A Half Life

December 24, 2011

You never know how to begin. I think that is why they send you; you never begin yourself.

It is a peculiar irony that life’s larger purpose is both deeply explored and unanswered: unanswered in its entirety, in its essence, and though one may find a minor method to it, and call it their purpose, the quest of our living remains to be fetched.

It appears naming people at their births is one blow from which they never recover. Read the rest of this entry »


LAPSTOP! an essay: ‘Why Do Laptops Ditch Us All The Time?’

July 16, 2011

If I were some great neta, I would call for a Revolution against the tyrannies committed by American capitalists on an entire generation of laptop owners. As did all great revolutionaries and leaders before me, I plan to drive primarily on mass-hysteria, employing such ingenious, rhetoric war-cry as Read the rest of this entry »

A case for cats..

July 7, 2011

Some of life’s absurdities are beautiful. I woke up today to a kitten’s mewing. It must have entered my ground floor room through the balcony door. Far from expecting any such intrusion, I lit open my eyes- my mind still dizzy with sleep, my face buried in the pillow. It mewed again. That was when I gathered its full view from the corner of my sleep-laden eyes. I saw it sitting obediently on the floor, unmoving and precise in its disposition, and looking Read the rest of this entry »

The Girl With Red Roses

October 11, 2010

My work took me to Mumbai many months ago. Few years in the industry had made me agile enough to bargain for an unofficial Friday leave. My boss’ nod had made it a 3-day cheap getaway of some sorts. At any rate, it was a welcome break from familiar work and faces. After negotiating the job to satisfaction, I loitered happily an entire August afternoon. I was to meet some friends in the evening at Band Stand. I said “Bandra” to one autowallah and hopped in. On the way, I found myself peeping outside this cheap auto, smiling at a magnificent yellow Porsche Carrera that had stopped beside us at a traffic signal. Cars catch my fancy and my initial reaction was one of sheer wow, luck and happiness. The Porsche was gorgeous but it wasn’t stupendous until one of the windows rolled down. One of the occupants was so beautiful that I immediately accepted that both of us were in our respective places. Her co-occupant was, well, an overly, overtly muscled, tattooed, damn-lucky idiot in his early-20s, who decided not to work hard and instead binge on his dad’s money (lucky chap was sensible too, for no way with his hard work he would have managed those two muses at one time at that age!). The atmosphere inside the car was nothing short of the extraordinary and I won’t describe how. Small-town blokes don’t get to see anything like a Porsche often and to have seen the two ladies – the magnificent marque and that pretty somebody – I immediately developed mild associations with Karl Marx. At least I wanted to argue with those who are rightly called ‘right- minded’ that the Germans shouldn’t be allowed to make so opulent cars and then put just two seats inside instead of 4; it would drive the Capitalists’ society to doom at double the incumbent rate.

A child’s voice from the other side of the road broke the silly trajectory of my thoughts. I saw a little girl walk up to me, her face half-covered below bunches of red roses which were neatly tied in small bundles. She walked a few steps closer up to me with unsure, measured steps, but having that infant-like audacity to maintain a prolonged eye contact with the subject. She stood before me with a sullen smile on her face – a street child, 7 yrs old or so, downtrodden, shabby like them street kids, who all look the same. I smiled back at her, and she promptly held out a bunch of red roses to me. It was then that I realized that my affection could cost me. One art that comes handy when you have to stop at long traffic signals (which is often) is looking away in the other direction when someone is choking you with some request. I guess I must be bad at this for I sometimes find myself actually trying to talk my way out of such situations and end up spending money more often than I intend to. I wanted to tell her how the colour of the roses made it practically meaningless for me to help her. As is my wont, I reached out for my camera and clicked her picture while trying to steer clear of the common-place situation. I saw her eying my camera with a fearless curiosity. I held the camera out to her. She was instantly overjoyed to see herself in the picture. The grim curves on her cheeks had stretched into an innocent, conveying smile, and her eyes were a sparkle.

I thought it reasonable to spend 10 rupees on roses themselves; after all, they were beautiful and I decided to buy, even if it meant that I would have to leave them behind in the auto. (I couldn’t have carried it to my friend’s surely) I handed over a 20 rupee note, gesturing to her with a subtle, casual wave of hands that she may keep the change. She promptly and neatly tucked the note inside a large front pocket of her t-shirt and took out a crumpled ten-rupee note and held it out towards me. I quietly kept the change, deciding not to vandalize by use of language a fragile moment that was made precious by her intent, if not her sentiment.

As if she was not too little herself to be spending a painfully-deprived childhood in having to fend for herself, I saw a lean kid, all of 3 years or thereabouts, hiding behind her frock. She picked him up in a manner of quick habit, hinging his bare, soiled buttocks on her waist and tucking him close. She rushed to a chai shop on the road side. I saw the child rolling itself behind the folds of her arms, trying to reach out to something across the counter with outstretched, tiny hands. Seeing her struggle in the middle of unknown faces left me agitated. I heard the engines crank up and rev again; the signal had opened. The Porsche made the most distinctive rev of pride. The only rev that was compelling enough to reach my heart was that caused by the story that played out right before my eyes. I bent over to look for the girl. As the auto negotiated the corner, I saw this girl feeding milk and bun to her infant belonging. Suddenly, something gave way inside my heart, like a stretched cord of emotions snapping under load. Uninhibited by shame and moved by guilt, I cried briefly. When the tide of emotion subsided, it had forged a bed of anguish inside the heart. The auto had hit the main road and was cutting past other vehicles in a manner that announced urgency when there was none. The Mumbai streets were attractive again: wide roads, big cars, happy families, pretty faces and the chance to while away a cosy evening. Just that all of it did not convey anything greater than themselves. My vision had gotten blurred and I found my eyes staring at my thoughts. My anguish reduced to sorrow, as it always does, as it always must. I wondered about our desires to get “rich” to buy hordes of happinesses for ourselves and our people and how it amounted to little more than social-mania unless nurtured the right way.

Funny that a 90-second traffic stop was all it took to unhinge my composure completely that day. I wish I could explain how helplessly grim it feels to be inhuman. Many more questions crashed on the silent shores of my mind, many dreams became smaller and a few prayers got added to what is a long list of heartfelt wishes.

I looked down at the roses lying in my lap. I plucked the soft petals carefully in a small pile. Separating my vision free of the landscape, I looked up at the sky and after a prolonged consideration at the meaning of my action, I flung them towards the evening sky. The breeze whipped the little petals into furious motion. I saw the petals whirling behind me gladly. They looked more beautiful in their individual flights, and somewhere inside I too felt liberated.

Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa: SRK mouthorgan sad scene

September 13, 2009

I am writing here, or anywhere, after an aeon (but for my infrequent diary writing & my frequent facebook status updates) (have been thinking more and writing less for the past couple of months) Not that I have much to say now.

Anyway, sharing the video link of one of SRK’s earliest movies “Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa“, when he was fresh from theatre and had an undiluted method to his work (my thoughts purely)

<1:40:00 to 1:44:00 in the link below>


The following scene is made special by… Read the rest of this entry »

Fathers’ Day Poll: Do Not Participate ;)

June 18, 2009

This is one weird post, but because I’m not posting anything anyway these days, here I’m putting a “top 5 bla bla” list I found while slipping over some hyperlinks on some website homepage..

Picture this !


This was a Fathers’ Day Poll conducted and this is the preference given by the womenfolk in Amreeka ..(well mostly, though one may have to admit that there must’ve been a few *yay* (i mean <happy>) men too from around the world wishing things their way ! ;))

In any case, I’m sure there could’ve been a better  Read the rest of this entry »

creating a scene :)

June 12, 2009

“मुहब्बत की फर्श पर कुछ यूँ टूटा एक सच जैसे कोई सपनों की झालर नीचे आ गिरी हो… सब तरफ काँच के टुकड़े यूँ बिखरे, पर ना जाने क्यूँ मेरे पाँव की दहलीज़ पर आकर रुक गये…तुम्हारी नज़रों की तरह शायद उन्हें भी कुछ एहसास था…”

The idea is ki jis tarah tum nazrein nahi mila paayi and all that.. : )

PS: This wasn’t through any personal experience.. : )

There are two kinds of lovers inside me..

May 28, 2009



There are two kinds of lovers inside me…the rustic, roughened guy who has a ‘straight’ way and the modern guy who deals his girl in overt ways. The first guy is a plain chap; he doesn’t know of fine ways to keep his girl hooked. His love however is unrelenting, singular and large in absolute terms. The modern guy is refined and his love is playful, even tricky, and has more colours. The love itself is however not exactly enormous or crash-proof.

I don’t know which of these faces of mine to show when I come across women.

I don’t know between the ‘GOOD MAN’ and the ‘artful lover’, who wins?

Asked differently, say….. between a good husband and a foxy companion, who wins ?

And are combinations available? (and before that, possible?)

Asked differently, is there a GOOD MAN ?? 😉

(Is the answer too easy?)

smells and nostalgia – memories of a happy childhood !!

May 5, 2009
This is a rather quick jotting of some childhood memories. Everything about this post, other than the intention, could appear vague. But that’s how it is with most good memories; you can’t always explain to others what exactly is good about them, can you? Also, generally, the sense of ‘smell’ has a very big role in making an idea/a moment memorable for me; dunno if it’s a common thing with most people.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Here’s the list – call it my ‘top 7’ 😀
  1. The after-rain smell (‘petrichor’ it is called). While it’s a common experience for us ‘tropical’ people, in my case the pleasure in later years has limited itself to just the singular aspect of that smell. Earlier it was like coming together of all senses, all happinesses. I don’t know where has that complete feeling gone. Although the smell I’ve smelled/smelt (?) every season, the whole magic could never get recreated. Read the rest of this entry »

an elegy on the death of a dear bird’s child

April 29, 2009


pic courtesyhttp://www.runningjayhawk.com/2007_06_01_archive.html

This story is both a happy and a sad account of my interaction with a bird (yes!) that lost her child a few months back.

This bird used to chirp and pitter-patter outside my room. It gazed into my window and took curious notice of its own reflection (in what is a reflective-on-the-outside glass pane) and beat its beak upon the glass. It flied around hurriedly and playfully from twigs just outside, softly landing on the window sill and then  Read the rest of this entry »