therighter

2010-03-29T08:42:00.001-07:00

Hemanthagaana by Vyasaraya Ballal

2010-01-01T09:17:00.000-08:00

A story set in the late 40s, post Independence era of India, Hemanthagaana is a journey of an idealist in a rapidly changing political environment. This kannada novel is divided into 3 sections and the middle chapter is perfectly set between the chapters of two women, which is a reflection of the main story line. Anatha Udupa, the protogonist is a man who gives up a promising future for the betterment of the society but loses his way by falling in love with a young widow of a freedom fighter. Indira, his subject of love is an ardent follower of Gandhi (or Bapuji as he is fondly called) and completely immersed in her 'seva' or service to uplift the downtrodden. In the process, she extends financial help many a time through her father, Mr.Talpade to Anantha's blazing cause and supports his struggling tabloid that reaches Kannadigas across the great industrial city, Mumbai.
The background of the story is set in Mangalore and Mumbai. In Mangalore, Anantha has left his wife Bharathi, the daughter of a succesful lawyer with his large family struggling to get through the days. He has promised to take her to Mumbai as soon as he finds a house for them to live in. (Mumbai is notorious for being an expensive city with cubby holes for houses. Those cubby holes are not easy to rent as well!) After a prolonged wait Bharathi's father, Sripathi Rao decides to take her to Anantha and settle them down by paying for the house rent himself. The next 10 months reflects on Bharathi's acceptance to the hard life with Anantha in a new city and her craving for a social life. Ultimately Bharathi gets pregnant and leaves for Mangalore. This is the time Anantha's desire for Indira's company overtakes his strong values and makes him admit his love to her. The next turn of events reveals Indira's strong character and values and the light in which she had come to see Anantha.
The other key characters of this novel are-
1. Rajeeva - a man with a tough exterior but a golden heart. Anantha's guiding light in Mumbai
2. Sripathi Rao - Anantha's father-in-law who admires the idealist and gets his elder daughter Bharathi married to him
3. Somayaji - Mentor to Rajeeva and Keshava (Indira's husband who dies in 1942 under the British attack), also guides Anantha in his failed love with Indira
4. Nagesha Rao - An old acquaintance of Sripathi Rao in Mumbai, who leans more towards the modern Congress political moves and does not go with Anantha's idealist ways
5. Parvathi, Narahari, Padmanabha-siblings of Anantha who Bharathi loves and cares for
6.Mr.Udupa- Anantha's father who stays in the background but his displeasure with Anantha's indifference to family and his own poor financial situation has made him a bitter man. His letters to Anantha are mainly the connection between father & son in this story.
Story narration - Good pace, easy read, good insight to pre and post independence era, sensitive and subtle human emotions
Shelley's poems star in Indira, Keshava and Rajeeva's lives. Key line 'If winter comes could spring be far behind?'
Downside: Dark shade from beginning to end
Metaphor - Bharathi is the Hindu name for India. Bharathi, Anantha's wife delivers a baby boy towards end of the story. While lighting Anatha's funeral pyre what Indira sees with great agony and shock is 'Bharathi', perhaps the author implies that she speculates the future of India upon the death of a freedom fighter.

Id's story

2009-07-13T19:24:00.000-07:00

On the night I landed here all I could see from my window was heaps and heaps of moist bluish white mass covering the fertility of the land. Never did I believe that I would one day wander in a country that I thought stayed only on Atlas maps. All I remembered was my brother's off white shirt that had barren pine trees printed on it. And that to me was a foreign land. Sometimes it was Bangalore's Cubbon park that I thought London looked like. America meant tall buildings I saw on MG Road. Certain days I was transposed to New York in my dreams. For some reason it should really have been California. What did Canada look like? I had never spent any time thinking about it. Russia was more on my mind than my current country of residence. Then after a while the novelty wore off. It was the same highways and exits I saw on TV. Every city looked alike. Seasons changed. Colors of leaves changed. Leaves fell off. It all came back again. Who was I anymore? I thought. Did living in a strange new country transform me anyway? Or was it just that everything I learned was applied in my new life? Anyone teach me anything? The other day in Jhumpa Lahiri's 'Interpreter of Maladies' the writer says that the protogonist is self-educated. Is anyone really? We can all be self-tutored but self educated? Hmm that's heavy I'd say. Now ask me where this is all leading. And I would respond 'into dear K's woven scarfs, C's charming smile, I's manic laughter, E's neurotic behaviour and my tender love's heart. I hide. Never again will I run.

Who, me?

2009-05-26T18:14:00.000-07:00

I was reading into the wisdom of ancient science this day. The realization of how seamlessly life has been intertwined into one big cosmos was causing a mysterious discomfort inside the heart when in truth it should have wiped all my apprehensions about the big question. My eye fluttered as it began to see the retinal damage that was caused by my addiction to leave no stone unturned. Why would I do that to myself? I ask. Sometimes the answers are obvious. On other days I just get sucked into the irrationality of things. To conquer fears and questions. In that way we are alike. The reader and the writer. The blog junkie and the blogger. We seek each other hopefully never wanting to meet each other. The point here really is about the conflicts we face everyday in the little decisions we make. To buy vanilla icecream or butterscotch. To buy the $38 million lottery or let the fortunates win. Does that mean I am not? I don't know. Does money matter. No. Then what? you may ask. I don't want to know what makes anyone tick anymore. Not because I lost interest in people. Because I am sticking to my business for now I know for sure. This is what I want. This is me. All by myself. Just me. And them. Those people I love. That cat I always will carry in my heart.

Quotes-By Nayana

2009-02-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

There are no secrets, only truth.

The light that shines on you is not yours. So don’t give yourself credit for any adulation you receive. In time, they fade away like all other forms of light.

What good is an idea that does not change the course of nature?

Curiosity killed the cat. I might as well die.

Who loves you more dearly than yourself?

United we plan. Divided we decide.

Look around you. And for heaven sake clean!

Once upon a time Anger was my nemesis. Now it’s my foe.

Don’t try to be smart. Just be.

When you swim, fly or walk you always have to push yourself to move ahead. Such is life.

Bend a little and you might touch the ground.
Stretch a little and you might reach for the skies.
With a little exercise your life should be good – ambitious but grounded.

Vegetarianism does not make me a saint. I just don’t fancy looking at a dead animal on my dinner plate.

I was a fool to fall in love. But look! What a happy fool I am!

I don’t need a second chance. I learned my lesson in the first.

Mr. Bee and little Me

2009-01-02T09:27:00.000-08:00

A little girl who went by the name Humble Me
Walked into the house of a Mr. Bumble Bee
A friend, she thought he might be
Yellow bright and jolly rounded was he!

Coughing a little, Me went up the stairs
Braving the trial of little red stains,
She stopped just behind the white curtains
Gazing down at jars of wall paints

‘Hello, Mr. Bee’, she gives a feeble shout
‘In here’ says a voice thick and stout;
Round black eyes peep over the stove
Little Me gave Bee a playful shove

Bumble’s walls are oh! so crimsoned
Humble gets all weepy and frightened
‘O ho ho, aren’t you a little flower shrunken?’
‘No, no. I just wish you had the walls lightened’

Off goes the great Big Bee
To put a smile on our friend Me
Holding a tray of cookies and a pot of tea
Begs he to Me ‘Please, give some company’

Atop a stool sipping her tea
Humble sings for Mr. Bee
Bumble in turn dances for Me
Holding a cup on his knee

All of a sudden the sun goes down
Me knows its now time to go home
Days after, this beautiful friendship shone
Humble and Bumble are now talk of the town!

Conjure up Something

2008-12-22T10:57:00.000-08:00

Another year gone by? Thinking of how old you are? Counting the things you should have done? Well, you are not the one singled out from a million. You are one among the million. How do I know? I am too.

Last weekend we went Christmas shopping. The mall was bustling with hundreds of holiday shoppers. Gifts were bought, people remembered and the sales were good. But…there is always a but. Who does the gift-wrapping? The stores of course! The only question is why pay more for the wrap than the gift itself? How do I give the perfect gift without spending too much? Vola! The mall had an answer. Down in the centre 3 young girls and a couple of elderly ladies provided the ‘gift-wrapping’ service from their booth. We paid $2 per gift-wrap. The girls were working hard from morning on their day off from school, finding something to giggle about every minute. Their faces were bright and happy. At the end of it, we pulled the money out to pay, pleased with their service. It was then they pointed to the donation box sitting on the table. All the money from their service was going to old-age charity. I was suddenly jolted from my shopper’s excitement! What is it that as an adult I have to spend something to find happiness whereas as a child you find happiness at what you do? De jâ vu?

It is not that we can’t be the same way. It’s just that the way was forgotten somewhere when you were ‘growing up’, competing, surviving and trying to ‘make it’. It won’t be the last time that we will be reminded that being an adult is a lot complicated than it should be. Yes, we cannot afford to be naïve. We can’t let someone take advantage of us. We have to be cautious and learn whom to trust. In all this, don’t we have some room for innocence and curiosity that we can nurture in a corner of our heart and remember that we have crossed the age of innocence and we can afford to be brave and be leaders of our souls into doing good that inspires others, the way the young girls inspired me? Once, I was young too as were you. I used be helpful and reach out to those who needed me. Somewhere down the line things changed. I started helping people who, I needed. I look back and see that I am not as happy as I used to be then. It must be something to do with the magic of making another person happy-the one who really needs it. In the end, being an idealist is not all that bad. This year think new. Conjure up something. Wishing you all a perfect ‘09!

Art of great writing

2008-09-10T10:18:00.000-07:00

As far as I can remember I have been reading since age 7. When I say reading I don't mean to say I learnt to read or read well or very well. I was reading books related to Indian History, Anthropology and Sociology to help my mother as she had caught conjuctivities just before her BA exams. Somehow, it stuck with me. Reading. For some reason writing caught up with me a little slow. I would start writing a diary at age 13.The diary was only an excuse. I had started expressing my views and thoughts about various things. I made a wishlist of what I would write when I grew up. When I look back I am not sure where I inherited that kind of maturity at such an age (it seemed to taper as I got older). Anyway keeping a diary continued for the next 10 years. During this time I came across as a typical adoloscent/teenager/youngster confused and depressed with the world around her. I am not sure if I was maniacal or bipolar (Ok. It was not THAT scary). I would write stuff that only Freud would diagonise as something from the sub-conscious. It was creepy to see someone think like that. My friends said that.

As days passed I tried to be more objective in my approach to writing. I have heard many great writers say that they don't read much. Not sure if it's being defensive about 'inspired work' or 'imitation work' for I know for a fact that I thoroughly enjoy reading what others write. I also know I can be unique when I write because the experiences that I draw from are my own.

Anyway, speaking of uniqueness the first person who came to my mind associated with it was Salman Rushdie. I read 'Midnight's Children' in 2005 (Yes, that late!) and became a huge fan of him. I was awestruck with a modern English writer who could deliver quality and finesse with such grace that I benchmarked that book for all others I read later. It wasn't till I came to Toronto that I was introduced to Keri Hulme and Michael Ondaatje. I had also read Atwood's Blind Assassin just before I got here. Ondaatje's style mesmerized me in 'English Patient'. When I started 'Anil's Ghost' I was slightly put off by the stylizing and slow pace of the novel. Suddenly the plot thickened and the characters were unraveled one by one like flowers blossoming. I realise that Rushdie may be high up there for those intellectually starved but Ondaatje is a master story teller for both, the intellectual and lesser mortals!

The English language writers may be the most popular and noted literary figures in the world but the infinite treasure of native language writers cannot be ignored. I have read some of the greatest novels, short stories and poems from African, Vietnamese, Chinese, Russian, French, Kannada, Bengali and Malayalam writers - some translated to English. While a tiny fraction of world's population may be aware of other language writers there are translators who do great service to humanity by spreading the joy and sorrow of other cultures to rest of world. I hope that the world does not continue to dwell in the privacies of their lives but share what can enrich the lives of each other. Life needn't always be practical. We can weave our imaginations to put a smile on others or wipe a tear.

Tags: great writers, poets, booker prize winners, Salman Rushdie, Margaret Atwood, Blind Assassin, Anil's Ghost, Midnight's Children, Michael Ondaatje, books for world peace, Keri Hulme

A poem for Usain Bolt-the fastest man on earth!

2008-08-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

Hey man! Wait up on the hill

This day is running

You are so charming

What you got in those heels?

I know that you’re dancing

Dreaming of all the things

That catches your little eye

Shining like a super star

Now that you are crowned

A king upon the ring

Where do you think you’re going?

C’mon here, shine on me

Oh la la la la! La la la la!

Tags: usain bolt poem 2008 olympics gold medalist fastest man on earth

Where does it all begin?

2008-07-20T15:28:00.000-07:00

The past few months have been awakening. Contextually speaking, it is a new life in the land of maple trees. Grasping the silent lessons that this world is giving I wandered into the neural pathways of the unapproving lot. Barbarism is not about ruthlessly hacking someone. It is a facade behind the civic screen. A kindness that kills you because you have surpassed a certain level of accomplishment. The ravines in your backyard are pacific to your evening strolls. It is the same place that breeds human beings who rob a woman of her valuable possessions. Mindful of the fact that I am a "Visible Minority" I sometimes step backwards. Something I am not used to. Yet I unlearn. The earth is divided by imaginary lines called longitudes and latitudes. I wish it would have ended there. Sadly there are so many of these imaginary lines in our minds that we know not what we are prejudiced against. The rise and fall of religions, empires, classes...is all part of the change that we resist but thrive on. Years ago, we had our answers in a deity,our guardians and on papers . Perhaps today it is Internet. Tomorrow answers may not matter. Or has it already ceased to matter? Whatever it maybe, this cloudy, rainy day has cooled the ground beneath me as it has my mind. So I get up and try to make it all begin, again!

Tags: Nihilism, Discrimination, New beginnings, Growth, Change

The Love Guru

2008-06-23T11:40:00.000-07:00

Scene:The Love Guru

D R A M A, Oprah-Deepak Chopra, Guru Pitka's ashram, Rajneesh, Toronto maple leaves, Gnomes, Alligators-Snappy and quick, Nuts in a sling etc are the key words in the latesht Mike Myers buster 'The Loveeeeeeee Guru'.

Watch it just for the sake of absurdity. Rent a DVD or wait for the movie channels to bring it to your homes but do watch it! Especially if you are from the South Asian community and want to have a dig at your own expense. The movie is silly and trivial but hilarious in pockets. The meeting between Jessica Alba and Mike Myers starts off with an old Bollywood song of reincarnation which is real cute, dolloped with a few vulgarly 'humur'ous sequences and an item number by the lead pair. Ben Kingsley is wasted in the role of Mike Myer and Deepak Chopra's teacher. It seemed like a spoof of sorts to cast the legendary actor in this role (probably referencing it to his role as MK Gandhi /Indian in the movie Gandhi) and make mockery of the ancient science of yoga and spirtuality.Some of the jokes in the movie are painful and forced.

Myers brings in tongue-in-cheek references to outsourcing, dwarfs, French Canadians etc. To give Myers his due I would say that this movie is a brave attempt to break the mindset of Hollywood movie makers who dwell upon ideas from the west and thrive on 'America saves all' themes. Mike Myers generously borrows ideas from the East.The movie also manages to leave its mark with spirtual concepts that could enrich the lives of many mortals. Manu Narayan is refreshing in his role. Alba looks sweet as a pie. Justin Timberlake's get-up as a French Canadian is more impressive than his acting abilities. Mike Myers looks a bit silly and too excited about his new avatar.

All in all I would rate this movie 2/5 and smile at Mike's praiseworthy efforts. If you have nothing else to do, just book yourself to a mindless hour of 'original' Indo-Hollywood comedy. ;-) Cheers!

Tags: Mike Myers, Jessica Alba, the love guru, Manu Narayan, Justin Timberlake, the love guru review, canada, the love guru released in toronto canada, the love guru at square one mississauga

Gala dinner by Indo-Canadian Chamber of Commerce

2008-06-15T12:40:00.000-07:00

On the eve of June 14th, 2008 we were at the dinner and award function hosted by ICCC at Metro Covention Centre, Toronto. Kapil Sibal, Indian Minister for Science and Technology was the chief guest at the event. Moments after he read out the names of guests from his paper, he shuffled them, gave an uncomfortable pause and rattled off some key numbers of the trade growth in India, wooed (tried to, atleast) the Canadians by saying they were world's best innovators...and so on. The good part was, as a Minister representing from India his keywords and English captivated the interest of audience and drew few rounds of applause. But again it became a drag of sorts when he spoke about poverty and matter of touching lives. Sounded very cliched and a politician talking.

Secondly, it was apalling to find that the entertainers of the evening were Japanese musicians and Salsa dancers. That's neither Indian nor Canadian!!

The food was average. Appetisers, Salad, Indian Lamb-curry, Kerala fish, Dal,Nan,Tomoto Pulao, Baingan Ka Bartha,Methi Kofta. For Dessert it was Chocolate coated large juicy strawberry with Gulab Jamun in Khova on a plate made of dark chocolate, sprinkled with strawberry and blueberry slices. White and Red wine, cocktails and liquor were served to guests. Being vegetarians and tea totallers we stuck to our menu and pulled through the dull evening.

The only highlight of the event was learning about the achievements of award winners which had some interesting names in various professions.

Tags: ICCC, Kapil Sibal, Indo-Canadian, Gala dinner, India, Canada, Toronto

The Bone People-A personalised review

2008-06-04T15:24:00.000-07:00

The Bone People is an extraordinary presentation of human relations and self discovery by Keri Hulme (in pic), a self claimed aromantic and asexual Newzealand writer. The entwining of three characters Kerewin, Joe and Simon pulls your heart with relationships,violence and hope in that order. Really the story can be narrated in less than 10 minutes.However the beauty lies in Keri's handpicked Mauri phrases dropping them like little precious stones on a carefully crafted jewel.The jewel in this case is the novel itself carrying you through originally coined English words and the beaches of Newzealand. The novel can create emotional tides and frustrate you with expectations.But one realises a great book doesnt necessarily involve spoon feeding to readers. This one is a brain teaser,yet sensitive drawing you closer to the female protogonist, making you want her, respect her, hate her..all at once. On the other hand Simon/Sim/Himu/Himona makes you want to protect all the abused children you see in your life.His muteness and forgiveness make you want to create him and raise him as your own kid to make things a lot better for him to live in. Joseph is raw, human,loving and abusive-alcoholic caught in his own web of grief, Nevertheless in his true senses he is a rational and caring person. I am discounting the religious symbolism in this novel knowing very well it has been used to create drama around the story, for the author herself believes in God as much as I do.
Recommendation: For only those who have read authentic writing.Not for the weak hearted and English-Grammer zealots.

Tags: The Bone People - Book review, Keri Hulme

Ideas and thoughts

2008-06-02T09:03:00.000-07:00

Hi there, long time. Yes, its all too much. Ideas and ideas..just few thoughts drifting on the sea like a piece of wood struck by tree leprosy..My my gross ain't I? The thing is, it all started with the chorus of frog croaks that my folks were listening to last night at the park.And of course, little Himona playing havoc on my mind...Keri Hulme should have left me alone than pull me into her paradise of exotica in New Zealand..How dare she? Making me feel like a mortal, unartistic and dull. And my beautiful sunshine by the bedside waking me with that incredible child like radiant smile..so warm and soft. To color my whitewashed life of the moment which was a drab yellow yesterday and an orange tomorrow..All the dreams playing on the big canvas of an unguarded mind at night between Rapid Eye Movements because Stipes sings 'Everybody Hurts...(pause)...sometimes'. Memories imprinted when everything I know I thought I forgot. Achy but happy. In a minute I will be gone, through the day and night. Sleeping like I don't want to but have to. For many hours to come. And the dawn to begin. It's nightfall, a darkness illuminated by the self luminous stars and a distant satellite, silver shining.

Have you been there?

2008-05-20T10:14:00.000-07:00

Soil Microbiology: Strain of Actinomycetes

I come to your door to see you again, but where you once stood was an old man instead. I asked where you'd be. He said "She's moved on you see" "All I want is her number" "You better ask her not me" So I picked up the phone and dialed your number not sure to put it down or speak. Then a voice I once knew answered in a sweet voice. You said "Hello"

-from "Babe" by Take That

There are times when you forget your past. Your present is so fast that you don't even see your future. There are people you want to meet, talk and meet for a cup of coffee. They now feature on your friend's list on orkut or facebook. So you use the virtual tools to interact with them like the way you like if they were in front of you. Sometimes they are all you got. A friend on your chat list. Makes you smile when you see them online.Especially if they have the time to spare.. as would you. Another time you pass message about the opportunity that they'd like to cash on. Or talk about relationships. Prompt them to say something they wouldn't otherwise tell you. Who are these people curious to know about other's lives? A teenager caught in mischief,a mother whose child's gone to sleep,a worker whose boss isn't around,a pervert who is throwing darts in dark, a movie star who seeks the anonymity of web,a terrorist drafting his blueprint,a writer seeking story and you reading this blog! In the end, you log off and freak out on life's real drama. Because nothing is as intoxicating as filling your senses with the aroma of rain soaked mud - caused by a genre of microbes called Actinomycetes. And that for me is LIFE!

Hello! Is there anyone out there?

2008-04-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

Beep! Rubumbum rubumbum...dti dti dti dti dti dtak dtak..

And thus began the beat. The fugitive is running amidst sparse traffic at midnight of a day in 1993. Having stabbed a Muslim in a communal fight, a RSS (Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh) member fled.

As I looked at the slim pious looking man narrating the story of his life I was mortified. This man had rescued me from a wretch. Another reel forward. "Naataka naataka beedhi naataka, snehitare mathu hethaishigale..."(A play, a play, a street play, my friends and well-wishers...). In 1998 I walked with a man who called me his little sister. We talked about revolution and revolutionaries. I am not sure if he wanted to impress 'lil sis' but he confessed that he had considered joining ULFA (United Liberation Front of Asom) when they invited him. 'Creep' I told myself when I saw him drunk with members of his group on the terrace of our campsite. 'Intellectuals' walked in and out of my life. Men and women. I became touché when some branded ME intel..lectual.

The thing is...our idealism always rules over our better judgment. When you have a 'moral superiority complex' everything you do seems justified. There are two types of people devoid of guilt - the innocent and the criminal. The pseudo intellectual is a cross between the two. Muddled up inside and distrusting on the outside. The individual ceases to exist. Because you are hated if you fall down and loved when you stand up without help. Neither is enticing. Or it’s just that you stopped believing in yourself. Your eyes don’t look into the eyes of others. Your fingers tremble while holding a cigarette. You bow your head when you walk in front of the ‘practical’ person. You dislike the taste of McDonalds. You spit on Gucci shoes and smirk at Ralph Lauren shirts. And just about when someone starts respecting you, you go out and do something stupid. Like drinking from a bottle of vodka that your friend in Gucci bought you. Isn’t that so, brother?

Music, A candy to an ailing heart

2008-03-07T10:11:00.000-08:00

It was the early 90s. Life was just taking a turn as was India. One day it was the magic of Eddie Murphy, Tyra Banks and Michael Jackson. Magic Johnson hits the big drum and declares in a booming voice. It was a time to remember alright..

On a Sunday it was suddenly Eric Clapton who brought 'Tears in Heaven'. Was it Tears for Fears who said 'Everybody wants to rule the world?'. DesRee and Terence Trent Darby with the silken 'Delicate', 24 by 7 taking to you a fast paced 'Take me away", Bon Jovi keeping the faith, Guns N' Roses welcoming you to the jungle with Axl Rose's sexy hairdo in 'Yesterday'. It was then the beginning of the end for Kurt Cobain. Just as I was getting so hooked to the Seattle band he put a bullet through his head. Quick. I wrote an ode to the man. So did a few more million fans. India had stepped into liberalisation. Narasimha Rao and Manmohan Singh had 'freed' India from License Raj Economy. The youth were beginning to bang their heads more vigourously. Death metal was in. Rap was what they needed. Hip was to be. As we watched Pearl Jam sing 'Jeremy' somewhere in Iraq there was a war breaking. Karnataka and TamilNadu were at loggerheads on the Kaveri issue again. A woman was barbequed by her husband. U2 was singing 'Is it getting better? Do you feel the same?...One love. One dream...We are one. But not the same'.

The 90s rolled on towards the new millenium. Alisha Chinai, Baba Sehgal, Shweta Shetty began their combo musik ishtyle. Then came Daler Mehndi and Jessi with their Bangada..Clinton was singing the same with Lewinsky scandal. Stone Temple Pilots going 'I'm half the man I used to be...'

Enter 2000 with Lopez 'Waiting for Tonight'..Osama the nightmare begins. But then it does not. It has another name called BUSH. 9/11 crawls under America. Gujarat's Godra is nothing compared to this. Anti semitism rules. The world has declared a self destructive war. Against one another. No one knows why. Maybe because Hutchence sings 'Not Enough Time'. Flashback late 80s. Fast forward 2007. Everything's turned a full circle. Regionalisation is in. Love thy backyard. At a barcoded price tag. Everybody please wear some sunscreen. Global warming and Al Gore and the Nobel on your screen.

Forward step

2008-02-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

These free minutes of dawn

Blow little flakes of light

Lining the mystique oblivion

With ribbons of gold

Lost in a blue horizon

Tendrils of smoke curl

Like children borne

By the wombs of sin

Their eyes sparkle

Radiant and fierce

Amongst the anonymous

Triggered by the slip of science

As the fingers point

Accusation of sorts

The mistress of dilemma sleeps

Beneath a deathly peace

These forward steps

Towards the altar of forfeit

Tread the fragile path

To conceal life’s defeat

The Namesake

2008-02-03T17:31:00.000-08:00

The first few minutes of the movie reminded me of my own initial days of apprehension in a strange new country. When Tabu (Aashima) was trying to fit into Irfan Khan's (Ashok Ganguly) shoes I was trying to fit into hers. Only, I wasn't born a Bengali let alone draped in those beautiful Kolkatta saris that Tabu wore.The highlight of the movie is Mira Nair's subtlety in portraying the emotions, the acting experience of Tabu and Irfan that overshadows that of the protogonist Kal Penn (Gogol / Nikhil Ganguly).The only other actor worth mentioning her performance was by Zuleikha Robinson (the one who played Gogol's wife, the very western and of Indian origin Moushmi). Sahira Nair as Sonia Ganguly (Gogol's sister) is ok.

I haven't understood anything of Jhumpa Lahiri's literary style till date but am reasonably exposed to her credentials. However, since I haven't read the book in this case I cannot judge the movie vis a vis its book What I do like about the story is that it revolves around the Russian author, Nikolai Gogol's book "The Overcoat". For me it translates as a delightful introduction to a literary piece!

To give Mira her credit this movie has a very nice build up, somewhat pales with the exit of Irfan and fades away into a mainstream cinema in the end. It's sad to draw parallels to 'American Desi' (a cute but average flick) but all in all this is movie too is about ABCDs (American Born Confused Desis). The Columbia University professor slipped somewhere while making this one!

The outcome of this movie? Well I 'googled' a lot about Nikolai Gogol and his 'The Overcoat", Mira Nair, Jhumpa and Kal Penn. So much for updating my movie aptitude. And....thus chugs my little train of thought like the way Gogol Ganguly travels to India.

Other takeaways: The paintings shown (Aashima's father is a painter), portrayal of Irfan's gentleness as a patriarch, Tabu's bengali/Indian accented English, Gogol (Kal Penn)'s remorse shown during his father's death, Taj Mahal.

Tags: Nikolai Gogol, The Overcoat , Mira Nair, Jhumpa Lahiri, Tabu, Irfan, The Namesake review, Kal Penn, Nayana

Break from blogging!

2008-01-24T07:23:00.000-08:00

I have decided to take a break and enjoy the snow laden winter for a while. Getting cozy with books seems the nicest thing to do now. Last evening I had this goofy smile on my face while at the gym. Saying hello to neighbours (strangers really!) and peddling the biclycle with great intensity was just the thing I had in mind (!!)..Whatever..you can see that I am so bored to write anything meaningful. Writing and editing. Rewriting. My focus is just peeping out of the window.Will see ya!

Oh, before I forget! We had this really nice party thrown by J's colleagues. Smash went the cake. Down went the Indian dishes.Was a night of masala chai and pakoras for an Indian in Canada. :-) That silly grin again.Duh!

Tags: canada, indian dishes

Gratis Cerebrations

2007-11-18T08:38:00.000-08:00

Lights are turned on

In a narrow pathway

Of a historical secrecy

Where coded scriptures

Appear seemingly closer

To the moral battle

Of a conqueror who

Unearths a lie everyday

When love dies in your arms

With a pale upholstery

Confusion murmurs

Little things about

A boring raga playing

Notes of wishful

Mind games to

Snippets of reality

The marooned legend

In a cavern so deep

Prompts the yogi in

You to breathe

The faith of nihilism

Cathartic to the recluse

Who lives beneath the

Darkened leaves

Tags: nayana's poem, nihilism, faith

Romanticising Bangalore University, Central College Campus

2007-11-18T01:43:00.000-08:00

What is it about the Central College campus (CCC), young lovers and nostalgia? Possibly it is about the calm among chaos. Finding serenity amongst bustling city traffic is like discovering new found happiness in a relation gone sour! Bad simily...whatever! Anyway I still remember my old campus with a lot of fondness. Old colonial buildings, a nice lawn and a relatively pollution free environment. Last week when I watched the movie 'Aa Dinagalu' I realised how we relate old Bengaluru to Vidhana Soudha, Cubbon Park, CCC, High Court; calmly chewing on a delicious block of corn burnt on hot coal, with a pack of popcorn or roasted groundnuts in hand.Of course, the same serenity attracts power hungry politicians (small or big), student leaders involving in rowdism and crime. The combination is rare. Love and crime is treated with the same passion. In 'Shantaram', Gregory speaks with the same sentiments about Mumbai. I guess, every city has a tale that brings out the romance in you as much as the pain. But we roll in it. Liking all that we can feel...Feeling the feel...a funny feel...of being a human again and loving all that we should.

Tags: Bengaluru, Central college, Nayana, Aa Dinagalu, Shantaram, cities, love

Deception Point

2007-11-01T03:22:00.000-07:00

If you have watched Fatboy Slim's "Right Here, Right Now" you know what I'm talking about. It appears that story tellers of today are fascinated with the thought of moving sequences from one geography to another. With due credit to Dan Brown's excellent research skills to weaving exciting (and controversial) thrillers, I have a feeling that this guy likes to play it to the masses. Or it must be his publisher putting a gun to his head to make his books best sellers. His 'Da Vinci Code' fell flat without making it to the list of great books for the same reason.

The novel revolves around NASA, POTUS and a wannabe US President. The main characters Rachel Sexton, a promising young NRO analyst and Michael Tolland, a popular television oceanographer poorly supported in character by Corky, a physict and friend of Tolland play cliched roles of a Hollywood movie. But what's fascinating is that the novel throws light on the faux pas played by politicians and powerful bureaucrats in a leading democratic country fooling millions of people who eagerly await for a sensational discovery in the outer space. Brown's research on the highs and lows of political drama, the science behind space makes this book a wonderful reading. But like I said (barring one incident i.e., involvement of the NRO chief William Pickering in the NASA goof-up) this book gets predictable after a while. Ending is too good to be true which I rate it to be as good as the ending of a Mills & Boons story (Yes, I've read them too!!).

What I've observed about Dan Brown's book is that if you read his book you don't have to watch the movie. His detailing is great. Movies won't do justice to the books. He even ends it so politically right! Rating: 2.5 on 5!

Tags: Dan Brown, Deception Point, Nayana, review, rating

Fear: The Blind Assassin and The Silent Witness

2007-10-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

Gitanjali Nagpal is suffering from fear psychosis. Maybe it’s rubbing on to few of us as well. My strong mind which could not identify the emotion of fear suddenly shook. I felt spooked in the nights. I’d stare at my room windows and shudder suppressing a silent scream. The first few days of reading The Blind Assassin (by Margaret Atwood), a Booker prize winning novel, I was deeply disturbed by the bipolarity of it. As ever, I took up to reading another book simultaneously, The Silent Witness (by Richard North Patterson) - a la Grisham – in a sleazy way I must say. The state of my mind in the initial days of reading these two books together was vulgarly in deep fear. I recall, Mike Atherton’s (Ex-captain of England cricket team) father once said that to know what his son was thinking like, at a given moment, one had to find what book he is presently reading. Now about the books:

The Blind Assassin is a beautifully woven story into another. This brocade of two female protagonists Laura Chase and Iris Chase-Griffen sounds autobiographical to a reader. The climax of the story is unraveled so subtly that even the obvious seems astonishing. The ingenuity of a neatly told sub story within a larger saga of a woman who is betrayed by her husband who in turns betrays him and her sister with whose lover she has an affair sounds clichéd. But the circumstances under which each of these incidents occur leaves you breathing slowly dragging in the brilliance of the writer. Margaret Atwood is no doubt a great story teller but I must confess that it didn’t strike me as much as the complex simplicity of Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. My way of reviewing a book is simple. No matter how the story is, where it takes you, in the end I need to feel an inner pleasure and a lingering happiness of reading a good book. The one that makes me ponder and smile at the thought of it, no matter how dark the tale appears. I am pleased to read such a book after a fairly long time. Blind Assassin is a must read for every book lover. I can’t thank enough to the one who gave me such a lovely gift. J

I started The Silent Witness after The Blind Assassin but ended it much before. It is a typical fast paced thriller with too much verbiage. It sure is gripping as a story and certainly as well told as possible for the given subject. But here, the subject itself is questionable. Is it just another American sex selling semi-porn plot? Not exactly. The talent of the writer gets lost the way he finds it necessary to detail out sexual exploits of a high school teacher whose selfishness costs him his reputation and hence his life. The biggest guffaw of this novel is that the wife practically lives with a murderer husband and yet he never harms her in the entire trial of a complicated murder case or the life they lived together. That seems a little funny and appears deliberate to make the victim look innocent. In my review, this one left a sour taste in the mouth. No great shake drama or climax!

Tags: The Blind Assassin, The silent witness, Margaret Atwood, Booker prize, Fear, Gitanjali nagpal

Obsessive Compulsive passion

2007-09-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

What is it that ticks off people about a person doing or saying the same thing again and again? Incidentally my obsessions appear listless. It's a small walk after a lunch. I see a Steamed Corn seller on the road. It costs me Rs.2 to indulge in my temptation. I see eunuch's ripping men in traffic for money. I can't help smiling at their audacity. One day I dont see them in traffic and I look out for them. I see women over dressed in the night waiting in places they shouldn't but I have to see them everyday to believe there exists a life that I am unaware of. I see people who are obsessively compulsisve. I need to feel contempt for their weaknesses. What is my obsession? Or is it a passion that is perversive in some ways? Why do I go round in circles to come to the same focal point again and again and again and again and.....?

The old man and three telescopes

2007-08-28T11:31:00.000-07:00

Watching milk white fog

Painted across the hills

Tried to find a bridge

Crossing a needy heart

Squinted eyes hurt

In search of water

Gushing down far away

Like tears of forlorn soldier

The kind Sun stepped

Bore the misty clouds

Quenching his thirst

He smiled upon the old man

Diamonds drifted

Like near heavens

Of a love spectrum

Bowing to ‘Pa

His three telescopes

Were no companions

Two were dead sons

But this one fed him

Part 2:Dark Blues of the Night

2007-08-28T06:07:00.000-07:00

If you have waited long you will be disappointed to know that the girls on the uphill disappeared. Perhaps, they are just hidden away from people like me. The ones who cluck their tongues and sympathise. But do nothing. The nightcrawlers aren't creepy. They are innocent than us in cumulative. The life you see is the glow of an endothermic reaction. Cool on the exterior. Latent from the interior. The fact that this happens under constant pressure is the irony of it. Sometimes, I don't understand the dynamics of science as much as I do of life. I know it has got to do with my agonistic mind. Layers and layers piled up but no foundation to hold it up. A weightless journey into a karst shaft whose fissures hurt yours upon falling on it.

Amul

2007-06-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

The last time we saw the birds sitting on the tree it was 8 years ago. Now there were again two of them. Of course they were not the same old birds but only looked the same to us. We decided to call it Tiptipi and Kutki. Tiptipi was slightly the bigger one and quite lazy. It always seemed to be dozing and I feared it would fall off sometime from the branch they were resting on. Indeed it fell off at a short distance! Poor Kutki which was resting next to it also did! This was during the holiday season when all the children were playing on the streets. One of the little boys came running with curiosity and excitement written all over his face. He spread his two legs and bent down to pick one of them. Frightened, Kutki fluttered its wings and almost poked the little boy’s tender cheeks with its beak. The boy taken by surprise fell on his back trying hard to get up and run. The other kids started screaming with some kind of surprise & excitement around them.

I watched the little boy cry with pain. I thought he was more frightened than hurt so I decided to pacify him without making it too obvious for him. I acted as though I was impressed with his heroic attempt to rescue a fallen bird. With all the children watching me go up to him I knew we had an audience. I told the boy that he was very brave and that I hoped all children would learn from him to care for the helpless creatures. I added that Kutki was merely anxious to wake her partner by causing a small commotion and had no intention to scare little Amul – yes that’s our curious friend’s name. Amul’s tears had long stopped by now and was watching me cautiously. As I was talking, Tiptipi swooshed up with her wings almost brushing my face. It was my turn to be taken aback and gasp. Amul’s face broke into a smile and he started clapping his hands excitedly. The rest of the children also started laughing.

Soon the children found the birds to be some sort of companions during their play time. At some point during their play time they used to gather around the tree in small groups and speak in undertones. They had no intention to ruffle their feathers lest they make the birds angry. It was just that after that small incident with Amul they had found a couple of new play mates. That they were rather inactive in their roles made no difference to the kids. If the children were tired after running around they would sit under the tree and chat about various things. Occasionally they would look up to find the birds resting. Whenever I came out to my garden I couldn’t resist a smile looking at the innocence and bonding that evolved between them.

The summer was over and monsoon had just set in. The short spells of drizzle gave a wet green look all around. Droplets of water tricked from the corners of the leaves. Small bubbles stayed on the red roses. With a warm spell of golden sunshine a beautiful semi-circular rainbow was formed in the sky. I wondered about the stories of finding treasures at the end of it and found myself wandering in childhood fantasies. Children rarely came out now as the schools started in full swing. They were mostly engaged in preparing for their regular class tests which were getting competitive by the day. I missed little Amul. With two of his front teeth gone he looked adorable in his attire of shorts, bright tee-shirts and small floaters. He had a blue tri-cycle which he would not ride but push it around just to speedup.

....There's more...

Tags: Nayananat, story, people, poems, children, Amul

These smiling eyes are just a mirror for the sun

2007-05-27T23:56:00.000-07:00

Ambivalence. Life. Prejudice. Time. Beauty. Cynicism. Trust. Truth. Debate. Pain. Narcissm. Colors. Joy. Solitary. Pride. Trigger. Power. Thought. Compromise. Euphoria.Passion.Pleasure. Love. Not necessarily in this order. Every hour, every day learning more..The more I learn, the less I know you.. Contemplation. Isolation. Jubilation. The wise learn and the unwise let go. Intellect. Sensibility. An opaque screen masking your vision. Hunters. Farmers. Reap. Sow. Benefit. A lot of junk. Troublesome gut. Errors. Judgement. Winning. Fighting. Facing. A lot of happiness drowned in salt water. Unscientific. Desolation. Continuity. Stop...Stop...Bang! and blame.

Sexes

2007-05-17T04:59:00.000-07:00

"Care for a cup of coffee?"

"Sure"

"Pick a place"

"Well....I don't really know."

"Ok. May I?"

"Please"

"How about Cinnamon?"

"Hmmm. Don't really like the music there"

"Mocha?"

"Isn't it a crampy little place where they smoke hukkah?"

"Caramel?"

"You mean the Cappucchino Only place?"

"Mmmm"

"Hey! I know this place near St.Linnet street. It's called Coffees and TV. My favorite! Let's go!"

"Huh?!!"

Dark blues of the night

2007-02-21T22:08:00.000-08:00

Every night the road to home is a dull smoky path where breath is stifled by madness of pedestrians and their abrupt crossings in a zig zag pattern. One such night turned out to be an alarm in disguise. It was novelty of the experience.Late in the evening these pretty young girls were dressed to live.Thin bodies covered in modern attire. Some in skirts, some in salwar and few in pants.Lips were painted. How different were they from all of us? I dress to be presentable. In order to be an achiever I strive hard till late hours of the day. I get back home to see them lined up on the small uphill of life. I can't talk. I just look. When they are talking to men who get off from their bikes and negotiate on a price. Those wide eyed faces fleeing at the sound of a siren.I tell a friend that I've never seen something like this before in my life. I was told they are transvestites. Not all. I now pass them, look at them, think of them. Maybe someday I'll talk to them.Depends.

Power

2007-02-03T22:49:00.000-08:00

The vast areas of gray reminds me of the fumes. Of burning tyres, crackling glass and an underlying current. The greatest power that one has is to create a religion, not to destroy them. The Hindus and their million Gods are just the avatars of different human personalities. The Muslims have no God. Only their superior power. Of mosques, mullahs and Quran. Christianity is the epitome of controversy of whether Jesus is black, gay, single / married. Sikhs are fighting for a cause. Whose? Jews are hiding with vengeance. Communal riots are not mere fantasies of religious and political leaders. Some of them are rooted deep in the hearts of the cowards who need a blanket of security and some of them with the heroes who would like to save their kinfolk from elements that are petty in thinking but potent in damaging all forms built with great hands of hardship. In between these there are mobs. Mind you! Mob behaviours appear atrocious and ridiculous. Try telling it to your brother whose neck is brushing the knife of a fanatic. Pull down the fortress around an individual and see him become the beast of folly. The only one who can save you is yourself. The only way to save is by awakening the inner demon. Keep it without hurting it. That will be your power. The power not to destroy when you can.

Tags: Religion, god, power, communal, fanatic

Our creation

2006-12-28T08:36:00.000-08:00

As I rode my bike in thick traffic I coughed with an irritation in my throat and pungent odour nastily getting into my nostrils. Everyday the pollution level rose in the city as our economy grew and people became capable of affording two and four wheelers. The only missing thing was that we had neither anticipated such a growth nor were we prepared for it or we just didn’t care. I longed to live in uncivilised woods. I wondered how creatures of this earth survived so many adversities with their superb body systems perfectly constructed over a time by nature. Our skin is water proof. Almost everything can be washed away. With time and quitting, a smoker’s lungs can get back to near normalcy. I was reading a book on the terrace one day. My feet touched dry leaves on the ground. I bent down staring at it in the sunlight. One leaf came to life and slowly crawled over. Such is camouflage. The stripes on the tiger, spots on the deer, the browns and blacks of a sparrow, the shining weave of a snake…there is no end to this beauty of life. The chameleon is just one of the creations that is in the game of changing colours.

Who can fight a nation?

2006-12-13T02:55:00.000-08:00

The power that drives a state or a country is resting latent in the hands of those who choose to hold everything at their finger tips. Our lives are oblivious to that power and tends towards values that convenience our everyday living. Many a times these eyes stay closed to situations that can be ever so controlled by a simple voice that speaks one truth. A God who competes with the goodness of human lives remains invisible. All good people silence their already muted lives with a concern that can empathise and perhaps accept defeats as they come. A rigid mind that conforms to the parallel lines drawn by social strata is perceived to be respectful. Every period must have a hero. There are animals which are extinct by the day. So are heroes. They come when least expected, storm into a whirlpool of circumstances, brazenly speak their mind, fight those who can’t fight themselves, dare their lives to be victorious and yet…they die. We fight our ghosts, present and future with an incredible passion and zeal to carry on. However our ways are far too many and our triumphs too few. The moments we count are transparent. They pass us as we try to pin numbers against them. Our journey is hard but the destination clear. What visionary fails to achieve such a goal? Only the one who overestimates our troubles and underestimates our abilities. Nothing that matters to us is impossible and that which becomes a road block is merely a step aside and a walk over. Where our minds are miles ahead of the war in reckoning a single key will bear the brunt of a million deaths. Yet a lone person fears a tragedy that would destroy one’s life not knowing the same has the power at finger tips that can turn the key other way.

modernism

2006-09-24T11:20:00.000-07:00

2:46:48 AM EST

“Basic amenities for the downtrodden…” sounds pseudo intellectual and is causative of a politically correct syndrome. To be on the other side of the fence and think about poverty is not so bad after all. It is the disparity over ability that matters more. Being discriminated for who you are rather than what you are plugs you into a bubbling bottle. Humanists may disagree to this saying that only those who have gone through starvation and deprivation of a shelter know what really matters to live when you have none to look upon. The truth of the hour is, whether it is a developed economy or developing economy one lives a fulfilling life purely by choice. If this is so, then happiness exists in every fight, every challenge and every hurdle that was overcome.

This is a touch and go situation when all of us cry for attention and are bent upon proving to someone who matters to us most at a given moment. The desperation which increases a craving is in the form of a fragile ego. Ideologies no more is part of the youth, at least for not too long. On the buttered side this is great in terms of development. There is more of a realistic approach to problem solving rather than sitting in ivory towers and contributing to heap of dusty sheets lying in the libraries of large universities. There will now be more focus and direction with each individual dedicating themselves to one productive hemisphere of their brains. The retardation on the social side is purely incidental. There is now an urgency to do more, to multiply your needs and earn more so that you can spend more to climb up the social ladder. Even better down the line you are left with a consciousness that deserted your good senses at the time you thought you never needed. With so many loose threads hanging who are you trying to be and why?

“Take it easy baby

Take it as it comes

Specialise in having fun”

Jim Morrison – The Doors

This is just a minor change in the beginning of a new ideology. Now the even not so savvy are looking at life with new confidence and self-assurance to live. It is because of a whole generation which refused to see the reflection of their pain in their off spring’s eyes. This is called the extension of life with a continued beginning. In other common words, a vicious circle.

children

2006-09-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

All this while the child was looking into a mirror which only reflected its true self inside out. The starry gaze was mainly because the glass was an unknown substance which shone in a peculiar way. The mother refused to believe that the 8 month old could even recognise anything by looking into it. She broke the glass with her fist and metallic bangles to deny herself the narcissistic pleasure of being watched by her only child. When her husband walked into the room all he saw was orange pieces and little sparkles of mercurial life. The baby giggled at its mother’s antic. The mother had a satisfied yet a fearful look on her face. When her man pleaded to know what was going on the only answer he got was the trickle of water from her eyes and the wild gaze from his child. He put his hands around his wife and tried to comfort her. He knew she was boiling underneath. Yet, he stroked her hair and slowly walked her out of the room and made her sit on the sofa in the living room. He went inside again and lifted the baby off its tiny bed and brought it to its mother. He poured a glass of orange juice and drank a sip. He extended his hand in offer to his wife who looked at him blank. Undeterred by her look he made her drink slowly sip by sip. Her zombie like appearance and the baby’s gurgle brought him back to reality. He begged forgiveness to the lord for his foolish behaviour. The lord pushed the white button to keep him from running away. He stayed. Later, he strayed. His wife estranged herself from him and the child too. She had decided to live on. Her now ex-husband loved her decision. He wished her well. He married the woman he really loved and took good care of the child. The child grew up to be an actor. He shot to fame. He was shot by his mom.

Where?

2006-09-07T01:26:00.000-07:00

Amidst a redundancy called life I was choking on a tasty meal called affinity. Trying to disappear from the interwoven disagreements and unable to face the upsetting notions and prejudices about people I walked into a hallow cavern of self sympathy and hurt. Mildly disturbed by a friend’s disappointment and disillusionment a question was popping up every second. What the answer should have been was still a mind boggling quest. All the boys and girls who assembled to bid farewell to a dear one were actually seeing off each other, forever. The crossroads at the foot were really chewing off a good chunk of their hearts, not knowing a thing about choices to make. A melodious hope arose from the flutes of sacrifices where men killed their brothers to save the lives of their friends who would soon destroy them. Aspirations were of a distant past where hope was still a word recognised by the mind. They marched in unity and discipline to mark their respect to a life that was fit for king’s servants whose heart sought nothing but compassion and the meals that got them through the day.

They sang a song that ran like this:

We are the beautiful children

Of this livening earth

Albeit a willingness

The dunes were all red

Forming a tapestry

On the chosen savannas

Along along we go

Walking on this stage together

Everywhere we go

Imaginations ran wild

Through the forests;

The land of fins,

Was it a dream in reckoning?

Amorphous creatures beckon

To disappear in the oblivion

Along along we go

Walking on this stage together

Everywhere we go

The rage of the purple haze

Tearing the eyes off insolence

Dancing to the tunes of melodrama

A picture of emotion

That rode a sieve bridge

Hallow and ridged like a warrior

Along along we go

Walking on this stage together

Everywhere we go

Every night of this musical feat

We shiver through a little upbeat

High on sweetness of the rotten cane

Burials and odes to the brave men

‘Cause we are the children of the livening earth

We were born and lived to embrace the god of death

Along along we go

Walking on this stage together

Everywhere we go

(Nayana, Sat, July 22 2006,11:41:48 a.m.)

muddle

2006-08-30T22:12:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to understand it all well. However I realise that sometimes nothing seems good enough a reason. I was disturbed to see your sickness, your inability to plead and a mind that was too twisted for my taste. The trouble was, whenever the disorganised sound arose from the bedroom, the water would stop flowing from the pipe. A thin line of light entered the window which gave a look of a lens in that split second. Enchanted with the graciousness of so many colours disembark on a plain floor the mind was thinking of something else. What should have been euphoric turned out to be turbulence on a ride to the liquor bar.

In little words the girl wrote a poem on her mother and the latter beat her for playing with the Muslim children. Her eyes, filled with tears looked at her father who had a satisfied grin of rowing a rocky boat. It was stupid to believe that they didn’t love the child. She meant everything to their threatened world of immobility. The delightful blue of the night unmasking a region that belonged to no mankind began to close in on the sleeping mind.

Due to this fancy choice of words my friends were too many. Everyone loved to know the deepest secret only to feel secured that they didn’t crack its meaning. Many years later these musings got them into trouble and the Lord closed his eyes to pray. All workers gathered around the bubbling pool of joy where men and women did not swim. Instead they tested the waters and drowned themselves in the myth of sorrows. Perhaps, I wasn’t far too behind. I memorised my lines before the act and tapped the person in front of me to ask if it was my turn next. I learnt it wasn’t. My turn would come only if I didn’t wait in an unhealthy queue of thoughts that ask ‘if’ and ‘but’.

While I think:

More and more
Dreams of the future
Loners at heart
Trying to forget
There’s life to lead tomorrow
No use drowning in sorrow
When things go sore
Death nears you more
We can only bear
Things we love dear
Not that we can’t take
Mistakes, everyday we make
It’s just that…
Things like blood and gore
We can’t ignore
When minds are at ease
We can see more peace
Love when we bar
There one thing – WAR!
(Nayana, 11/96)

The ashes of a sweet wonder tree

2006-04-19T10:54:00.000-07:00

The ashes of a sweet wonder tree

With a foothill of the falling

Swept through the river of yesteryears

Slyly ushered into the depths of blue

Walking past the summer homes

The slight rise of the rustic leaves

An Indian afternoon in the island of hope

All the twigs crackling to a touch of fiery

Those who burn in wanton of warmth

By the rolls of endless yearns

Must be the notes that one hears as the midnight scream

When every aspiration draws the faded line

Lasting rails over the pebbled roads

Dreamily running into the paragraphs of troubled lives

Nested into the wilderness of the forgotten

Sharing a laugh with the faint muse in hiding

Barren with the longevity of closing time

An inner cadaver going up the stairs

This was an end thought to be pure

Of all the mistakes that were never proved

memoir

2006-02-22T21:57:00.000-08:00

If I could have saved all those heart wrenching demolitions it would have scared everything out of me. One day I couldn’t be hearing about my friend’s death and on another day speaking to the most dangerous of all, a loner. To tap the truth out of me and putting me in a suffocating trap, there seemed no escape for me. A loner can never stand one of his/her kind. The ground is shaking underneath both of them. Waiting for each other’s turn to be gulped by the explosion. The desire to be captured, possessed and controlled is a taste that is far too spiteful. Yet, running behind half naked truth would leave no stone unturned. In the pitch black background of lies and double standards, wall to wall there is no corner for comfort. Insects crawling to build, to prey and move on. Where do you stand a chance? Look into this mirror, parallel and opposite. Why do we think that they would meet? I could only be mercury to a standing glass to reflect a life. Today I closed my ears to a ringing bell. Otherwise I couldn’t be smiling in the street. Alone in a framework which does not fit me at all I twist and turn. I hope you are reading me. It’s clear by now, what is wrong! Two face. Two face. We have sold this world. Together. But now we fall!

songs of the heart

2006-01-19T10:09:00.000-08:00

The house is rolling over the space

Walking into this long distance

The lavender bird closed its eyes

As this song spoke the phrase

Hit by the storm that broke its face

Flightless journey that breathed a life

Alone along this mute chafe

Caressed the rustle of the little brown leaf

Searching through the mission of bluff

Pull along the ashes of a dragging puff

Beneath the shadows of the lying trust

A crystal wall of the crying mist

Within reach of the heart’s limit

Through the dilemma of a learned tenet

When will these begin to admit?

Creation of boundaries that speak

Strong dialogues of an amoral meek

Ambiguity looming over the righteous peak

Droplets trickling through the creak

Like a denial from the weak

2005-08-19T06:33:00.000-07:00

captain of the heart!

2005-08-18T05:38:00.000-07:00

There was this real nice girl in my class who was not among the favs with the teachers. Was percieved to be dull and unfocussed by some of her peers. A very giggly uncomplicated and a fun loving person. Years later she started to play hockey for the school team. She excelled in the sports, became the national goal keeper and then the national team captain. Recently felicited by the Karnataka government, a truly deserving champion..daughter of Mr.Innocent. Will always love her for what she was and is. Never tried impressing anyone.