Tired

What does the insomniac struggle to do?

Relax.




Shamanth,
30th November, 2009

Hope for the hopeless

I'm looking down now that it's over
Reflecting on all of my mistakes
I thought I found the road to somewhere
Somewhere in His grace
I cried out heaven save me
But I'm down to one last breath

I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
That maybe six feet
Ain't so far down

Words by Creed. (Source - http://www.songlyrics.com/creed/one-last-breath-lyrics/)

Poetic Justice

Verbally speaking, I am not as witty as I would like to be, though occasionally I do surprise myself with my words. An incident I am rather fond of comes to my rescue here.

One fine day as I was engrossed in writing a poem, my friend (let's call him Adwait, because his other real name is Abhijeet), who is great with words, more so in his mother-tongue, Marathi, could not resist vaunting his quality of being a शीघ्र-कवी (sheeghra-kavi : an impulsive and an on-command one-shot-poet, if you will) to me, as he watched me writhe about in labour pains from my attempt at poetic delivery, for what he thought was a painstakingly long time.

"I get the job done quickly" was all I heard, as he spoke highly of his ability to write a poem when needed, in just a couple of minutes. On my end, I held up the plain old desire of expressing myself, the way I could and, hence, I would, no matter how long it took to get it right, which, before me, only a million must have said and done. But the look on his face (at least for argument sake, I felt) told me he was determined to save Time, as opposed to take it, when it came to writing. Realising the futility of arguing any further, I decided it was time to wrap it up. Vaguely shaking a fist near my face cringing with the sentiment of the words to follow, I said to him, (in a rather constipated voice, I may add) "Passion boss! Passion is what it takes!"  to which he replied wryly, "थोडा सा पागलपन काफी है ज़िंदगी के लिए|" (thoda sa paagalpan kaafi hai zindagi ke liye : life needs but a pinch of madness.)

Even as he began speaking, I had made up my mind to ignore his words, mumble a vague acknowledgment and continue with my work. But something about those words made me pause for a bit and play them over in my head. Looking at the words discretely for a moment I swapped just two of them and was amused at the diametrically opposite meaning brought out by the new sentence. With a triumphant smile, I shot it back,"थोड़ी सी ज़िंदगी काफी है पागलपन के लिए|" (thodi si zindagi kaafi hai paagalpan ke liye : madness needs but a pinch of life.)

The next moment filled the inside of my head with an imaginary round of applause, like a cheering only for me, for suddenly coming up with something remotely witty. Drowned in its din was his reply I could barely hear.

It is not often that I can think so fast, yet so clear. It is one of those things that one can never be taught and, unfortunately, it doesn't come to me so naturally.

Shamanth,

19th November, 2009.

in my head, yet again;

fleeting;
the memories of,

a smile,
of the face, I never met;

a gaze,
of the eyes, I never caught;

the touch,
of the hands, I never held;

the presence,
of the being, that never was;



Shamanth,
18th November, 2009.

Bereft

A light once revealed to me a brilliant world of Excellence.

It shines for me no more, leaving me fairly disoriented;

And now, bereft of the light's kindness, I'd rather be lost in that world, than be condemned to one filled with mediocrity.

Shamanth,

15th November, 2009.

For you; too little, too late

When all I wanted to do
was be there - 
with you, for you,

but simply couldn't;
(nor realise it then)

instead,
led you to believe
that it doesn't matter anymore;

And now, I realise,
how little is too late, this realisation;
for you don't care anymore.



Shamanth,
4th November, 2009

क्या करे

कभी ज़िंदगी से माँगा पिंजरे में चाँद ला दो,
कभी लालटेन देके कहा आसमान पे टांगो|

क्या करे ज़िंदगी इसको हम जो मिलें,
इसकी जाँ खा गये रात दिन के गिले|

-गुलज़ार

Alas!

Rise! O Sleepyhead, lest you hit the desk,

Wake! O Sleepyhead, 'tis no time to rest;

The day beckons, it makes the call –

"Work and toil! One and all!"

Dream shall you not, slumped in your throne,

work have you got - go be a drone;
Steeped in the twilight, of a computer,

slog in your cube-dom, for bread and butter;

Slower by the tick, the day moves on,
by eventide, a headache you've don;


Wait! O Sleepyhead, wait for your foam,

Hold! O Sleepyhead, we’re almost home;

Draw in the shades, turn off the lights,

crawl in your bed and say Good Night;

Sleep may you now, sleep may you well,

Until the dawn ringeth its bell;

Oh but the sorrow! Oh what a loss!

Fate, it seems, won’t let you doss;

Sleepy you were, sleep not you why,

O Insomniac! How restless you lie!

Shamanth,

23rd October, 2009

Home, he was

And he was home, after a very long time. He had been away for the first time, and back too since his departure. And now, being there – the presence of his own self in the place which was his home – he was happy. Extremely happy! And in such a state of exalted happiness he found himself torn between fetching memories of this place from his past to see, out of mere childish curiosity, how much of those resembled the present and imbibing every dram of now to make new memories while he still had the time. The frenzy seemed to dumb him down for a moment as an awkward grin found its way to his delighted face.

Soon enough it was time for him to leave home – once again. He was now back to being away. The air he now breathed was heavy with melancholy. He lay on his bed and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep. Instead, he was unmistakably transported back home. His eyelids trembled. He now stood outside his apartment. Its brown wooden door appeared poised with the white wall around it; their edges blurred and running into each other. One corner of his eye held the door bell; the other held the black stairs running up. He stood motionless for a few moments. Then stepping back, he turned around and started walking towards the exit of the building. An old tube light hanging from the ceiling made a low buzz. The light from it showed varying shades of grey on the tiled floor and on the walls around till they ended in a blotch of darkness at the grilled exit gate. With every step, the roughness of the concrete floor outside the gate was growing vivid to his senses, like he was leaning against it. He stopped at the threshold and looked around. Yellow street lights and an occasional pair of wobbling headlights gave him a sense of the slope of the dusty street across. He stepped into the grainy darkness of the night.

This time, dumbed down by melancholy, he did not know whether to walk off into the night or go back inside his house or simply stand there. Choice was rendered futile in the pursuit of his past. But soon, he knew, the hopelessness of the pursuit would remind him of his present and eventually restore the power of choice for the sake of his future. "Soon," he whispered to himself and closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, he still wished he was on the other side of the world.

Discern

What is more challenging than recognising a counterfeit amidst the authentic?
 
Vice versa.



Shamanth,
29th September, 2009.

The Test

The bell rang and the kids scattered all over the hallway now scuttled in all directions fumbling through books and bags. Gathering his belongings hurriedly, Neil urged, "Come ON! Last ten minutes!" Without taking his eyes off the book Viraj nodded and signaled him to go ahead without him.

"In a bit . . .," Viraj said.
"OK!" Neil replied and dashed into the examination hall.

Few moments and Viraj was now walking into the room, all the while reading from the book in his left hand and a bag clutched in his right. He looked up to find his seat among what he expected to be rows of benches sparsely occupied by solemn faces, anxious to get the test over with. What he saw instead, perplexed him. He saw Neil in his Doctor's coat, stethoscope hung loosely around his neck, flipping through some medical files. A busy looking nurse walked around him. Looking up at Viraj rather apologetically, Neil said, "I . . . I'm sorry. . . the test . . . it . . . it came out. . . positive . . . But it's not too late . . . we still have a fighting chance. We can treat this . . . Trust me . . . "

The book and the bag seemed to disappear in the horrible dark pit that had begun to form in Viraj's guts. He tried to step back and breathe, but a grim heaviness arrested him. The bell rang again and suddenly with a violent jerk of his limbs he broke free and the next moment he felt as if his body was dropped on something soft but firm, as he fought the air.

His eyes were wide open with confusion and terror. Gasping for air, he now lay on his bed, thinking of what he had just dreamt. The bell rang again and he winced. He looked at the clock. It told him it was close to ten on a Sunday morning. The bell rang once more, even as he was getting out of bed, and this time it did not stop till he opened the door with a sleepy face cringed in the morning sun.

"What took you so long, Dad?" screamed his nine-year old as he scrambled inside, dropping his cricket bat into a corner.

"Straight to the bathroom!" Viraj yelled, looking at his son's grazed skin covered in dirt, as he was settling down on the couch to play his video game.

"Just one game, Dad!" he pleaded as the system booted.

"NOW!" thundered Viraj, who had hastily followed his son to the video game and was, now, holding his finger on the 'Power' button of the system threatening to switch it off.

Reluctantly pausing the game, which had hardly begun, the kid threw the joystick on the couch with an annoyed grunt and stomped his way to the bathroom. Viraj let a sigh out as he watched him leave.

Looking around the empty house he wondered where Neeta was. Walking towards the phone he saw a little note stuck on its receiver. Ripping it off, he read it -

Off to the temple with the gang – last minute plans, as usual! Didn't wanna wake you up. Will be back by noon. There's cake in the fridge. Oh and btw, Good Morning :)

Luv,
Neet

He smiled warmly as he folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. He picked the phone, dialled a number and waited awkwardly till he heard a voice on the other end.

"Hey . . . ," answered Neil.

"Hey," Viraj said, "were you sleeping?"

"No, no . . . what's up?"

"Mmm. . . nothing much," Viraj paused for a moment before continuing reluctantly, "well, actually. . . I just wanted to make sure, this one last time . . . ,"

"DUDE!", Neil interrupted in a reassuring voice, "Stop worrying! I've told you several times. I have verified the results myself . . . twice!"

"Ya . . . I know . . . I just . . . ,"

"Listen, I do understand what you might be going through. I know it is scary. But TRUST ME, you don't need to be. Not anymore," Neil asserted. "It was a stupid mix-up at the lab. The test is most certainly NEGATIVE. You are perfectly healthy. There's no tumor growing in your head. There never was. I'm telling you as your doctor and your friend – STOP WORRYING about it!"

"OK . . . ok . . . ," sighed Viraj, "I will . . . I will . . . Thank you . . . Really . . . Thank you . . . "

"GOOD. Just relax, OK?"

"Yeah . . . I. . . I'll talk to you later . . . "

"Sure. Take care. Bye"

"You too. Bye."

Viraj closed his eyes as the phone clicked. Drawing in a slow long breath, he opened his eyes as he let the air out with a faint smile. Turning around he opened the fridge as two little wet feet ran across the room hastily towards the abandoned joystick.

"Want some cake?" Viraj said, peering into the fridge.

"Yeah!" came the reply.

Dormant

Patience, my child,
is the key to sleep.



Shamanth,
15th September, 2009.

Rise

The hardest thing to do,
is what you want to.



Shamanth,
13th September, 2009.

Savaged

The three of you are eating chaat at a South Indian Cafe in Silicon Valley, US. You all know eighteen Rupees in Mumbai, India fetches much better delectables than the eighteen dollars you spent above, did. Well, you rue.

The geek talk gives way to lewd talk about a girl – an acquaintance of one of the guys. You may not be the gentlest-of-men, but you are not the lecherous kind either.
Well, the two of you are not; the third one acts so. It's his forte. He pines for the girl, you laugh. To extend the joke, you laugh scornfully at the piner and in a threatening tone, remind him of his girlfriend in India.
With a blank glance, he corrects the tense of your reminder – from present to past.

The joke's on you, buddy!

You bite your lip – regret is never enough. You cannot escape but ask, "Why, you guys broke up?" with what you hope is a straight face. What follows is a straight answer.

"She got married," he stirs the food on his plate, you fight your expressions.

"Was married off - against her consent, by her parents as soon as we told them about us."
He looks down at his plate with defeated eyes.

Your heart cries. Were you the General of an army, and the piner – your warrior, you would slay him for meeting defeat and then avenge him by killing the monsters.
Civilisation condemns such ferocity.

Instead, "Oh shit!" is what you utter, and mean.

Brevity reigns. Propriety prompts, you inquire about the necessary details and finally curse the girl's parents, Indian society and fate for ruining a four year old relationship over religious trivialities.
Silence follows, more depressing than awkward, till the piner dismisses the subject with an entreating dejection.
You, the General of an emotionally incapacitated army, sigh.

The lewd talk resumes.

Solace

A bench,
a book,
sunset.


Shamanth,
28th august, 2009.

Forever

The lonely bench,
awaits your company,
only to be
left alone again -

when,

you
find yours.



Shamanth,
19th august, 2009.

Smoken

Curling through the air,
weaving threads, of
delicate existence,
the haze wisps,
towards the sun
and
a pale shadow
trails.



Shamanth,
18th august, 2009.

Strange

Strangers in my dreams
lose their faces,
when mine is astir.


Shamanth,
15th august, 2009.

A promise never made

The bus roared away after dropping him off. Adjusting his shirt between his back and the bag pack, he started walking towards home. The familiar street did no more than watch him placidly.

The Recession (of 2008) had cost many recent graduates like him months of applying, preparing, interviewing and waiting for responses from a myriad of companies. Just two weeks ago, he was hired by one. That was his first job ever, and today - his first pay day. So, he thought with a smile, let me put my mind at ease for a while. That his story wasn't much different from million others' did not matter; that it was his story, mattered.

He had assured his parents of making arrangements with his bank to repay the monthly installments for his education loan. There were a few more trivial accounts to be settled. But all of that can wait one more night, he thought.

Approaching home, he saw a bunch of cheery kids hovering around an ice-cream truck parked nearby. For years he had spotted this truck being driven around the block, selling chilled joy. But he never bought one from it. Perhaps, it never occurred to him. "And you say you love ice-creams!" he said to himself mockingly.
Then, smiling complacently, he walked up to the truck and bought himself his favourite – a chocolate ice-cream.

Not yet

"आँखों में सपने लिये,
घर से हम चल तो दीये,
जाने यह राहें अब लेजाएंगी कहाँ |"
-Shaan

"I begged for this", he sighed. "I cried...for THIS!" He wasn't sure if that was a question he was asking himself. But the words echoed through his head. He turned the volume of the player up a notch and crossed the street awkwardly, rocking clumsily to the beats. The world seemed to lose its charm when needed the most. Sometimes, even the need faded. Nothing was wrong in particular. But it was, in general.

Once home, he turned the player off as he dropped his bag besides his bed. The song continued on his lips, loudly. His roommates usually returned home a couple hours later and he liked having the place all to himself till then. Today it felt a little calmer than usual. A few violent splashes of cold water against his tired face, with his eyes open, left them blinking furiously and his lungs gasping for air, as if he had just been rescued from drowning in a cool lake.

Memories of his mother's scrumptious snacks sometimes flashed unannounced, more so while buttering his toasts in the evening, leaning against the kitchen counter.
"So much for education and career!", he sighed. He reminded himself to call his parents in India, before he slept tonight. In the last two years, since he had moved to the US, whether time had dashed or stretched – he could not tell.

On the couch, he sat looking outside the balcony. Past the clutter of window shades, trees, rooftops and wires, he scanned the visible patches of the sky for an early moon. On their way back, his eyes caught a brilliant gleam. The sinking sun had become a radiant speck in the thick glass of a round lamp hanging from the balcony's roof. The colossal ball of fury was tolerably visible in the glass. "Perspective!", he thought, amused at the beauty of simplicity and the power of perception. Smiling palely, he stared at it for a while.

The player was on again. Stretching along the length of the couch, he folded his knees slightly upward and rested his lower back against the side arm. He selected a soulful instrumental track. Punctuating the silence, the music slowly grew into it. Every rising note stirred his mind. Random, but warm memories beckoned a surge of emotions. The seemingly simpler life he had left behind mocked him. A few loved ones – some estranged, some closer than ever, some not so close anymore, some just the same and some new ones – all smiled. His eyes closed, but tears found their way out. Even before he could react to his emotions, his nose twitched and he sneezed as his head jerked ahead in violent obedience. He stared blankly in disbelief, panting, for a moment. His own body would not allow him some graceful solitude at times! He chuckled and adjusted the earphones. The music grew again and engulfed him completely this time. He slowly rested his head against the couch and every tired muscle in his body loosened. A tear tickled his cheek till it dropped down on his forearm.

An Angel, I saw

Like a fleeting song,
On a radio being scanned,
Her smile - Evanescent,
In a crowd of nameless faces.


Shamanth,
31st july, 2009.

Tell me...

Ideal meanings;
What words speak of;
Imagination?

With a loved one under the evening sky;
Silhouetted couple at a distance;
Affection?

Break a promise;
Never promise;
Escapism?

Idols idealised;
No idols;
Extremity?

The tangible lost;
The intangible thought;
Nothingness?

Shamanth,
19th july, 2009.

Sleep Well

It was about three in the afternoon. His eyes pricked like two pieces of hard rock, pulling his eyelids together, tighter by the second. The clock in the corner of his eyes slowly faded to black through the mesh of his eyelashes. The following moment waited silently at a distance for a while, lest it woke him up. But when it arrived, it felt like his head would roll off his slumped chest and hit the desk. The horror of it instantly threw his head upward, pushing his eyes wide open. Wearily, he looked at the clock with his mouth open and dry with a salty thirst and suddenly sprung straight in his chair before any one would catch him napping at work.

Looking around foolishly, he chuckled as he realised he was home and not at work. It was a Sunday. Slumping in his chair, he lazily turned his heavy head to his bed and held still, gaping at it for a few seconds, listening himself breathe. Were he any closer, standing up he would have let his body fall freely ahead, landing flat on the white fluff, and not a muscle would he have had to move.
Not all your wishes come true.
So he moaned tragically as he walked an entire four paces to reach his bed.

The world spun as he crept under the sheets. Lying in his bed, he looked straight ahead at the ceiling. The clock was nowhere in sight. His lips were too tired to convey his smile, and so were his eyes to stay open. What followed required no effort, none whatsoever. If he had to animate 'Sleep', he would have thought of it as a ripple so delicate that it invited no resistance. It began with his head sinking into his soft pillow till his ears drowned and silence grew within. His neck followed the shape of the pillow's pressed edge as it rose and softly dropped down to merge with the bed. His shoulders, and eventually his hands, fell silent as his back seemed to melt into the bed. For a moment, his legs seemed detached and motionless, lying far away from his body, just before they fell asleep.

Selfish

I love every standing tree on earth, except perhaps the innocuous tall one, conveniently rooted outside my balcony. Occasionally, at dinner, it munches on my favourite part of the night sky – the moon. Mockingly swaying its branches, to reveal hints of the moon's luster flickering off the leafy edges, it hides only a few stars.
The rest simply blink with amusement watching me walk back into the living room without a glimpse of the hare.
Laziness is probably the only reason not to take a stroll on the streets at night without the tree in my face. Instead, I rue the lack of a terrace to our building.

Shamanth,
14th july, 2009.

Precious

Beads of sorrow
are unsung heroes of acceptance.
Heralding assurance,
they emerge,
destined for oblivion.

But, acceptance learnt
before the surge,
mocks their immense pride.
Selfless tears, loyal,
they stay,
dried up inside.



Shamanth,
13th july, 2009.

Often

The simplicity I seek,

is the most difficult to perceive.



Shamanth,
7th july, 2009.

Poised

Like a bubble, blown
From a hoop
On a stick's end
Dipped in soap water

The mind,
Drenched with emotions,
Yearns to drift
In pristine poignance.

Can it, but reflect gingerly,
The world it sees,
Whose image appears
Poised in the bubble.

Shamanth,
6th july, 2009.

Ethereal

A gentle breeze ran through the branches, kissing many a leaves blithely. In a rush the leaves embraced their twigs, hiding each other, as if shying away from the playful breeze.

All but one.

The one leaf poised earthward at the end of the longest branch appeared rather quaint. It hung from a lone murky twig that boasted of being the last standing, or may I say hanging, survivor of the battered end – one of the few privileges of sprouting at the end of the longest branch. For reasons best known to them, all kinds of people would pull at it as they passed on the sidewalk. Those little frivolous kids did the most damage trying to grasp the branch by jumping furiously at it till they were weary.

Surviving the ravage all that remained of the twig was this one last leaf. Waking to the rising sun it drooped all morning like it was waiting for an arcane saviour. Over time it did not bother the other leaves which were deeper inside, closer to the trunk. They looked all the same anyway. Different shades blended to form a green mass that seemed to hide the husky brown trunk behind them mockingly. Even if they meant to, it was unnecessary. Wasn't it far enough from the trunk already?

It all seemed a distant woe the moment the zephyr tickled it. This leaf was the first to feel it as the wind blew from outside the tree, moving inward tousling the rest. In a sudden strong urge to chase and ride the wind, it found itself being pulled toward it. For a moment the wind seemed to look back in surprise at its sole admirer. But it all happened too fast for the leaf to notice. Farther the wind flew, the stronger it seemed to pull it in. It had never fluttered so steady, so sure. All it had to do was just give in and it would snap out of its misery to float around blissfully letting the wind carry it to distant lands. Any moment now it would embark upon its aerial flight.
Any moment!

At the zenith of that ecstatic moment awaited a grave thought - "How long would it last anyway?" - instantly choking the rush. Weighing the thought reluctantly, it saw itself lying trampled at the end of the street that was its horizon. It wondered if it could even see the tree from so far! Leaving home was easy, returning wasn't. This was the least it could do for the old twig. Hell! This was the least it could do for itself. It threw a last longing glance in the direction of the wind as if pleading for it to stay (the irony - how could the wind be if it stopped to stay - was probably lost to our friend in its recently found love for its abode).
With that, it let go of the wind and held on to the twig fluttering vigorously till it dropped back freely as the wind receded in silence.

The leaf? It had so much more hanging to do.

A Pleasant Surprise.

This was awarded - brace yourself - TO ME !
:D


by Meghana.

Small, hearty gestures like these are simply priceless.

Thank you Meg, and wish you a very happy June :)

Shamanth,
11th june, 2009.

Affection, yet again!

Affection that touches me connects us in its strength and melts me in its warmth.
Our silence – overwhelming, washes over me.
Wishing I could either express myself better or contain myself deeper and denser, I stand there numb with a smile in my heart and a wet blur in my eyes.

I wish I could speak silence.

Shamanth,
8th june, 2009.

Estranged

What is more painful than a Goodbye?

Leaving without one.



Shamanth,
2nd June, 2009.

Home is...

Home is where you walk into the aroma of evening breakfast cooked by your mother.
Home is where you walk into the nauseating fragrance of room fresheners set on 'High' by your cousin.
Home is also where you walk into the choking smell of your roommate's smokes lingering long after he has moved out.

Home is where your mother sends you back out to buy some grocery the minute you walk into a bunch of unfamiliar (and usually unannounced) guests smiling at you, when you desperately need to be alone.
Home is where you listen to your aunt's anecdotes during her tea break.
Home is also where you sometimes walk into your empty room looking for some company.

Home is where you bring spicy food to relish it all alone.
Home is where your aunt spoils you for a choice between a variety of desserts and sweets, right before dinner.
Home is also where you bring junk food to share with your roommates.

Home is where the maid washes your dishes - you gladly let her.
Home is where your aunt puts you in charge of the dishwasher - you gladly accept.
Home is also where your roommate offers help during your cooking turn - you gladly refuse.

Home is where you fight with your father for your movie over his news on the TV.
Home is where your cousins watch TV in their rooms upstairs, leaving the big one downstairs all for you.
Home is also where you share laptops with your roommates for entertainment.

Home is where your mother scolds you for wasting dinner at home because you ate outside without informing her before she took to the stove.
Home is where you always inform your aunt if you won't be home for dinner before she enters the kitchen.
Home is also where you call up your roommate and ask “Aaj khaane ka kya scene hai?”

Home is where you rip your father off to pay for your birthday treat.
Home is where on your birthday, your aunt gets you a lovely gift that your cousin disapproves of.
Home is also where your roommates ask you what cake you would prefer for your birthday before they buy it.

Home is where you scribble rubbish on your study table, and flaunt it.
Home is where your uncle gets you a study table and you keep it spotless.
Home is also where you and your roommate sit on the floor to study with laptops in a mess of books and sheets all around.

Home is at the end of the curve bustling with people, vehicles, shops and hawkers – their noise eating the music from your earphones.
Home is also at the end of a lonely street which listens to the music from your earphones.

Home is where you simply love walking back to.

Shamanth.
25th may, 2009

Something Beautiful!

"I want to write something beautiful for you," he would say, gazing deep into her eyes.

His left hand around her waist, firm on her back. The other on her shoulder, the back of his fingers kissing her cheek.
She would press against his arm, their eyes drawing closer. Transfixed, she would smile.

But he never wrote. Perhaps he waited too long.

"I want to write something beautiful for her!" he sighs - now that she is gone.

Will he ever?

Memories of her gaze follow his eyes. Her smile lingers below.

Listen

Inspired by this poem of Meghana :

Listen

Complications, you say,
Shroud your mind,
The solutions to which,
You cannot find.

Had I the answers,
Shout them I would,
Tearing the shroud,
As loud as I could.

Wouldn't you rather,
Listen to your voice within,
For it is but your mind,
So is it not the loudest for you?

Shamanth,
15th may, 2009.

Believe

I believe in rebirth.

So when a part of me dies, a new part of me can come to life.



Shamanth,
3rd may, 2009.

Tick

Act : Examination
Scene : Examination hall

Atmosphere : Quiet and tensed
Participants Present : Some students and a Proctor.

Students : ONLY fifteen more minutes! (Panic)
Proctor : Fifteeeeen more minutes! (Yawn)
Time : Just a moment. (Tick)

shamanth,
29th april, 2009.

Somewhere I Belong

A nation could be well organised for the welfare and convenience of the public. But that increases the physical resemblance of most of its places to each other. Ennui is a frequent visitor to a foreigner in such a land; more so if the delights such a country has to offer are not quite accessible! So in the quest of finding some source of random excitement to keep myself interested, I found nature to be the most delightful companion ever. Sadly enough, I never attuned myself to nature so deeply while growing up in my own country. Well, better late than never!

My daily boring walks to the bus stop, college or home were gradually turning into beautiful new portraits every single time. Be it a tiny dew drop hanging from a blade of grass, the vast mountain ranges or the fluffy clouds wafting in the infinite blue sky.

Bus rides are quite sober in such a state of mind. Recently I was on one such ride back home to the city of San Jose. I was completely unfamiliar with the route of the bus I took for the first time and yet, to me, it resembled any other route. However as the bus entered a certain area, a sense of familiarity crept out of nowhere and I could tell we were in San Jose for sure, though I did not recognise anything in particular. Was it the streets, the people, the colour scheme, the parks, the trees or just everything? I had no clue. But soon I saw a familiar road and there it was. The city of San Jose, the place where I have spent the last 20 months.

Such a strong sense of familiarity with the place stunned me owing to the aforementioned resemblance. I suppose it is natural to get accustomed to your new world no matter how homesick you are!

shamanth,
14th april, 2009.

Good Night

The lights go blind,
And the day swirls in,
Snuggle, do I then,
As my world folds in.


Shamanth,
27th march 2009.

If I were a poet...

While you were hanging yourself on someone else's words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begun
And headed straight, into the shining sun

-Pink Floyd

She Shines

Upright she sits, engrossed in her studies, untroubled by the bright of the setting sun washing over her. She scribbles, ponders, frowns and digs her bag, unaware that the sun twinkles in her glasses. She runs her fingers from above her temple, over her ear to the back of her neck. Meanwhile, her soft dark brown hair sails through shadow black to dusty golden yellow. Stroking her neck softly, she tries to stare the desk down.

Sinking in her chair she looks up pensive, as her neck arches out to bathe in the yellow. The light seems to diffuse with dust in her puff of exasperation.

Her eyes now turn to the cup of coffee standing tall at the corner of the table.

"One sip!" she moans, as her fingers wrap around.

Chicken or Egg?

Language improves by thinking in the same.
Clear thinking requires flawless language.

*

Patience is the key to learning.
Learn to be patient.

*

Openness nurtures trust.
Trust lets you open up.

shamie,
28th january,2009.

And he flew

The stars were slightly more in number tonight. He remembered fighting The Dark Wreaker on the one right above him. Being a superhero can be so exhausting at times!

"Back to the stars!" he reminded himself.

Lying atop the airplanes passing by, he loved to watch the night sky. But this was too slow for him. Until just 300 years ago he would glide facing the sky to enjoy the stream of flowing light on a dark blanket. However, one fateful night he bumped into an aircraft which had just begun flying! He could never forgive himself for the lives lost in that accident. The people certainly did not, for almost a century!

A loud explosion in the distant woke him up from his trance. He turned to look in the direction of the sound and saw a bright red sphere of flame burning down what appeared to be a space shuttle.

And he flew.

Just for laughs

He stood there, at the kitchen counter, holding the leftovers from the party packed up in those plastic containers. His sleepy eyes were too heavy for him. Nonetheless, he could not stop smiling as he watched the ladies laugh their hearts out. They were surprisingly louder than the group of teenagers playing video games till some time ago!

"You must be wondering what has gotten into all us aunties to be laughing so hard", said one of them as she wiped a tear off her eye while struggling to calm down.

"No! It's wonderful to see you guys enjoy so much...," he said gleefully, as she turned around to get a cup of water, "...even at this age!" he quipped.

"What do you mean?" she snapped, turning back with a straight face.

"Gotcha!"

They bursted out.

"A Stream of Consciousness" by Nandita Das

I received this heart-warming email from a friend. The following are the words of Nandita Das. I am merely posting her views here.

27^th November 2008- A Stream of Consciousness

Nandita Das

It hadn't hit me hard enough till Thursday morning. At a friend's place the previous night, I did see some images of injured people being taken on stretches, police looking around clueless, panic among people, TV anchor persons speaking in the same screaming, over enthusiastic, "exclusive" voice that they use when Rakhi Sawant hits her boyfriend.

I have to say, it had very little effect on me. My predictable response was, not again...more people will die, more fear, more prejudice and more hatred. But at some level the response was instant and cerebral. But this morning when I got up things felt different. Got a message from an unknown no. "See what your friends have done." Strangely a close friend of mine got a similar message last night, but from an acquaintance. Just because Firaaq, my film, deals with how Muslims 'also' get affected by violence, the terrorists are supposed to be my friends! Today a common young Muslim man around town is probably the most vulnerable. I got many messages from my Muslim friends who feel the need to condemn it more than anyone else, who feel the need to prove their national allegiance in every possible way. They are begging to be not clubbed with the terrorists, a fear not unfounded. Then of course there were tons of messages from well wishers across the world who asked about me and my loved ones' safety. I too did the same. And strangely that was when tears started rolling down my cheek, almost involuntarily. Guess the thought that if our loved ones were fine, it's all ok, seemed like a bizarre way to feel. When will our souls ache when anyone is hurt, even those that we have never seen and will never see? The more I wrote back in sms's and emails that I was ok, the more miserable I was feeling.

Catharsis or letting out of emotions is an amazing thing. It brings out things from all hidden corners. I always saw myself as being strong and so has everyone else perceived me as. And here I was bawling for reasons I myself didn't understand. It was like a stream of consciousness flowing from somewhere else. At one level, felt like everything was futile. So much anger, hatred, aggression...what has the world come to. While talking about Firaaq I have often said, the one thing we can change in the world is our response to things that happen around us- violence, prejudice, hatred. The line rung in my ear and I felt ashamed of all the times I had been angry. Of course it often seems justifiable, from ones point of view, and insignificant as compared to the acts of aggression that we have been seeing all of last night. But isn't there a seed of aggression in many of us and in varying degrees? Doesn't it shock us sometimes what we are capable of doing or saying? We are horrified at a young man cold bloodedly killing people with a gun, at a man raping a small girl child, at a woman being burnt alive for dowry, but are they all just aberrations and evil people, or could they be someone we might have seen, or worked with or passed by? Individual anger also gives rise to collective anger and thereby to the politics of hate. Anyway, it is not about understanding the power of hate theoretically. I never want to water this seed of anger in me anymore. It may take a long time for the rippling effect to happen where each of our positive energies change the world. But the resolution itself is drying my tears and giving me a task to do, a reason to carry on.

But the question still remains, what now? Should I carry on with business as usual, not out of apathy, but to defeat the desired impact of the terrorists? Their agenda is to get us into a panic and create an atmosphere of fear. What if I refuse to give them what they want? But on the flip side, what if I am unable to go on with business as usual? What if it is anguishing me in a way that I cannot ignore it and want to engage with it. As there is always a danger of becoming self absorbed in our own narrow world. In fact that is what is increasingly happening to many of us, the privileged Urban class. Often that is the reason given to me for not watching "serious films". Conveniently it is said, "I have enough tension, why would I want to see more of the reality instead of some escapist fun." But then when other existing realities intrude the calm of our realities, we are unable to deal with it. So what do we do?

While struggling with this dilemma, I was at least spared the horrific images and news in the morning, as where I stay in Bombay, at a friend's house which unusually neither has a TV nor does she get the newspaper. So I was blissfully ignorant of all the developing news. And then on the flight that I took to come back home to Delhi, I saw those horrifying images that most people must have seen all night. I could feel my stomach churn, but what churned it further were the other pages that surpassed all definitions of 'business as usual'. One had a page about fringe hairstyle coming back into fashion. The other about some speculation about Monica Bedi wanting to marry Rahul Mahajan and other such earth shattering news. My head spun as I tried to process my emotions. Every day the paper is filled with all this and when the memory of this horrifying day will fade away, it will not seem grotesque any more to have all of that again. So then why leave it out just today? But isn't there a day in a year that we can actually mourn and register our protest against such violence in a less matter of fact way? Isn't there a way that we don't celebrate for a week and somehow put all our resources to get our police better equipped with their bullet proof jackets and ammunitions? Isn't there a way of feeling national pride by protecting innocent people from being killed with better security measures than using up crores to send our national flag to the moon? Can somebody think of a master plan by which we can all be engaged in making the world a better place? Isn't there a way that aggression doesn't ever take such strong roots to cause such violence?

When I see these 20-22year old boys, I am also filled with deep sadness and simple curiosity about what could have got them to where they are. Is it that we all want a purpose in life and so when a young boy caught at that crossroad is given a mission that suddenly increases his self worth, he grabs it? Is the world making them feel so small that when a particular identity is thrown at them, they want to cling on to it with all their might? No doubt that these are extreme cases and huge amount of strategic brain washing has gone into it. But as we know, no one is born evil and let's say till 10 years a child is still a child. What is it that happens in this tender mind in the growing up years that gives him the will to even lay his life? Is there a way these misguided boys can be saved? It is not an act of charity, but if we have to save ourselves, we have to save everyone else. I got a strange message from a TV journalist that said "Forgiving a terrorist should be left to God. But fixing their appointment with God, is entirely our responsibility. - Indian Army". Change the word terrorist to Americans/Hindus/Muslims and sign it off by the Terrorist and the meaning is not too different. Such anger, such hatred in a 'common man' to me is no less scary. There has to a way out of this vicious cycle, beyond an eye for eye.

I have no idea what I am feeling anymore. It is all muddled and contradictory thoughts are finding its little corners in the mind. All I know is that we can't afford to be cynical, even in the face of so much hatred and violence, or else it will get only worse. In the morning making Firaaq seemed meaningless, but as I type away furiously, hoping to catch up with the speed of my emotions, I feel I want to share the film with everyone, more than ever before. Because I know this day will end but the residue it will leave, will linger long after, in the form of fear, anger, prejudice, revenge, and will slowly become part of our psyche. We have to save ourselves from all this and have to find a way to understand, empathise and love. All these beautiful words I know have lost their meaning and sound either clichéd or pretentious. We have to reclaim these and make it part of our life, with all our might.

Nandita Das

Choose to Be

When someone lets you be, the least you can do is let yourself be and discover yourself through such being, which may very well be the truest form of affection.

It is just as essential to let go of each other, if the need be, for that is how you truly let each other be.


Shamanth,
2nd november, 2008

Main Samay hoon.

Long back, I had read an interesting list printed on the last page of a notebook. I loved it so much, that I wanted to write it down before it slipped out of my hands.
I told myself, "One day, I will!" But that day never came.

Today, after so long, I remembered the list faintly and reconstructed it to the best of my memory. Hopefully I got the entire list right.

So here it goes:

Who knows the importance of

a lifetime: a prisoner sentenced for life.

an year: a student who failed the annual exam.

a month: the mother of a premature baby.

a week: the manager of a weekly editorial/a project manager.

a day: a daily-wage worker.

an hour: lovers on their way to meet each other.

a minute: someone who missed the train.

a second: the bomb diffusion squad.

a fraction of a second: an athlete.

Kill time and it shall avenge in kind.

shamie,
9th october, 2008.

Busy or not too busy?

"The problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you are still a rat." - Lily Tomlin.

This status message, stamped with the red "busy" mark, somewhere in my friends' list in Gtalk, made me smile the moment I read it.
I saw a blur the next moment. I wiped my eyes, shaking my head, while trying to get high off the chill going down my spine. I have been getting those a lot these days and I am loving it!

I was still smiling though. That's what I have been doing lately, when I read something philosophical. You want to choose your words carefully in and around philosophy. Every word means what it means. You cannot blurt out words casually. Not that anyone would decapitate you for doing that, but why disregard the power of language?

The endless circulation of "touching" emails constantly remind us not to forget the meaning of different words representing different virtues. But what if we have forgotten the meaning of meaning?

"Bye" and "See You" do not mean the same.
"What's up" and "How was your day?" do not mean the same.
"Working hard" and "Working smart" do not mean the same.
"Want" and "Need" do not mean the same.
"Sleep" and "Rest" do not mean the same.
"Quiet" and "Peaceful" do not mean the same.

One cannot reach the skies by climbing the ladder! We are grounded for life, in life - the ladder is not. We reach the sky when we feel its presence above us, in front of us, around us. All we need to do is lie down and look straight ahead and there awaits the sky. But who has the time to lie down, you would ask.
"We do!", I would say.
I, for one, surely do!

the gaze,
the blue,
the answers?

Be engaged, not busy.

shamie,
15th september, 2008

Rock On \m/

Attending a Linkin Park concert was more than appropriate to mark the reunion of I and my good friend Chetan-The Kale, after one complete year. An astounding performance of our favourite band left us speechless, as we walked away from the venue after the maestros wrapped up the concert with a smashing drums-solo and a couple of excellent songs.

~

stage sets
smoke rises
guitars electrify

~

drums blast
ears deafen
heads bang

~

lights
encore
mass hysteria

~


shamie,
10th august,2008

Lake Placid

the gaze,
the blue,
the answers?


Shamanth,
5th august, 2008

Hey, Shreya

I set my mp3-player up as I walk towards the bus stop. The song is "Asmaan ke paar".
Aaah!
I look up at the bright blue sky. Shankar's soulful voice blends with the brilliant music. The words melt in my eyes. I pluck a tree off the green, dip it in the sun and stroke a few golden on the blue. I take off towards the clouds. I can't continue floating though. I have a bus to catch, a job to be at. Alas! The flight is cancelled. I dash towards the stop. That's my daily glide.

The bus gobbles me up. I pay the fare and buy the day pass.
I see her sitting by the window. She waves to me like a four-year old. I smile as I sit beside her.

"Don't you feel like shooting loadsa caffeine up your arm daily morning?" she asks as she offers me a sip.
I decline. She knows I have already had my shot. Another awaits at work.

"You know, I was lying in the grass last night, watching the stars explode in beautiful patterns. One of them burst right above my head and showered me with the bright!" she brims with joy. I love that look of hers when she exaggerates her visualisations.
"Why didn't you turn up?" she pokes me. I shrug.

I share my earphones with her. We have a strikingly common taste in music. Her face lights up. It's "Starry eyed surprise". Her favourite track. She snatches the one plugged in my ear as well and enjoys the song in full stereo. She gracefully grooves to the beats. I hold the coffee for her till the track is over.

All of a sudden, she jumps out of her seat as a black Hayabusa shoots past her window. "Did you see that?" her voice all shrill. "You can race light if you are on one of those monsters. It leaves your shadow behind, looking for you!"
She wants me to buy one of those. Ambitious, I must say.

She returns my player and relishes the rest of her coffee as I keep the player in my bag.
"Aaahhhh....!" she slurps the last sip, loud enough to make me uncomfortable. We are in a bus, for God's sake! I look around shy. No one seems to have heard it. I look back at her. She hardly cares. She wants to lick the rest of the coffee off the entire cup. I can see it in her eyes. I look away. I don't know if she did.

One of my colleagues boards the bus on the next stop and we exchange the mundane pleasantries as he takes a seat right behind me.

"Hey, a quick question...," he asks, "what's the login for the guest account on the systems in the Lab?"

"The username and password are both 'lab'."

"Man! You IT guys have no imagination at all," he mocks.

"My friend, Shreya, here does all the imagining for me."

"What friend?" he asks puzzled, looking around me.

"Never mind," I reply, as I keep my bag on the window seat.