Everybody wants to rule the world...

“The young blood rushed through his veins; in his pensive self he counted his agony and the solutions in the same breath. With his feisty self he clenched his fists and declared- One day…I shall rule the world”

I recon all of us saying this to ourselves or out loud once in our lives, the time when we were on the conquest of our world and sure of ruling it. The restlessness just builds on to you imploring you to walk the path. The path which will eventually declare you a hero in your own right, and even better in everyone else’s as well.

This is the time when someone requires guidance the most. However gusto you have, to walk that way, you need a signboard that points to that direction. I have come across so many people, who have the mix that makes me think this person is going places, what they lack is a direction. It’s like you have the ingredients ready in front of you in the exact amount but you don’t know how to cook.

This thought perhaps comes from my own state of mind these days. It is impossible for this breed to think we are made for the mundane stuff. Such is the surge to make a difference we find ourselves in scores of people who are screaming to be called different. Doesn’t this “similarity” give us an opportunity to unite and make a difference? With such dynamic mindsets it is difficult to attain a state of similar interests, but perhaps that is not even required.

It is quite a sorry state frankly. With oodles of energy and no vent out, the fire just burns out. You are left reminiscing at your once exuberant youth and wonder “I was you a couple of years back”. Yes I met someone who said this and it was pretty scary to find myself lash that sentence to someone who would come for the signboard and find a dead end.

It’s a phase….some tell me you will grow out of it. But do we need to? Should we? Can someone help me and the scores behind me with a sign board?

A figment of the imagination...

Some things are just too perfect in your head. Some moments are lived so well inside one’s mind that their existence in life becomes secondary. Needless to say such things happen to people with an extremely powerful imagination. It is like relishing a moment you desire to live, unknown of its occurrence in life, and living it in your head out of insecurity. Insecurity that the moment in its subsistence, so perfect, will never occur in your life. It doesn’t kill the hope though, if not anything it builds on it. The inspiration for the thoughts comes from various sources, a few tasteful movies, books or nature. But never does it come from someone else’s life because if it would, you can’t live it so well in your head. You always imagine the unbelievable and inimitable for yourself, heck you are the star of the movie. On the other hand, knowing that a moment is about to be lived, you imagine countless ways of its occurrence but intentionally leave out the details for the experience. “I have imagined the perfect walk with you by the lake, the moment where something I believed so strongly came true, the slow dances, the smile that I meant with the teardrop, the hug that meant ‘I will take care, the smile that meant ‘you are beautiful’ and the hold of your hand that meant you are the only constant that I seek in my life”

India is middle class....

I have been brought up without the silver spoons and the caviar. I have had a life that has thrown challenges towards me. If I claim to be open and accepting of the gay culture then I also act like the hypocritical closet homophobe where I will take offence if people think I am gay. If I think of a huge family after marriage with cousins and friends and everyone, I also get scared of the huge commitment that the union holds. If I eat at fancy places, I sit cross legged on the floor and eat with my hands on occasions. If I have a great place to stay I also have a dilapidated locality that surrounds me and doesn’t justify my stand of the good house. Even though I will love the silver spoon and the caviar my taste and comfort will always lie in the home cooked sambar chawal. I have a mind of my own that thinks and frames opinions, and I listen to the society time and again, trying to accommodate the many conflicting thoughts that lead to confusion. This is middle class, I am middle class.

India has pretty much the overtones of the middle class. She had to start from a scratch so she values money. She will be as careful with it as possible. She is proud to be secular and the largest democratic nation, but she recites sagas of riots and blood baths over religion portraying the hypocrisy. She hopes for world peace and is inviting to the idea with her neighbors, but she will still be skeptical of the very idea of it. She will steal with a conscience and she lies and gets caught. She aspires to eat the caviar off the silver spoons because she has seen her peers enjoy that, but you can see her being clumsy at it, almost reckless. Her comfort lies with her land; probably that’s why she never endeavored to capture lands like other countries. With the richness, she has lots of deteriorating aspects she is embarrassed of and can’t justify with the growth projections year on year. If she looks to emulate, she holds her ground. She gives air to thoughts and independence but has mess ups when accommodating everything. India is middle class.

If it were up to me I would still want to be born a middle class and live most of my life as one. Never really have it easy and never give up on trying. Never really compromise and always hope. India- she aspires to inspire, just like the middle class.

The Crowd...

It was a Sunday afternoon. I walked the scorching streets of Dadar, from the place I live to the station. Behind the dark glares the day seemed to be just like the perfect weather of many Bangalore evenings. And I found myself believing the illusionary vision of the romanticized climate. The streets had few people, I presumed. Today was probably a day for the people to be indoors, a holiday, the heat and the family. Enough reasons already I had stated for the unusual spectacle. The concept of staying home on a holiday rather than going out has ironically been more welcoming than ever to me. All my reasoning turned out in vain for I saw the scores of unfamiliar faces which was a familiar sight in Mumbai. Still, I didn’t admit to myself that I may have jumped the gun in drawing assumptions; I am pretty good at lying to myself if not others. The moral obligations apart, I still enjoyed the sight of the long queues and the scores of people throwing awkward and stoic glances. I don’t know why I enjoy it. There were people brushing past me with a vengeance for the space I occupied in this scanty city. Someone slapped my ass; I presumed it was the crowd's jostle rather than an intention. I wanted to hold on to the thought that unlike the city I love the most (Delhi), this was the place where there was some respect for woman, or perhaps no time for such despicable acts. I saw huge lines at the ticket counter. One of the counters was closed, so I justified my stand of “relatively less crowd” with the closed counter hence seemingly more people. But as soon as the counter opened I could not decipher how the milieu changed. More uncountable heads swarmed the counter before I could think of shifting and getting my ticket more quickly. The gentleman behind me was active in abusing everyone cutting the line. The lady in front of me joined in unison for the public service. Two men were noting down a number from a half torn notice before the third counter. “Make Rs. 5000 to Rs. 25000 per monthly doing nothing! Enroll and pay just Rs. 750”; ‘poor suckers!’ I wondered and in same line found myself believing some good in the world-what if the poster was genuine? The woman in front of me smiled after her success in procuring her ticket and the man behind me continued to curse the people who had long gone breaking the line and buying the ticket. The ladies' special was a brightly coloured compartment. After much deliberation I got into it hoping its not first class, because the penalty for traveling first class without ticket would’ve cost me the entire amount in my wallet. The Marathi threw me off balance when it came to guessing the class, ‘darn regionalism!’ I wondered again. A guy with hair clips came on board at the next station. The clips danced around in his stand like a little girl's new polka-dotted frock. Only it was colourful this time (I always imagined red). The cheap plastic could not pass off for an expensive-looking and cheap buy clip, so I refrained. The woman flocked and got all colours. There was no way to know whether they had paid for the same or not, but I could differentiate from the faces who thought they got a good bargain to the ones who thought they didn’t. The woman (who was in front of me in the line) smiled again with a handful of clips, as I looked on. Suddenly I was thrown off by the horde that pushed into the next station. A poor old lady barely made it in and a younger woman was screaming at her “tere baap ki train hai jo itna time legi?” There was no remorse for the lack of respect and I sniggered at her curtness. The old lady weakly protested and then sat on the floor of the train, away from the purview of her glare. A child screamed bloody murder as the crowd squished it. He coughed, nearly puked, and cried his eyes out. The only assuring words his mom could give were the station will come soon and they will get off. The thought that came instantly to my mind was I would be able to afford a car and a driver for my child. She looked in my direction and started talking, “he feels disgusted with the crowd, how can one tolerate so much right?” The curt woman looked on with disgust, I smiled sheepishly to her question and the woman before me smiled again. With every smile, there was something she said- “Finally got the ticket”, “this is a good bargain”, “what does she think you can possibly say?” Somehow I felt I was right when I interpreted and I felt there was a friendly face among the unfamiliar. Everyone fought for every inch and the exit was blocked. I threw a question in the air “Is Kandivali the next station?” “Yes dear”, replied the old lady. “But you are standing at the wrong gate” “Just my luck I thought!” and the smile in front of me reiterated my words. I struggled to get past but people were already having their individual fights to get to the door. My bag almost got whisked away, my clothes on the verge of being ripped, thank god for my tied hair else god knows what would’ve been their plight. I don’t know why I still felt amused, though I let out a desperate “Shit!” The curt woman stepped forward, pushed people and screamed “Can't you see people are trying to get out! Move out of the way!” I looked at her and smiled, “Thank you”, it meant Getting off, the smile never left me. The local has always amused me for the people in flocks I see. Every smile, every face has a story I can concoct and an after thought that reflects a part of my past, present and future. The crowd never ceases to amuse….

If i could feel a prick....

The beggar in rags calling out to all
Painting a dour portrait to those who see
Some feel pity and some snigger in disgust
I look intently, so I can really feel

I look at the sky and the melting clouds
As blue and wistful as her eyes
People in awe look onto her gliding
I look intently, for I wonder why

If only I could suffer the pain
If only I could feel the love
If only I would dream and devour
If only I could feel a prick

A child smiles and the lady croons
She looks to hold the hand stretched
Shedding a tear that reflects her smile
I look intently and decipher

The rain pelts down in a sudden rush
I hear people laughing, cursing and thanking
I stand beneath the pour and the push
I look intently at the drops that pat

If only I could suffer the pain
If only I could feel the love
If only I would dream and devour
If only I could feel a prick

I walk along the aisle, a step and two
I seem to have gone back for I see
The dance, the songs, the tears, the smile
The scream, the love, the hate

I felt a prick, I felt the prick
And it feels a little distant
Will I ever feel the pain another time?
Will I ever dance in the rain?

The Stage...

I remember the stage. I remember it very clearly. The top 14 were competing and all of us from my college had qualified, out of hundreds. The day before was a self-doubting session of whether I in particular would make it to the list of finalists. It had taken me a lot of hard work to get close to that place, that stage. When the final list came out it was no surprise to the people who knew me. It was a pleasant one for me. The next day had its series of confusion and frustrations but when I went to that stage….I was in love. It was stark dark. I couldn’t see anyone. The judges, the audience, the people I loved, just a light shining in front of me, almost divine. It blinded me with a lot of comforts. The comfort that made me just be with myself and understand what I was singing. The music and the love for it…. I have sung this song a million times since I started competing in college, to the level that I started being called “Hero” or Mariah Carey (not that it hurt). But that day, that moment, I felt what I haven’t felt about myself in ages. I felt complete. I have sought that feeling from a lot of things and people in vain over the years. And when I sit back and think of that moment on stage- pitch dark but a light of thousand moons, I feel a rush. It is the same rush that comes as an assurance that I don’t need to search anymore. My conquest begins and ends without much ado. There will be things and people I will always need, but the stage will welcome me with arms that I want to embrace like no other. The arms that make me feel, so full of myself. It is the best feeling. “Lord knows…dreams are hard to follow But don’t let anyone…take them away… Hold on, there will be a tomorrow In time, you’ll find the way…”

The Monkey and The Crocodile...

Ever read the Panchatantra tale of the friendship between the monkey and the crocodile? Back then it used to amuse me only on the grounds of the talking animals involved, the rose apples and of course the name of the crocodile- Ugly Mug. I remember that I and my brother used to have a good laugh at that. The reason that I write about my love for this story now is only that I have understood the moral of it. The monkey, a herbivore befriends a crocodile, its predator. Despite the obvious danger to the monkey, the friendship blossoms until one day out of his wife’s request the crocodile complies with her fancy of having a monkey's heart. The presence of mind of the monkey saves him but the moral remains- “You can’t change the inherent nature of a being” The crocodile by its very virtue is a predator. Nature had made him a flesh-eating being and the monkey one day was nothing but flesh to him. It doesn’t make the crocodile malevolent or the monkey dumb (maybe it makes the monkey a little dumb for being hopeful- I am still battling that perspective), it just transpires to what we call "Mother Nature". The analogy that I draw from this brilliant story is that you come across people who are like the crocodile and the monkey with each other. It takes a lot to accept the inherent nature of a being. To accept it as a part of him/her even though it is at conflicting ends with what you believe in, is a challenge. For instance, there are certain presumptions, and blanket statements about men and women. That could box them in preconceived notions that make them more understandable. Like men can separate sex from emotional intimacy more than women. It doesn’t make the man a predator (in negative connotations), it just brings forth the fact of how nature made him. It can also be like shopping for most women, a futile exercise as coined by most men. If you are aware of the obvious repercussions of being with someone who is at conflicting ends with not just who you are but what you are, be prepared to escape and accept. The monkey in the end doesn’t shed a tear for the crocodile (however the crocodile does) for he realizes that the crocodile only conformed to how nature made him, what he is. This post is inspired by my rendezvous with the crocodile. It made me think that each of us is a monkey and a crocodile to someone or the other. Rather than hoping (like the monkey) accept the monkeys and the crocodile as who they are, not what you want them to be…or even better watch from a distance, admire their existence and their contribution to the food chain.

And What is Love...?

Been through a plethora of romantic movies with over dramatic characters and also the movies which I think resemble my own story, been through texts and quotes and prose and poems that have made me think and reminisce some cherished times but at the end of it what is love…

Love is kind, it doesn’t envy, it doesn’t pride….I forgot the rest of the text because it’s too good to be true. I may come across as a cynic here but I have started to believe love is a mere feeling of wanting companionship. It is a manner in which you associate yourself to a purpose. The purpose could be of pursuit, achievement, coming out stronger or perhaps just a shift from the monotony that you are living through. It is obvious that everyone has his own paradigms when it comes to defining the concept, some say it is fuck up of the mental anatomy while others say love is the best medicine (I heard it was laughter)

I have heard so much about love that I can’t concoct a definition of it from all that I have. It is also region specific. For instance, when I see Indians, I see them using this word more loosely than anyone ever can. “I love you” is more of an “I have now this part of my life figured out, what a relief and let me see what else I can do”. For those of you who have a habit of taking things personally, your definition is the right one and don’t bother to read on (again this is directed to us- Indians). What I gather from the “west” is a different picture. They say it as carefully as they can and it is a big deal. The incongruity here is that in both cases there are screw ups. Is screw up a part of it? The romantics please suffice an answer that is not- it doesn’t matter, what matters is you felt it for someone.

In my experience I have never been in love. I have thought that I am though, every time to maintain the sanctity of what I am feeling. To give the other person some respect as well. But every time I have used this sentence it has pricked a part of me to say it loosely (I am as Indian as Indian can be). From pursuit to wanting a change, it has been all but never the right one.

I guess you don’t need to know what it is. You don’t need to define it anyway, I mean for whom? It is scary to some because it is so personal. Everyone I know wants to know what it is and some arrogant souls believe they know….helps them settle. But you know it is love only when you have the guts to ignore the chaos, the need to figure out things and be patient. Let it settle, and not settle with it. May love find all mankind….

The Shelter

It was a hot afternoon and it started to rain
Struggling with the patched raincoat, she ran in vain
Beneath the shelter she adjusted her vision
She welcomed the imposed halt amidst her mission

The shelter spilled water, drops fell on the face
Trickling down like a tear drop leaving its trace
She looked up at the thatched roof, a dry brown
Collecting several pools, waiting to come down

She prepared for the predictable downpour, juggling it
Standing enveloped, taking every space, trying to fit
The shelter was a make shift solace, but comfort she sought
Not money for a fancy umbrella she could’ve bought

The rain stopped to pour, the roof did not
The pool of water, her raincoat fought
She looked up the sky, she wore a smile
She saw the rainbow stretch for a whole mile

The Secret

The morning breakfast discussion in office often brings out the best of the momentary topics, the ones you get amused with and forget. Some preach, some laugh at the mindlessness of the jokes cracked, and some just well plain listen. During one such session today, over a Dosa and a Sambar that would give a south Indian foodie like me extreme facial contractions, they discussed of the “secret”

Apparently there is a document floating in office that outlines a set of things you should do to live with a happy disposition. The word document printed and pinned on the desk of many is called the “Secret”. One of the things in it is the fact how you should let things be. Believe that they will come true or maybe believe in something that will help you settle in your head. The wait and believe and watch concept.

I am not a fan of preachy writings, self help books because I look at ‘helping the world’ with a little skepticism. I would never like to read one and acknowledge the smart ass, but instead write one. So while everyone is a fan of this document I snicker at the very mention of it. Call me high maintenance or more.

It may be contrary to what I typed in above but I always believed that God communicates to me in his way. From a road sign sticker to a driving school name he has had ingenious ways to tell me the next thing in store. Lately I have been literally losing marbles over a lot of things I have no control on. The word patience was not really induced in my dictionary and was taught by his almighty over a series of episodic stickers and break bumpers. So when I was on the path to losing my mind over all things that were being thrown at me to catch and keep, I got to know of the “secret”.

I know the fact that when you wish to listen, everything makes sense. Everything comes as a message from the beyond. So when people kept talking of patience and stories of people making it in life with that gift, the document which read the do’s and don’t of life with the word patience being glorified, my closest friends telling me to let it go and some of them being pissed off at me for not letting it be, I got it (execution is still in the nascent stages). The things which are beyond the control, by their very nature can’t be controlled. When you know there is no amount of effort from your part that is required and just indifference, let it be.
So next time you feel your world is crashing down with questions like why now and why me and what more in your head, pray. He will tell you let it be. Until next time my reader, I am on my way to pin the secret to my wall….

Dancing in the dark....

She walked on the aisle with the anklet in place
In a blood red dazzling dress and a painted face
The darkness engulfed but she stole the spotlight
She saw the nothingness around but she shone bright

The music echoed her thoughts, her steps went off beat
The anklet shone in the light sliding down her feet
She held out the hand, she assumed a crowd gathered to see
She wondered if someone held the hand, how it would be

She wished for the light to shift focus for a while
So she could see the faces of the darkness smile
She longed for the story that the music behind recited
She kept dancing in the dark with no candles ignited

She started to feel tired, her legs begin to strain
Her heart begin to ache, she felt the shooting pain
She could hear the anklet implore, urging her to dance
Till she could see the face in the dark, or perhaps a glance

She didn’t know how, she didn’t know just how
The music would cease to exist, and she would finally bow
With a thunderous applause welcoming her to the new light
She would know the difference between the day and the night

The tears smudged the paint, her face bled her sorrow
She had believed the palmist, she had believed the tarot
She couldn’t stop to dance, her lips synced the song
Till she fell on the floor, after another hour long

The music played still, a lifeless self began to pant
Upon the floor where she could see her tears land
With the music fading away, the applause came its way
Her misery had become a spectacle, she became the star that day