Now that he had been assigned the onerous task to be the mouthpiece of his master, he stammered, "....eh...well.....y....yes, my master is an altruist who prolonged his sojourn in this world to enlighten those seeking souls, lest the entire human race shall fall into the chasms of sin. And......" he broke off abruptly when he found, to his horror, that the uncertain fire was about to extinguish.

Uttering a little squeal, he crawled towards the oven and hastily stuffed the last crumb of newsprint under the pot, and then turning to the mendicant, said, "Master, there is no more newsprint or firewood left to propel the fire. And the rice isn't even parboiled as yet. That last scrap of fuel, was that which I used to have as mattress."

"Why, there are some, over there." pointed out the drunkard. The mendicant, who found that that the other's gaze lingered on his sack, dismissed the suggestion at once, remarking, "No. Those papers are my rugs. If they are incinerated, then I will have to spare an insomniac night on a bare earth."

"There, you see, a renouncer who can't part with two sheets of paper!!" bantered the alcoholic.

For quite some time now, a sense of discontent had been gnawing the servile lamer as he felt that the quasi-saint didn't seem to practise what he preached. Now, this casual remark made a ripple in the cripple's mind. It revealed the hypocrite within his master. And gradually, his conscience began to endorse the alcoholic's intoxicated doctrines.

Meanwhile, resuming from where his apprentice had broken off, the mendicant added emphatically, " All I yearn for the well-being of the mankind, a world devoid of problems."

It was at this point, that the inebriated broke into a fit of unrestrained laughter, as the baffled wretches stared stupidly at him.

"His brain is out of order! Insobriety has bedevilled him!!" exclaimed the mendicant.

Smothering somehow, his tickled senses, the alcoholic proclaimed in a voice that echoed with jest and irony, "Your god, my friend, would cease to exist the day this world is free of problems. For troubles, fears, apprehensions and all such obnoxious notions are precisely the reason for the pervasiveness of such an amorphous almighty. Man's refusal to accept whatever befalls him, as the natural course of pre-destined events; his obstinate rebellion against the so-called 'unsavoury' sensations, spawns that creator - a corrupt arbiter who who easily succumbs to bribes and ingratiations, and returns the favour without fail."

After a pause, he continued, "But donot panic thinking of a frail, annihilable and not-so-supreme being; for despite his tendency to be mortal, the omnipotent would survive, thanks to the insecurity that we nurture within us, without fail."

There was a prolonged silence, during which only the crackle from the oven was heard. Breaking the repose, the drunkard addressed the inconsistent fire, "Here, have some of the spirits", and emptied the last drops of the adultered liquor into it.There was a slight explosion, and it brought the wretches back to their surroundings.

The assuredness and audacity with which the drunken man spoke; his eloquence, had bowled them over. So overwhelmed were they that their paralysed minds, attuned to the Pied Piper's will, failed to discern the logic, or the lack of it, in what they heard; and they took them for axioms.

"So you deny the existence of almighty?" asked the ascetic timidly. There was not even a vestige of the old authenticity in his voice.

The newfound master replied calmly, "Never. I deny that abstraction which is but an amalgamation of the whims, wishes and fancies of man."

"That aphorism entitles you to have a dinner with us." uttered the cripple. The latter smiled, and the three spirits dined solemnly. As the drunkard was about to bid farewell, the cripple enquired where he was bound for.

"Obviously, to the tavern." he replied. There was beatitude in his haggard countenance, it seemed. Only a halo was missing.

"Shall I accompany you?" bespoke the handicapped.

Beaming, the enlightened nodded.

The mendicant, sensing that the soil under his feet was fast eroding, uttered aghast, "Why.....t...to the....tavern!? B....But what for!?"

The cripple's reply came; a prompt, swift and plain answer, "To be enlightened."

Distressed, the parasitic saint kept gazing at his ex-disciple and the enlightened, until they fluttered out of his sight. And then, as if an afterthought had struck him, he stirred at once. He had no choice, but to run after them.

The Talisman

2009-06-07T14:38:00.036+05:30

After much deliberation, the doctor diagnosed : Parkinsonism. There wasn't much medicines could have done. And so, grandmother was to die a slow, degenerative death. I was overwhelmed with grief. It wasn't the thought of death that pined me, for she was old enough to die; but the bleak days she had to ferry, before that inevitable end.....

Sitting by her bed, I couldn't help noticing how haggard she had become. Her wizened visage was deprived of its expressiveness, as emotions lost their identity meandering through those ubiquitous wrinkles. Her edentate mouth seemed a blackhole, into which her pale lips curled and collapsed, leaving behind a mere quivering slit. Her eyes, robbed of their sheen, always had a vacant expression and for most of the time, her gaze lingered on the old, dilapilated pendulum clock on the opposite wall. I wondered why. Perhaps that she envied it. Life could have been far better a story if it were to have an end so terse and tame as that of the deceased clock. But then, this is an unreasonable world : while our entrance was a monotony, the return ticket was full of weird possibilites. My grandmother was destined to return by the slowest of wagons, for she had with her, a cheap ticket purchased at the expense of a laboured life. A lifetime of all possible hardships had overwrought her nerves, and there she lay; 'a prisoner in her own frail body', as the doctor had remarked. I couldn't have endured beholding this dismal, grim picture for long. And without a word, I left her.

The twilight was falling fast, as it was overcast and the moody weather further aggravated my consternated spirit. I didn't have an idea about my destination. It was my habit to have such rambles when my spirits ran low. And in most occasions, it proved to be the perfect antidote. But I somewhat felt that this time around, redemption was impossible. As I plodded along, lost in unhappy thoughts, it began to drizzle. It wasn't until I got considerably drenched, that I managed to find shelter in the old waiting shed for local buses. There was no one about, save for the old mendicant woman, who had been 'living' there for as long a time as I could've remembered.

She had her back turned to me, and didn't seem to be aware of my intrusion, as she kept scouring her damaged glasses. Then, putting it on, she blinked hard at the banner that hung by the shed. It didn't help. With a vehement shake of head, she took off her spectacles, rubbed it, wore it and stared again. The tasteless yellow banner, which propagandised polio vaccination, still remained shrouded in mystery. Nevertheless, she persisted for a long time, though without success.

Finally, she gave up, muttering to herself, inaudible words of reproof, and turned in my direction. She was apparently startled at the sight of an unexpected visitor in her dwelling, and I found myself entangled in an embarrassing situation. However, the awkwardness was diluted soon, she was witty enough to welcome me with the air of a dutiful hostess; an earnest but weak smile bloomed on her jaded face. I reciprocated the warmth with a glib smile, that my conscience pricked me immediately for being dishonest. It urged me to make amends for the insincerity. So I made an attempt to smile heartily; to which she responded by beaming even more earnestly. I wondered how one could be so gaiety even while reeling in such dire straits.

After this momentary diversion, I felt somewhat resuscitated. A particular sensation of compassion was slowly beginning to settle in, warding off the phantoms of depression that tortured me. As I kept musing, she hesitantly voiced a request, ''Master, could you tell me what those numbers over there are?'', with her quivering hand pointing at the yellow banner. The banner had outlived its expectancy, for the date of inoculation - daubed in dull red by some bloody rascal of a painter, who seemed to have taken pains to preserve its mystery element - had expired a fortnight ago.

''It is an outdated banner, on polio vaccination.'' - I explained.

''So it won't be of any avail to anyone, right master?'' - she asked.

''Precisely.'' - said I, wondering what sort of business she meant to do with an abandoned piece of cloth.

On hearing my affirmative answer, she thanked me and stirring up, trod towards the banner. She tried to untie its knots, but her senile hands betrayed her. Seeing her struggle, I lent a helping hand, as that queer sensation of compassion kept welling up in me. And so was my curiosity. I couldn't help asking - ''Why do you.... I mean, what are you going to do with this?''

I expected a retort or dumbness, but her reply came, calm and composed : ''Rainy days are ahead, master. And I don't have a blanket to shield myself from this biting cold. For a long time now, I've been yearning for this.''

I felt as if I was struck by a thunderbolt. She continued, clutching the banner to her bosom, ''But I couldn't have had it, unless I was sure that it was no longer of any use to anyone else. And nobody cared to answer me when I queried. God bless you, master ! For you had taken pains to gift this to me. God bless you !" Her eyes were moist as she said these final words.

As for me, my eyes were inundating. A plethora of emotions overwhelmed me, all but confluencing and manifesting as a divine bliss - of humility, selflessness and compassion. I had with me, a talisman now, with which I could've tided over any catastrophe.

A great man's - a Mahathma's - words resounded in my whole being :

"........Whenever self becomes too much with you, recall the faces of the most poor and downtrodden people that you have come across in your life..........you will find your self melting away......"

The rain relented. All I had with me, was a one rupee coin. I gave it to the poor old woman, and said, ''This is no alms, but a token of my gratitude, for I don't think I shall ever be able to pay off the debt I owe you. Thanks." I made my bow and left, leaving her bemused.

Sitting by my grandmother's bed, I remarked, "Why should we grudge and mourn, and feel victimised, grandma, when we have at our disposal, the autonomy to refuse a dinner or a lunch, and most of all, a bed of our own to be 'bedridden' ?" and smiled a content smile. Despite the sea of chasms, I could see that she too seemed bemused.....

An Elegy For Life

2009-06-03T21:02:00.015+05:30

O worthless life, Au Revoir !

Upon thy alluring alulas, didst I drift.

Stumbling into treacherous quagmires

How tiring the journey was; how bizarre !

O feyly life, how fickle thou art !

Upon cloud nine, ecstatic one day

Down in the doldrums, remorseful the other.

Queer are thy notions !

Amidst the ordeals and chagrin,

Joyous times are delirious dreams.

And all the phantasmagoria,

Desperate enactment of a pre-written script.

And thus drifts on a worthless life

A ravaged catamaran in an elusive ocean

Tossed asunder by the mighty tides of time

Unto the diabolic mouth of a doomed destiny.

O worthless life, Au Revoir !

''Monsoon, Do Come soon''

2009-06-01T18:32:00.027+05:30

Whilst the vagrant nimbus vanquished the blistering sun,

A gentle breeze caressed the choking earth.

Ecstatic toads broke into exuberant cacophony,

Elated at the impending arrival of their dearest comrade.

Emeralds waltzed to vagabond wind's rhapsody,

Nay, not terrified; rather rapturous beyond compare.

All but heralding magnificent monsoon,

That cherubim clad in sublime silver.

"Adieu, O atrocious summer

Thy plunders thwarted, Avaunt!"

Quoth the stentorian thunder.

"Do descend, heaven's compassionate tears

For nothing save thy mercy, shall salvage them from peril!"

Besought the ephemeral lightning.

Amidst the heavenly clamours and earthly concerts

With awesome audacity, anon surged the ichor.

On the wings of wind and water,

Along the mountains and into the caverns,

Through the woods and across the plains,

Didst the ethereal fluid errand.

Turning eftsoons, the sterile earth fecund

Spawning a plethora of vitality

(Of moss, moths, mushrooms & what not!)

Which, with the thunderbolts and emerald

Concerted de novo, an ode to their saviour.

But dear world, here is a conundrum!

Isn't it that scorching summer sun,

Who conspired with those eternal oceans

To conceive the monsoon - that bloody oedipus?