ILLUSIONS OF SELF

Why did i not say delusion?? Dont know. An illusion paints a picture. It is a sort of an entity physically away from one's body. Almost as if your soul - translucent and similar in form, has stepped away and is looking at your body.

I have learnt recently to not self opinionize. You think you know something and then you realize that knowing it actually makes you a dupe. Claiming that knowledge is like claiming your sweat.

The acceptance of truth is much above anything that you realize, learn or fashion. I am a living being. And that in itself is more difficult to accept and grow with than any other "ascetic wisdom" that i might acquire. No act of abandonment, nor thought of triviality will ever be able to stand against the simple truth. I live.

Triviality is like a gravitation force. It will hold you down but you are most likely to find something more worth while and drift away. A slight push and you attain escape. So all my opinios about myself and here on after- abandoned. Its pointless. One can never trivialize through self judgement...

I live for the game, the cruel, vicious, half discovered circle. I live as a drifter and as a driver, as an absolute and as a relative. I reserve nothing and wait for nothing. I patronize time- nonetheless worship it. I never loose sleep and am always awake. I seek all even when i dont wish to find it. I abandon all despite a small will to retain it. I desire no one and yet i conquer all.

I live in days, count in years, breath in seconds, write in miles.

I die in pounds.

None the Wiser

As i buzz past the lobby i see an old friend being discarded. A very pretty Van Gogh replica. A sketch that he drew of himself in his young years, used to hang in the front lobby of our office. And i would interact with it often. I felt stupid about feeling sad for the painting. Even stupider when i realized i would actually miss it. My father always told us- "never get attached to objects". But as i grew up i realized- more often than people, one gets attached to objects. Hell i could get more easily attached to a calculator that i have used too often than my own neighbour!

Why so? the very obvious answer is continuous proximity. But a more deep seated reason is the unresponsiveness of an object. Your neighbour would say ten things, 5 out of which would hurt you. But the "metallica" calendar on your wall is like an ever passive companion. The eternal observer and endurer of all that you say or do.

Coming back to the sadness. With the departure of an old friend, another dilemna presented itself. What is so alluring about "old". An Old friend, antique furniture, Old books with yellow pages, Old unpolished jewellery. granted each of these articles have sentimental value for some and financial for others. But wisdom is the actual atrraction. See, these things have lived for long. The very thought of what all they have seen and felt, how many times they have crashed and been remodelled, magnetizes you. One is always fascinated by what endures.

People are big time worshippers of wisdom. But the real tough nut to crack is to identify that wisdom in other people. Is it there? Or is the person a pretentious "encyclopedic" knowledge mass? That is where this Van Gogh comes in. It cannot pretend to have wisdom. If it has been up there for 10 years, i know that it has witnessed quite enough and asorbed more than i ever could in its place. It never boasts of wisdom. How can it? Its a replica in itself. All that beauty is acquired, so is all the wisdom. So it just soaks in everything. And that, right there, is why i love my metallica calendar and my old copy of "whuthering heights" so much. They are genuinely wise.

Just like this Van Gogh. Love You, old friend.

SHOES

One image i can never get out of my mind is that of this friend, stuffing his shoes with "farra"- aka- cheat notes for an examination. Following immediately is that of the same fellow, stuffing the very same shoes with "pot" that he wanted to carry on a plane journey. And of course if one is stuffing it with "red light" stuff, cash is expected to be found in their shoes for sure.

For long i have felt that shoes are the most "insightful" accessory.

The act of tying a shoe lace is like finalizing the course of your soul's journey through life. You beat about the bush a little, you tangle them amongst one another to finally emerge with a tight grip around your feet( in case of the soul- a grip tight enough to place its path).

Similarly, the act of polishing the Shoe is like doing an I.T. job- or maybe ANY job (not too sure about other kinda of jobs since i havent done them). You work with a creased forehead (maybe the tip of your lip out from a corner of your mouth, to breathe in more air). You rub and rub and make them SHINE. then you sitback- satisfied and greased in shoe polish. You wash your hands, walk out of the house with the "snap happiness" of doing a good job on the shoes. You keep pausing to look at them once in a while. So far so good. (for thick heads- you are now shining at your JOB in allegorical terms).And then you soil them.

But BEHOLD! The beauty and Pity of the situation lies in the fact that you must POLISH every single time you soil them. By some pathetic act of monotony and cruel humor of life- resting on laurels is something impossible for "corporates". So ones shoes cant shine extra today to compensate for dirt on them tomorrow.

Again the act of pausing to take chewing gum off the soles of your shoes is like trying to get rid of a useless man ( or a "no longer useful" man). You've evaluated that the gum's unwanted and you keep tugging at its "roots" but IT JUST WONT COME OFF. Also- You cant for the life of you recall ON WHICH god forsaken footpath, you found the gum in the first place.

Shoes and Life.

i think i'm gonna babble some more on this later

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE- AGATHA CHRISTIE

Had been reading a lot of my old favourites with the purpose of writing about them, when i chanced upon this. Christie was a die hard romantic and she may have written stuff much better than this, but for me, its her best. Not just for the genius way in which the drama unfolds, but also for the lengthy character portrayals. She has tried to achieve a somewhat less descriptive narration and has instead focussed on her characters more than their actionsor surroundings. Every page of the book eggs you on to read it. And before you know, its evening, you're hungry because you skipped lunch and you feel 13 again!



ESSENTIALS


The story has 10 characters. They're hoodwinked into thinking that a lottery has given them an all expense paid trip to an island. Upon reaching the island they realize that they've been duped and that they've been summoned for what can only be called an "informal court hearing", as a gramaphone record booms out it reveals the horrific pasts of each of them during their first meal together. Upon one of the bedroom walls there hangs a poem about Ten Little Soldier Boys who all fall to awful deaths. There are also ten little soldier boys placed on the dining room table.

One by One they start to fall into mishaps and perish- the characters and subsequently the "soldier boys" representing them. The order of their deaths is poetic, so is the justice. See, all deaths happen in rhyme with a pathetic little poem- "ten little soldier boys".

The guests scramble across the island trying to find an explaination for the deaths. They search every inch of the house and island but find no one and no answer. As their stay continues and more guests mysteriously die, those who remain begin to suspect one another as the murderer.




NON ESSENTIALS

This is not Crime Fiction. It is about insane justice. More of a Psychological thriller. And one very ahead of its time- both in terms of the layout and the characters. One can relate it to almost all good hollywood psycho thrillers.

My favourite character would easily be

Philip Lombard, a soldier of fortune. Literally down to his last square meal, he comes to the island with a loaded revolver. Though he is reputed to be a good man in a tight spot, Lombard is accused of causing the deaths of a native African tribe. It is said that he stole food from the tribe, thus causing their starvation and subsequent death. He can in some respects be termed "the hero" of the novel.

IN PART ESSENTIALS

The genius lies in the poem- the verse of death. It is what binds the whole story together and keeps you chained to the book. It is eerily silly.

Ten little Soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.

Nine little Soldier boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.

Eight little Soldier boys traveling in Devon;
One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.

Seven little Soldier boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.

Six little Soldier boys playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.

Five little Soldier boys going in for law;
One got in Chancery and then there were four.

Four little Soldier boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.

Three little Soldier boys walking in the zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.

Two Little Soldier boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was one.

One little Soldier boy left all alone;
He went out and hanged himself and then there were none.

Her Words Exactly

"everyone made such a fuss over things nowadays. they wanted injections before they had teeth pulled. they took drugs if they couldnt sleep. they wanted easy chairs and cushions...."

I read it for the devil dwelling within. I read it for the graphic murders. But most of all for the epilogue....

The Lament

If speech were allowed a day of freedom, she would smoke up the sleeve of a writer. Taunting the wisdom in the ink-smudged cloth of his cuffs.

We have placed speech under captivity chaining her down to something we call conversation.

She has never seen the light of day nor whiffed upon the greatness of her own existance. The very scarce liberties that she had, have long been lost in the dirt of the ages and will never rise up again. Each free thought that loved her, was snatched away from her, to fall right into the arms of a quill somewhere.

She then tried to find solace in the warmth of MUSIC. There, she discovered a new verve...

But her purpose will never be met. For, this desire to live as freely as ink, to flow on the smooth loins of paper, to touch the burning arms of a writer, shifts further away as we form mazes and mazes of sensibilities and mannerisms around her.

So in despair she waits as her lovers are hastened away. Enticed by the ever so sensous ink.

This i write for you my dear friend. My Speech. I heartfully lament your predicament. But alas there is nothing that will bring you closer to your futile ambitions. Have no hopes from me. For even as I lament, my ink flows and my nib directs your beloved thoughts onto paper. I was party to this treachery. Forgive me, sweet heart. All i have to offer are these thoughts, soaked in ink, carved on paper.

for love of math

everyday i walk past gujarat university's battered mathematics department thinking someday somewhere i shall be doing much better, what the people inside that building are trying to accomplish. Math over matter. have always wanted to study number theory and graph theory.
Academia can get unnerving because it has the nerve to hoot and jibe what little you feel you have accomplished with your life.

so to keep smiles and sensibilities intact, in the absence of math, i resorted to reading out of mu teeth. But alas reading alone does not suffice. So fluidly, it leads you on to writing- even if unskilled. I dont think toiling for a job will ever bring the loose ends of my wiring together. So for the sake of insanity, for the lust of reading, for the gut of writing and for the love of math, i believe i MUST show insincerity everywhere else.

Only in this state of extreme dereliction and gigantic awareness will i be able to emphasize the need for voids and the desire to pursue endlessly- their fulfillment.

februarius

each one told a story
canvas or parchment one need not separate
the portait is all that remains
the portrait i consecrate

each one i left unfinished
"this i shall complete someday"
each day a new one i would perpetrate
all yesters blemished

today i sit
herewith i state
nothing merits completion
the portrait cannot abate

deficient, these words
curtailed, this image
allay the pain of fulfillment
so i tear apart the ones i finished
to bask in the irony of each fragment

The Scion

you kept my hunger and vengeance
and nurtured it out of proportion
aided the mighty designs of my conscience

my conscience grateful, my heart thankless
i bid you farewell
your might has scorched my guile

i welcomed your lines into my own
in your light my nib shines
dissident is your wit; my pen reclines

tired my soul cant see through the eye
your grit so fake
your body a sham
this camaraderie a lie

softly as i leave you
my quil shaken
the flair lifeless
the spirit fallen

outlines

alas how my life defines
tales of death
of pain divine
of merciful breath

of friends today
of those gone by
of those in vain
those who will die

of cries of pain
of sweet release
of crimson tide and of deep blue seas

of smaller lives
of cruel thoughts
of slanders
and of misfortunes wrought

of weary eyes
quiet exhaustion
confined laughter
trodden devotion

of thoughtless compliance
scented trauma
sweetened wounds
painful teething....

triviality

Each time you turn a newspaper's pages, more and more of it... and then you realize how the very NEED to read a newspaper arises out of the need to feel like a part of "something bigger". to believe that reading the news is causing the few inches inside your skull to permeate the boundaries of distance and unite with those that are "like minded". So what happens to us? RK laxman's "common men"? What does that trivial news really bring? a satisfied NOD if the death of kar sevaks is avenged? a disgruntled "hmmph" when thackrey thinks he OWNS the city (if not the state). I'm not being a cliche here and saying "all you can do is read the news. cant cut across and actually do something about it". Just want to know "the inconsequentials" of life.

Would we want to correlate news with our own lives? so when one reads "stray dogs attacked and killed 5 yr old boy" one avoids walking too much on the streets. So for that period it is in fact "somber"(subsequently trifling).

But context changes everything doesnt it? the tsunami is damn important to me if i' stuck in a water clogged hole near CMBT. But it is of a 60 minute (contigous) consequence to me if i read about it somewhere. My reference point matters. Or does it?

200 deaths are non trivial in every world, every species. Infamous politicians talking rot cant be affecting anyone too much. So i devote 5 mins to MNS and its rubbish and 15 to Haiti. Maybe two to the kid ravished by dogs and 30 seconds to Moshe- the son of the Rabbi at Nariman Point (remember him?).

The Mumbai carnage which was ones a line is now a dot to me. Having moved so far away from it, will I be able to recall what i felt when i first saw the footage? What was once important is now trivial.

This leaves me in dispair. For if Massive occurings feel trivial at some point. and if the nature of their significance changes against a timeline (effected a little by some stupid "media" parameters), what do i do with my life? I cant abandon it- love myself too much. But i cant really be solemn about... well about almost anything! Cause everything is a bloody sham! Its a wierd feeling. Somewhat like "man on the moon, world's too small".

However considering that it MUST be important from SOME reference point (since i want to justify my need to feel important), i draft my ONLY consolation- the fact that if it mattered somewhere to someone at some point of time, it DID matter somehow. A life saved is a life saved.