The Adventures of a Paper-plane Pilot

Epsilon

2009-04-11T04:20:00.004+05:30

Between midnight and morning
When the dust has settled
And yet there are sounds
Of new beginnings
A pen makes autocorrelated patterns
On old forgotten about parchments
Freshly found from the bottom of my drawer

There is much inside
The center cannot hold
Dissipating fragments of evanescent memories
And yet there is so little
That the mind wanders to create ceaseless futures
Parallels in a world
Where we much choose a single straight line

Between yesterday and tomorrow
Is the sound of my nib on paper
Conveying the idea of epsilon
In a world of Continuous Time

I stand my ground
In a moving world
Clinging onto little rocks of past
Hoping they fit inside
My suitcase.

Perspective

2008-06-04T16:10:00.000+05:30

To us on the earth
The sun is an eternal, enlightened traveler
Of the seas and lands not merely of the mortal man
Setting on my shores
To rise in yours
Across the great separating waters
A golden journey across the diameter of our hearth
Twenty four hours of crazy crimson mirth

And yet, for Apollo himself
- To him it seems
That it is we who make the journey
Encircling him in a binding, unfailing orbit
Three hundred and sixty five days
Of warmness, wetness and the winter cold

What might i say of who is true
The astronomer who says that we are the voyagers
Or us who see with our eyes a good sunset
Perhaps the answer lies in the ether filled
Spaces of the somewhere-in-between
And so it goes for other things

A return to escaping

2008-05-30T21:25:00.001+05:30

My spirit craves for Adventure. I want to be on a bike and race against the wind in the open terrain, breathing in what multitudes of green, pine-tree laden mountains exhale for my benefit. I want to be mother nature's son, climbing up her mountains and working my way down to her valleys. I want to rest in her fields of rye, where occasionally, I might help a misguided child and stop him from falling over into the abyss of cynicism. I want to run into strangers and benefit from their stories, or confide in them mine. I want to read a good book and live out its meaning. I want to think a noble thought, and reflect it from a mountain so all souls can see it. I want to, like Whitman, ask important questions about blades of grass. I want to be the first human being to walk or swim in some part of the earth, land or water, no matter how small. Among other things.

And the shadows we made with our hands

2006-08-25T22:29:00.000+05:30

I'd slept at 3:30 last night, I have been craving for hooka for no suitable reason, I've quit alcohol consumption until the time I resume and I saw three dead piegons at three seperate places in the city today. I am done with the rains, which a friend of mine says, is like an unending bong art festival. I am in the seeking desolation mode yet again. I am reading a wonderful book called One Hundred Years of Solitude by one Mr. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

I think that this country is going to nuts. I also think, that that's probably how things will remain. Cynicism is infectous and hope a challenge. I think the pursuit to progress is a good idea, and the evolution and the progress of a society rests on it. I believe that, as my dad once told my mom, we are all extensions of the society we live in. But I also think our individuality ought to stronger and respected more than it is; and that the individual should be less reflective of the society and more reflective of what he would have been in it's absence. I think that we, as strong headed individuals, should dictate the what our society should be and not vice verca.

I dont think that I am the 'relationship kinds'. I think I like to play the tragic hero. I think that you can either live by your values our completely do away with them, throw them in the bin, let everyone know about it and walk emphatically towards doing what you must. I dont believe there's a middle path, and I think both the options are equally ethical. I believe in love.I think there's too much pretence and human beings, without exception, can be incredibly fake entities. I think there's stark contrast of emptyness and wholeness in everyday life and how you look at it has a lot to do with the life you go on to live. I think I crave for love, but dont really expect any to come my way. I think that I like myself, and that I'm the most important person in my life. I dont completely believe in the virtue of selfishness, but I think it's very important.

I think I agree with Hamlet when he tells his mother, "woman, thy name is frailty". I think women like to let men take over their lives, and decide it's direction while they can relax without having to worry about where it's headed and go on enjoying life. But I think I'd be a staunch feminist and kill anyone who ever said what I just, if i were born a woman. I think that, for whatever you think they are, in any case, I love women :-).

I think escapism is the most edurable of all human tendencies. I think that the language of poetry, music, fiction and other arts is the true language of the soul, and the only language the citizens of shangri la should communicate. I think that imagination is the most important of all human virtues and all of fate relies on it.

I think that I, like all other psuedo intellectuals, think too much. I think we are the last thing this world needs, and smart people who're into making decisions instead of analyzing them are the first.

I think this is where I end. For now, at least.

In Condolence

2006-07-14T17:08:00.000+05:30

)(Taken from a candle light vigil held a day after 7 different blasts across Mumbai killed more than 200 ordinary citizens)

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

- 1st September 1939, W H Auden.

Cryptic and Comprehensible.

2006-07-04T23:28:00.000+05:30

I'd forever talk to you
But soon my words,
They would turn into a meaningless ring.
For deep in my heart
I know there is no help i can bring
Everything passes,
Everything changes,
Just do what you think you should do
And someday baby,
Who knows. maybe
I'll come and be cryin' to you.

- "To Ramona",
Another Side Of Bob Dylan [1964]
Bob Dylan

So, so you think you can tell ..

2006-06-06T11:17:00.000+05:30

It is drizzling. Pouring, now. One of those pink-floyd-wish-you-were-here kinds of rain - where the birds fly out just above your head on a cool, breathing, not-so-wet mumbai afternoon and waves emrace the outer edges of the Marine Drive. And you spread out your arms, look up and see uniformly white (not grey) clouds everywhere you lay your eyes and fill your grey t-shirt with numerous visible, wet dots.

And then you may break into a run, with the sounds of waves indulging with the favorite song playing on your headphone to create the world's best fusion music, chasing Bus number 138. The bus is stalled at the signal and you run towards it and take the gamble that the lights will be red till you get to the bus, rather than going to the bus stand and waiting for another 138 to come. More that midway through your run, the traffic lights turn green. You accelerate, but so does the bus.

You're almost there, and the speed of the bus and your own run co-incide. You reach out to hold out the bar railing and look to climb onto that moving bus. It is now or never, any further delay and the bus will outspeed you. It is the point of no return. And in that one golden moment, you make that leap and get onto the wonderful red, best, double decker 138.

Walking up the stairway, listening to the David Gilmour singing about two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, you are filled with a sense of achievement from a successful, trivial pursuit.

And after what seems like ages, you smile.

A Day In The Life of a Positive Pessimist

2006-05-24T20:57:00.000+05:30

From: editor-fiction@museindia.com

Reply-To: editor-fiction@museindia.com

To: bhuvan.jain@gmail.com

Cc: gsprao2003@yahoo.co.in

Date: May 24, 2006 3:29 PM

Subject: RE: Your Submission of "On Cylcic Dreaming"

Dear Bhuvan,

This refers to the fiction "On Cyclic Dreaming" you have submitted for our consideration. We have assessed it for inclusion in the "Young Voices" of next issue of Muse India but find that it falls short of our expectations. You may submit any other work of yours for our consideration. If it reaches us before the end of this month, we can consider it for the next issue.

We appreciate your interest in Muse India.

Warm wishes,
G S P Rao
Managing Editor

Man, I love my life :-) !

2006-05-09T23:06:00.000+05:30

Hone hone de nasha
Khone khone ko hai kya
Ek saans mein pee ja
Zara zindagi chadha
Hai yeh toh ek jashan
Tu thirakne de kadam
Abhi saanson mein hai dam
Abhi chalne de sitam

- "Khalbali", Rang De Basanti.

The He.

2006-05-08T02:02:00.000+05:30

Waqt ki qaid mein
Zindagi hai magar
Chand lamhe yahi hai
Jo azad hai..
Inko kho kar meri janeja,
Zindagi bhar naa taraste raho ...

He woke up to a feeling of loneliness and desolation. All was lost. There was very little hope. Voices from last night, that spoke of how weak and docile and weary and defeated he looked still churned in his head, like an irritating song stuck in your head that wouldn't go away.

I mean, to think of it, he stil knew, somewhere deep down, that all these voices were wrong, as they've been in the past. He tried to remember the promise he made to himself -- about doing his own mistakes and learning from them, rather than listening to what other people say, based on the knowledge that serves their life, their perspective, their dogma well. Good for them. But definately not as good for him.

"Listen to the inner voice."

"Pay heed to the basic instinct."

"Impulsive things are among the very few intended things that you actually convert into action - respect them"

But then he thought he was giving himself too much gyan. Philosphising where there was no need to. Ending up being somebody else by trying too hard to be himself. Thinking too much. Not giving enough importance to himself. Giving too much importance to what people thought of him.

So, there. He decided to go wild. Though drinking always made him feel sick in the end .. he decided today would be different. And he would make it so, by not trying too hard to make it different. It all started flowing, The Release. The innocent Freedom (acquired through uninnocent means). The utter, blind contentment with the universe as a whole. That inconsequential dance that made him smile. The nicotine that made his world go round and blissful. That golden, carefree walk across colaba from Cafe Mondegar to home, singing Free Bird out loud. The finishing cigerette butt he threw behind his stride, as a mark of unswerving respect to the fact that in the end, everything -- everything -- fades (it wouldn't be so perfect any other way). The leaf he tore as a replacement of the cigerette that made him fly, as a symbol that would remind him of his flight even after he lands.

And when he went back to his bed to sleep, he realised that he is perfect, doing things he was meant for. Everything in this universe was. That there was hope all around, and it was up to him to convert it into a smile. He decided to go ahead and take the plunge.

This post might make no sense to you, if the you actually exists. Well, catch me if you can.

Symphony that's life, yeah.

2006-05-07T12:46:00.000+05:30

Sweet Home Alabama
Where the skies are blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord I'm coming Home to you

There's something about music, isn't it. I realised this as I stood on my 11th floor balcony, with the wind blowing and finding it's way into my t-shirt, spreading out over my sweaty body, cooling me and drying me. I kept surveying my view as i heard the song and saw the sky indeed blue, and wondered if ther was one place I could really call sweet home. Mumbai, probably.. very ambiguos though. There's something about coming back, just like there something about going away. Going away and coming back are perhaps my favorite parts of any journey..

I was hungry this morning when i woke up. So, i searched places for food. Today's a sunday, so no sandwitch wallas along the bombay business district.. ended up going all the way to churchgate station for a couple of vada paos. I had my ipod along. Such a gift. No distance is a long one when u can listen to music along. And coincide each step with each beat, head held high, smiling, striding forward in a melodic synchrony. Watching over magnificent old buildings -- (Mumbai University and high court in particular.. that whole walk along Oval Maidan is one of the finiset in the city), sun silhouetting through some of them, appreciating their granduer and feeling it within, walking along vast grounds amid a vast people. It makes life seem more beautiful than it actually appears to be in the course of everyday life and all your problems just another beat you can head bang to :-).

A Recent Ramble

2006-04-26T16:24:00.000+05:30

("Bacchus", Michelangelo)

So, he's high
And he has a story
He hopes you buy
- About him, and well, nothing else
He's too afraid might others see

The doors of perception never worked
Coz someone knocked puked leaked entered
So anyway, we wont forget
Showcasing his own solidities of no tone

Its the evening
(ironies ringing)
And I have seen him all already.
I saw him dirty, crouching, on the bed
Saw him see his wounds as they bled
Saw his feet tremble and hurt turn red
Saw him strip - naked, bleeding, red
Saw the water bend over his head

And he doesn't seek anyhing you think he does
No poetic licence, no poetic nonsense
No pretentious laughter
Fuck off, pretentious bastards.

He just wants his own salvation, not yours
His own Ecstacy
A smile
A throbbing heart
- that's all

Water
Cold,cold water
Black wet hair over his head
Black wet hair (everywhere else)
I see him clean, I see him pure
I see the water touch him
And with it bring
One-ness, Numbness, Nun-ness
Love.

Shangri La is where he rests
Sleepy, tired, seeking, anxious
I went to him and I did pull
The pillow that rested beneath his head
And made holes in it and blew the feathers out
To be never found, ever again
So, stuck he is, and he cant fly
I blew the wings, ask me why.

Flat naked dirty thin
Wet fresh cleansing new
Combs his hair
Sees people stare
(doesn't care)
And readies his face to be himself

Masks are off
- marooned, lost in a sea of booze.
The mind if free
And your self is given back to you.

Reunion, reinvention, rediscovery, clothes.
Masks, dance, jazz, floss
Music, money, empty laughs
You, me, pretentious bastards.

And now he drinks -
Beer, I think
To be himself.
To live. To breathe. To sleep.
To be happy. To die.
To live on and laugh like us.

And now, I see his loneliness ripen
- into the Fruit of Knowledge.

Thursday

2006-04-09T19:04:00.000+05:30

I have had my dream--like others--
and it has come to nothing, so that
I remain now carelessly
with feet planted on the ground
and look up at the sky--
feeling my clothes about me,
the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose--and decide to dream no more.

William Carlos Williams

What immortal hand or eye, could framy thy fearful symmetry ?

2006-04-08T11:49:00.000+05:30

"Oh boy! I love you so much."

When I am formulated . . .

2006-04-06T23:59:00.000+05:30

I love how children make everything seem so simple. 2 + 2 equals 4. Life, as a kid, is lived with certain structured, unquestionable axioms like that which help make sense out of each single day. Wish I could get all simple, heirchial, structured, unquestioning again :P.

Here's an interesting take on death (something we haven't found structured formulated explanation to), from the magical, simple perspective of children. life + death = nature. Well, perhaps.

Dont you just love Calvin ?! (even after all he does to susie!). Will write soon about the fantastic wonderland of Bill Waterson.

In Pursuit.

2006-04-04T18:58:00.000+05:30

So, I got my CAT preparatory material today. Lots of books. I love the fragrance of New Books. Felt like a schoolboy, excited and upbeat, as one always is, about starting my preperation soon. Somehow, somewhere in between things always get messed up. But I hope I get here. Well, well.

Read an article about back-packing. Filled my sails with a new found air. This is it. This is how I want to spend the rest of my life. At times, I just want to go ahead, lose it. Get bald. Not marry, not have children, spend my life making friends, clicking pictures, globe-trotting with Eliot's Prufrock and Other Observations in hand, and an i-Pod full of all my favorite music, earning just enough to afford my grand odesseys. Earning just enough to afford my grand odesseys. Here comes the cut !

Turns out I have idema, caused by exertion and the doc's advised rest for a week. A bit frustrating, but then I find time to blog. So, what the heck!

Soul Searching, Huh ?

2006-04-02T23:56:00.000+05:30

I have been here before.
I have done this before.

But that was then. Different fake-name. Different (fake) game.
No more am I all that I was. No more will I be all that I am.

So, here we are. To record what will never be new again. To be naked and unpretentious. To flaunt my soul. To, someday I hope, truly find it.

With all my (fake and actual) weight, I attempt to pronounce myself to your world. Hello.

Himalayan Diaries

2006-04-01T15:39:00.000+05:30

Photo : S. Bathe
1) 18th may 2005, 6:08 PM.

A pink tent. A billboard proclaiming 'YHAI WELCOMES YOU!". The crisp sound of the river Parvati meandering its way through the rocks. Laughter and ghazals inside the tent. It's 18:08 at Kasol base camp. Day two of our rendezvous with the Himalayas, and who knows, so much more. I've finally managed making it to here, after thinking about doing so for five continuous summers. The Sar Pass trekking expedition (yeah right, I'm trying to make it sound grand). We're another 13,900 feet away from finding ourselves. In the midst of it, some great friends, some rough terrains, some snowball fights, some warm camp-fires and a whole lot of fun.

Punjab Mail some 5 days ago with Dad waving for as long as he would seems like so far away. So do our confrontations with some sindhis on the train who insisted on playing dumb-charades at the top of their voices (imagine how that woks out) and our lasting impressions of the animate countryside (or so it seemed from the train window). I'm so truly in the hereness and the nowness of the moment – the impact is astounding. In the cozy confines of my tent, with my sleeping bag and my ruck sack all over me, I am.

We start tomorrow at 8:15 in the morning for Datseri. It's our day tomorrow. We'll be clapped for, and hand-shaked while we start off, just like we've clapped for and hand-shaked and back patted our previous groups. The feeling might be a bit scary, but we're all too drowned in anticipation to worry about it. It's rained 3 days on the trot, but we're trying to be optimistic. Hope its calm tomorrow. Providence Divine. The first two days were so much fun. So was our journey, though I lost my Nikon camera there (wasn't my fault! I've become so used to saying it and I'm so not looking forward to a time when even I'm going to stop buying it). On the bus itself we made friends with this group of mumbaikars. We stayed in the same hotel at Kullu, and boarded the same bus. They're all twice our ages, but we still gel well with them. And I don't see why we cant be great companions. In fact we already are beginning to be. We're in the same camp, for starters. All of us. Kullu was where we got our first impressions of what awaited us, where we had nice hot water baths, which we'll be deprived of for days to come now. It was at Kullu that we got on the bus (a rooftop ride!) that took us where we are.

It's quite surprising how the world's second highest village (also our base camp) is so well connected – telephone lines and internet cafes and even electricity (d-uh!). Israelis all around, doping away to Lord Shiva. It's like Pattaya for prostitutes, down here for drugs, or at least that's what it might become pretty soon. If there ever was a time to stop this, it's now. It might hit the Himachal economy big time, but I still think it's worth it. Anyway, that's not bothering me. Not for now, at least.

We had our acclimatization walk yesterday. The day started with the much talked about 'bed-tea' and an exercise-session where we met this another Mumbai group we made friends with – who were, like us, deprived of company. Saumya (Mufasa!), Yukti (She Who Never Flinched From Correcting My Grammer ) and Sneha (… er… umm… well….). And we're not forgetting Arjun here (daba ke khao!). I think it's a good start – the right group, the right mood and the right cant-find-the-right-wordishness. Perfect ingredients that would make up vivid memories that we'll someday look back and laugh about.

I did "If" at the camp. I thought it'll be a good idea as it truly epitomizes the spirit of a kind of endurance and being infallible – all of which is what trekking is all about. Where there is life, there is hope. Lots of both here. Reassuring.

I'll also put in something about the mountains here. A sudden clash between two huge land masses hardly seems the right explanation that might have caused these mountains –mighty, mysterious, mystical. It must've been so much more. There's something about the Himalayas that's not there among other ranges. Maybe I'll find out someday. It's only when you come here, that you discover how small you really are. Ughgh, that's the whistle. Dinner, I think. Gotta go. (I did go. Too late. Ended up having chapatis that were more like chewing gum.)

2)
20th May, 2005. 7:16 A.M

You couldn't possible find a better spot to write. I'm sitting on a log of wood that once upon a time stood tall as a tree; before it was burned down to accommodate my hips. Very little light inside my tent, so had to get here. Don't regret it. Looking around, I know of snow covered mountains that stand all around, birds chattering away to morning glory, trails leading to places knowable unknown. I'm at Datseri. We climbed 4 kilo-meters from the base camp to get here. Yesterday's trek was as best as you could ask for. Optimism truly pays. The sky was clear and a warm sunshine (yes, dual meanings, Saumya) played around the trails. A happy thing, considering the fact that it's been raining three days on the trot before this. Today doesn't look as good. Clouds all around, threatening bad weather. It's been the highest snowfall in 20 years, around this place this year, and we don't want it to rain.. (rain here means snow up there). Next thing we know might be a blizzard coming our way.

I was feeling terrible from yesterday evening. Slight fever and cold , but more than that, I felt like I was just forced 50 tequila shots, like I was high or something. When I woke up, Arjun helped me with some acupressure, by stomping on my feet with all his might until I was able to gasp out for help! That put things in shape, my fever could not be more painful than at least what he did to me! But surprisingly, I'm feeling so much better. Psychologically, at least. Oh and I had a crocine. It might've been the altitude, or the lack of oxygen (?), that did me in. Anyway, now that it's over. I just hope it doesn't rain today. I don't mind being cold, but I'm so not looking forward to being wet.

We had a camp-fire last night (Karan anchored!). I wish I had done something, but I was in no shape. I was just sitting there, eyes closed, numb, with a vague feeling that there were people around singing and clapping and reciting Bachhan poetries and singing ghazals.

We leave for Tindarban at 10 today. It's 5 kilo-meters up-hill. Shouldn't be that tough, thankfully. I hope to report by 4 and catch up on some sleep. I need a lot of rest, considering my current state of unwellness (or whatever the right word is) and the fact that we hit snow tomorrow (We – hit – snow – tomorrow!!!). Worse, when we're there, we'll have to be very careful. Worse, my digestive system is beginning to trouble me. I've been trying to get my food intake out , unsuccessfully so. Doing it out in the open does not help my cause a great deal (I had an accident which I will not elucidate here).

In spite of all these odds, I have to do what I have come here for. To get back in touch with myself. To continue noticing how bright the stars really are and remember that fact when I go back to Mumbai, where the sky and the stars are drowned among the street lights. To admire the terrain and know new people. To make friends. To be able to see things with new perspectives. To overcome odds. To prove myself.

Wow. Apollo smiles. The sun's suddenly out, and everything's bright - As if giving its approval to all that I just mentioned. It's the breakfast. I need to get my plate out.

3)

21st May, 2005.

I dig my toes into the sand
The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds
Strewn across the world bridge
I lay my head against the wind
Pretending I am weightless
The sky resembles a backlit canopy
With holes punched in it
And in this moment I am happy…. Haa-ppy.

- Wish you were here, Incubus.

That's what I'm so like right now. Yeah – we'll replace the sand with snow, the ocean with the mountains, and the wind with my sleeping bag. Happy… Haa-ppy. I'm at Khadiaru Thatch, 10,200 feet. 7 kilometers climb from tindarban, which was 8500 feet, where we played cricket, where I told everyone about my first (and so far, only) confrontation with alcohol. But above al, most importantly, where I finally, after a week of being the constipated soul that I was, kicked the shit outta my system (literally so!). Shitting in the open, at a time when everyone else is busy playing cricket, is an experience of bliss. There was no one around, and it was the only moment in the entire trek when I felt, for the first time, that I, sitting behind that rock, was a part of the flora and fauna, rather than being a mere witness to it. Well, shit happens. Thankfully so.

If yesterday's trail was breathtaking (I'm feeling like saying so much more. It's almost cruel of me to trap all of that into just another 12 letter word, which is used often, even by people who've never been here).You could just stay there, near the stream, staring at the mountains, your mouth wide open, with a small sense lingering in the back of your mind that says there's an another world out there, which is inhabited by people, who know so little of the existence of this world. Unbelievable, right ?

4)

23rd May, 2005.

I'm angry with myself for not managing to put something in since two days now – Nagaru and Khadiaru Thatch. I'm at Biskeri, significantly lower. We crossed 14000 feet today – the highest we've had in the trek. But before I start with today, I'll try and continue from where I left. Last time, I was talking about sitting by the stream open-mouthed. I clicked some photographs there. Hope they come out right.

The trek till Khadiaru Thatch was tough. There was this time when some were sulking, and the others sulking at me (or what I imagined them doing). So I moved out, making way to walk alone (the inconsistently solitude loving soul that I am.) After appreciating this rather stunning view that I walked into, capturing it in my mind, absorbing its beauty, I wandered on. And I reached this hill-top which had been blocking my view of the trails ahead, that were to be tread on by us. Once on it, it finally rewarded me with the spectacle that I was for so long denied. There were, however, too many different trails out there to choose from. Anyway. At the top, as it was, the chilling, strong wind blew against me as I clung on to my stick, gasping, looking at the trails. One generally wears tee-shirts (unless it's Rahul Partoti, who'll wear anything you give him, even if there's a blizzard outside) while walking during the day-time - when the suns out, when your body temperature is warm. Even in the Himalayas. So was I. But I was at a peak of sorts now, unsheltered, the wind howling at me. So I caught up a tree and sat, or rather leaned against it with my ruck-sack cushioning me, so that the tree might be able to shelter, at least my back and head from the wind. The rest of my body – hands, knees, and others silhouetted, or rather, quite literally, chilled out. I looked out – at the clouds, the mountains, the trees, the sky, the snow, the sun. My legs sprawled over to the full length of the ground space. Though I had my head, my back, and a fair part of my legs blocked from the wind by the tree I leaned, of all the things, against; the rest of my body gave me a fair idea of how cold it was. I could see the strands of on my hand, rise in ovation for the mighty wind. I was freezing. I let myself freeze - at least for the time being. I think how I lay there, explains best what I am. My unending need for a support system – the tree I leaned onto. My desire to do different things – my wandering apart. Unsuccessfully so – I was freezing here. My laziness – Making the entire effort of take out woolens out of my ruck-sack was too complicated and cumbersome. Freezing was so much simpler! My looking out to the snow and the sky and the path ahead, in spite of the modest, mediocre hill-top I'm on. People ahead, people behind, me always somehow ending up where no one else does. On a peak, but a very small one, out to conquer bigger ones. The uncertain, confusing trail ahead – something like my fate as I see it right now. The wind – all the things against me and my stranding submission to them, not without, however, making sure I show them my back. Not moving behind, yet, not quite getting where I want to be. A trekking expedition is so much like life, isn't it?

But then again, other people came atop my little hill-top, where we had our lunch before we decided to push off. The wind still blew as much, but we moved to new patches. My little fantasy, however, stayed there.

We reached Khadiaru thatch, en route which, came our first bout with snow. The route was tough and we stuck together. There was this old lady, who I assisted during the tougher parts of the terrains. It's amazing. People who overcome obstacles, overcome themselves and succeed. It's like winning.

In Between

2006-02-21T16:19:00.000+05:30

He laughed a laugh and smoked a smoke
And thought a thought unprovoked
And pissed a piss and wondered if
He fought a lot and thought little
Or thought a lot and fought little
Or himself did he why belittle

Britte Battle
Battle Brittle

He saw the thoughts he once pronounced
Fixed syllables cunted counted
Word by words uttering out
Detaching themselves from his mouth

Like baby serpents they show
(On Nat Geo)
Who hatched their eggs
And crawled the land
To swim the sea
Greeted by the eagle claws
In Between
For an air-borne feast
Fantasy

He laughed a laugh and smoked a smoke
And thought a thought unprovoked.

On Cyclic Dreaming

2005-08-24T16:24:00.000+05:30

August 24th, 2005.

I open my eyes, my body still and shaken. I go to the bathroom, observe my moustache growth in the mirror, and switch the geyser on. I find a pen and this long-unused journal. It's 5:39 A.M. I start writing.

Two incredible things just happened. One – I've just begun writing here for the first time since my getting-over, moving-on rambling six months back. I had promised myself that the next time I was going to write, it would only be after I completely manage getting over Girl-A. I've never felt this as strongly as I do right now: that I'm not her anymore, no.

The second incredible thing that happened, making me wake up at 5:30 in the morning out of my warm, blanketed, slumber, never really happened. It was a dream. And, like all other dreams, a rather strange one. It mused about reality. I'm not afraid to write about it and I'm not afraid of being worried about how wild it might sound, and how carried-away, immature it might make me look.

The background: I meet Girl-B in the mountains. And now, as J. Alfred Prufrock put it, forcing the moment to its crisis, I've fallen in love with her.

Even if I later find this to be the over-reaction and the aftermath of a bad, mad dream, I can look back to this page right here, and edify myself on the fact that there really was a moment, though flawed and disillusioned as it might seem then, that I did fall in love. There are moments for every single event that occurs. Specially chosen, well crafted, properly allocated. Clockwork. If only we managed living proper events at proper times.

Dreams, and real-life illusions for that matter, tell you things. Their fantasies and fears reflect the people you aspire and fear to be. Only through dreams, do we encounter them. Like a knife cutting through from the core of an onion onto its crust, anything that happens sub-consciously, at some level, seems to come out from the piercings through the inner realms of your self, echoing truths you never knew you believed in. Dreams, maybe, are the purest form of truth that there ever is. Mine went something like this -

Girl-B (who I first found to be very complex, very subdued, and so, very intriguing) and I bump in each other at, of all places, Cafe-1, something which is very far from where we both live, but also somewhere we've both been to, at different times. How it happened, I do not know. Suddenly, two people I had not noticed earlier, seemed to be accompanying me - Friend A, and, funnily enough, of all people, Slut A. We appear to be having some sort of cake when I manage spotting Girl-B. In reality, in my pre-dream real-world life, I had confirmed earlier through Friend B and Friend C, that for a fact, my beloved Girl-B – was - indeed single! But then, as much as an inner insecurity from the sub-conscious taking the only true shape it can take, I see her with this guy. Now, in this particular dream, I appeared to have given clear hints about my fondness for her prior to this particular rendezvous, and she seemed to have not minded them. But now, upon my enquiries and against my wishes, she confirms my fears and kills my fantasy. "He is the thing to fall in love with", I hear her strangely unfamiliar voice say. Ouch. Just when I thought I'd outgrown heartbreaks. One glance, and to me, he doesn't quite seem like "the thing". He looks rather ordinary, and I wonder why. After all, this was just one of those dreams - essentially fictitious as we all assume them to be. For all I cared he might have allowed himself biceps bulging and an ass amicable. But he somehow didn't. He probably was a hidden echo of who I might become in real life in the recent future, from the real to the ideal.

She looks a bit older, her face pimply, and she's wearing a dress I've never seen her wearing before. She's looking more beautiful than I have ever known her to be. So much so, I have trouble recognizing her and have to allow myself a look into her eyes, pronouncing her name in a confirmatory, rhetoric tone to really know. She's embarrassed, throws me that "oops-ok-you-got-me","you-just-found-out-something-I-never-wanted-you-to" look. I greet out to him and shake hands. Don't think I can remember greeting out to anybody as warmly in real. Strange.

What I do next is turn back, step out of Cafe-1, and run. Just run. Unaware of the wheres and whys. Friend A overtakes me and runs ahead of me. His fury and hurt at seeing me like this is perhaps greater than mine. He keeps looking back and throwing me "told you she was weird" looks. There are lots of railings along our run-way. They probably meant something more than mere railings, but we decide to jump over them anyway, preferring to keep running - like 110M Hurdles on annual sports day at school. Slut-A catches up with me, and we run together. She showers me with consolatory words and, every now and then, cribs about how difficult it is to jump over hurdles, wearing the ultra mini-skirt that she is.

Between all the "told you she was weird" looks and kind consolatory words, there are things going on in my mind. I begin a conversation with myself - "this is like déjà vu." And funnily enough, in a dream.

And that's when the running ends and I reach my destination - reality. I open my eyes, my body still and shaken. I go to the bathroom, observe my moustache growth in the mirror, and switch the geyser on. I find a pen and this long-unused journal. It's 5:39 A.M. I start writing.

Mechanics of Moving : The Mumbai Chapter.

2004-12-07T17:38:00.000+05:30

“Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave
everything they have known for a great unknown beyond their horizon ?”
- Yann Martel, “Life of Pi”

Mumbai. The city of dreams. Of unputdownable spirit. Of the Gateway of India. Of dense commuters and innumerable local trains. Of the Colaba Causeway and the Fashion Street. Of Marine Drive and Chowpatti. Of Dharavi, and heartbreaking poverty.Of the Prithvi Theatre and the Jehangir Art Gallery. Of an enormous people hollering something (I still haven't found out what..) inside the stock exchange building. These are certain images that come to my minds when I think of Mumbai; That I've lately begun to associate it with.

One fine day, in april '04, it finally happened. I moved to Mumbai for my higher studies (Filmi. Very filmi). But not before I was subjected to the unending misery of justifying my decision (with every effort of trying to sound oh-so-sorted-out !). I said that I wanted to get "exposure" to 'what the world really is' through colorless glasses from an unsheltered arena (i was starting to sound real wise!). "Why Mumbai", they asked. I struggled through my "more opportunities here than anywhere else" and "Mumbai makes you street smart" lines. Logical reasoning would definitely not help me to find the real reason of this shift. Nor would new found transience to some kind of higher level of spiritual attainment. Surely, Calcutta University was as good as Mumbai's. I was well settled there, with an amazing group of friends. So why really was this need to go out to an alien place and try and make a mark there ? Where nobody knows you. Where everyday would be a struggle. Where everything would be new.
I wondered what exactly in me caused this desire to move to Mumbai. Maybe it was this strong urge to feel proud and all too responsible by shouting out loud "I'M FINALLY ON MY OWN!" for the first real time in my life. Maybe I wanted to not get stuck in one place and extend my horizon of meaningful interactions and growth and learning (the process of my trying to sound wise is now complete!),

So that’s how the story went. I got myself in here and got started with a B.A. degree (that, unfortunately for me, raised quite a storm of questions over my decision making ability), I also got into a decent hostel accommodation (where my seniors asked me the abuse the fan in my room with 21 different adjectives!). I started to explore the world around me (Ah! That beloved human idiosyncrasy!). For starters, I got into a Virar fast local and tried getting off at Borivali (I dont even want to talk about it!). There was this time when I mistakenly stepped on the feet of a timid little delicate looking old parsi lady at the Churchgate railway station. With possible the last breath of life in her lungs, (or so I thought!) she let out at me one of the most overpowering yells I'd ever heard. I was too shocked and scared to be even apologetic. I'd never before chanced to come across such a vibrant timid old lady!

Soon, I got into the groove. I was getting used to washing my clothes, trying to escape my seniors at hostel (so in vain!), sleeping at 2:30 and missing my first lectures. Life became a continuous cycle of messing up my room (that archeological site!) and putting it back in shape. In between, I was fortunate enough to find some true friends and live some great moments. After the initial newness factor got over, I learnt loving my life. And my hostel. And even my seniors! I also learnt living on the mess food! And Mumbai was suddenly not all that "alien" anymore. In fact, it is as much as "my" city as anyone else’s. It continues to intrigue me with its wonders and vibrancy and give me joyous moments which i will look back belongingly. Most importantly, it continues to teach me something new everyday.

The Diary of a Troubled Exam Giver

2003-10-20T16:17:00.000+05:30

Lets take a little tip down the memory lane. Lets see how I've not tasted what i wanted, how I’ve learnt from my mistakes and how I did them again. I see myself catching a train at the Gwalior station. In my hand, I have a letter from a friend - packed heavy with love and nostalgia, a book about astronomy and loads of judgments, opinions and expectations that have frozen and limited me to a formulated phrase. I carry million dollar hopes - that I haven't yet fulfilled. The burden is heavy. I wish I could be numb to all of it and lie with my hands raised, resting and be utterly empty - know no one, reply to myself only. But that’s not possible in this life - I think I've already tasted the fruit of knowledge.

The train pulls off, moves slowly as I lean against its door. I see familiar, fading faces. One of them approaches me and tells me that he wants to see me on the top of this world, do my father proud and asks me to do something that would facilitate the same. He says this in just two words - "study hard". It seems so easy doesn’t it. All I had to do were to follow those two words, and my life would change forever, for good. I haven't exactly done that yet. It’s so stupid of me isn't it? Well, yes. "Studying hard" is not the toughest thing to do and it is indeed stupid of me to not do the thing that I have to do. Satan keeps tempting me; I keep getting tempted.

There is still some hope before the epilogue. There are about four months to go, 135 days to be precise - before one of the most important tests of my life approaches me. And what is worse is that it’s going to come only once.

Lose yourself in the music, the moment.
You own it - you never let it go.
You only get one shot.
Do not miss a chance to blow.
This opportunity comes once in a life time, Yo.

Circa 20/10/2003, 1:14 A.M. I have become taller; my brain greyer, and a strange, unknown black stripe lingers just above my upper lip. I am 18 years old, and single still (sigh!). Two years ago, I screwed it up. Now, forgotten. The memories do not haunt me anymore. That's why I'm writing this right now - to re live each of those insufferable torments that I got, each day. I was hell - personified, personalized. I had let everyone and anyone that I could think of - down. Its funny how memories, and for that matter,
people and things change. When they are fresh in the mind, they haunt us and eventually, like everything else in this world - they fade. Anyway. I remember going to schools, being turned down and then showing my sorry-for-myself face at home to other sorry-for-me faces. I tried to hate the person who was staring back at me out of the mirror ; but somehow never could. It was a nightmare, but I knew it was going to be over and forgotten until of course some more questions are thrown at me for my idiosyncrasies by some curious bystanders.

In retrospect, I would say that I don't regret anything that I've ever lost - Because I've gained twice as much priceless lessons of life. I think I've lived the ecstacy and the agony of my life in the last two years. I have met new people and made some terrific friends. I've learnt to enjoy my life, and hate it too. I have shed tears, been hurt, been in pain, had fights - real bad ones, lost my cell, and the list goes on. I've heard some amazing music, developed a taste for new thing and learned to appreciate them. I've been able to read some new authors and transform myself. I think that I can think a lot deeper and wider and better now. It has become a continuous cyclic process for me. I have heard myself scream with joy - be it on nicco park rides, dreaming exhilarating
dreams that I will someday live up to, addictive timepassers, the
sight of colorful birds (the unwinged variety). truly awesome and fulfilling jam sessions, or simply LOL-ing around I’ve realized the importance of my family, who is going to go wherever I will go. I thank you, God for giving me them. I can never possible repay what I owe - I'd be bankrupt, locked up for life. Phew! All of this in just two years!

I think, in the process of writing this journal, I realize the way I've lived for these two years is the way i want to live for all of my life. As a person, I want to forever grow - in
thoughts, in intellect, in memories, in interactions, in experiences and in lot of other things that sure as hell include those hints of the black strip above my upper lip that basks in this glorified moonlit sky! And the way I see it, It'd not be possible for me to live my life this way forever - until and unless I, for a change, sincerely, follow two words.

Yes! You got the moral of the story RIGHT!

"((((((((((((STUDY HARD!)))))))))))"