Sticky wicket

In HT dated March 28, 2011. On Comment page

Sticky wicket

In HT dated March 27, 2001

Revolutionary read

This was published on HT edit page 'Comment' on March 23, 2011

No matter what the difference between what they achieved and didn't, what Che Guevara is to the world, Bhagat Singh is to our country. The ideology is beside the point. What a young man of this generation seems more interested in is using these revolutionaries to feed his own self-image of a rebel, non-conformist. And that's about it. Coasters, T-shirts, life-size posters with a Bhagat Singh motif are in. I am a rebel, they cry out.
So, was Bhagat Singh a revolutionary in just that one, vague sense?
His love of anarchism and Marxism is well-documented; how many of us have actually read what he thought of the free-market economic system? A college-goer walking in designer jeans bought with his land-baron daddy's money, topped with a fashionable Inquilab Zindabad T-shirt, is a picture of utter irony. Bhagat Singh stood for peasants' rights, for the dictatorship of the proletariat. Never in a million years would he have desired to be the poster boy of trigger-happy, rich brats.
Also, the last I read him, he had clearly stated his lack of belief in god, and at times even expressed mild disappointment at prayers by people facing the gallows. Then why is it that even newspapers these days insist on using pictures of him only with a turban, never with the hat that was as much a trademark of his as the loosely tied turban. That he was born a Sikh can't be doubted, but whether he chose to die one has a different answer.
It's not that hard to figure out unless you want to use his picture alongside that of Bhindranwala, the right-winger who wanted a separate state based on religion. Using their pictures together is, again, reducing the Shaheed to a mere gun-toting extremist, revolutionary only in action, not thought, and certainly not a nationalist.
It was his 80th martyrdom anniversary day on March 23, and there were rallies at his native village Khatkar Kalan. Speaking from their respective daises, were leaders from different parties, with the single-minded goal of painting a one-dimensional picture of Bhagat Singh in the voter's mind, that of an angry young man. It's easy to see that these politicos were yet again feeding the lazy young majority that loves its own rebel self-image. But there's a Bhagat Singh much beyond that, whose family has said they are sickened by the use of his image on every political party's poster.
Blaming politicians alone, however, proves no point. What our beloved mere-23-at-death symbol of nationalism deserves is a little more attention, love not infatuation. Reading what he read and wrote could be the first meeting.
Now don't be tempted to pick up placards and raise slogans demanding inclusion of all his writings in all textbooks. Why involve those who want to use your hero for votes? Go to a library, use the internet. He is ours more than theirs, he is everyman's hero. Just don't reduce your admiration to mere hero worship.

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http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/PUBLICATIONS/HT/HC/2011/03/23/ArticleHtmls/Read-the-revolutionary-23032011008004.shtml?Mode=1

Barnala's then and now

Published on January 13 in HT Magazine for Sunday. 

Virtually alive

The other day I had this pop up on my Facebook page: “Aditi will die at the age of 96.” It got me furious. Not that I didn’t want my moon-faced friend to live that long; the point was that she was sitting in Pune’s German Bakery last Valentine’s Day, on the table that had a bomb under it, and had lost a painful battle to death. That nerd Zuckerberg had no right to remind me of that with a rude, impossible prediction like that. I closed the window with an agitated left click and started to look for distraction on YouTube.

But it didn’t leave me; and I wanted to know how the update appeared. I logged back in.

Ten minutes is long enough for a mob reaction in the virtual world. By now I had a furious couple of supporters who wanted to know what had effected the update. But what surprised me was the five ‘Likes’ the post had got. Just why would you like to be reminded of how the prettiest girl in the world had fallen victim to a terrorist act, an act we escapists-by-default think always happens in a place called somewhere else.

And then a comment appeared, by some Jyoti: “I told you Aadu, you cannot die before me. See, I have proof now J” Another one: “And you thought you could hide, Aditi… hunh. Gotch ya!” A mini deluge followed. It was as if at least 15 of her adult friends actually thought she was alive, or were deluding themselves to believe the Net had made it to Heaven (or wherever angels go back to).  

There is this religious belief about life after death, but I was sure Facebook was the last means spirits would register their presence through. This was ineffable. Why aren’t these kids angry at this, I thought, and called Aditi’s BFF Bindiya.

She wasn’t surprised. In fact it was she who had the password and had taken a quiz that claims to tell your longevity based on your choice of colour and nightclub. The quiz thought she was Aditi. “This is so damn stupid. She is dead, you know,” I snapped. “Shut up! You don’t have to tell me that,” she snapped back, yelling as I appeared to utter another word, “This is my way of keeping her alive. Go to hell if you don’t like it.” Bang!

A non-believer, I was shaken out of reality. Her argument made me argue with myself for at least 15 minutes. But I lost to the romantic inside me. That non-cynic Me said why not try the delusion, and I picked up the mouse.

Simer had succumbed long ago to a concoction of urban angst and pressures modern day jobs bring. But I figured the noose he had put around his neck, had failed to snuff out his being. His Facebook profile page had a cow he had ‘won’ for his Farmville. Pink, she was mooing; maybe she knew something I didn’t. Obviously he too had a friend keeping him alive, but it was surreal. I posted a belated birthday wish for him.

I moved on to Arpan’s page. “Now here’s a guy who knows how to have fun,” I thought. The editor in me rapped me on the knuckles, “Wrong tense! He knew, not knows.” But Facebook didn’t agree. The page had updates; it told me Arpan -- who in the real world had been shot in a fatal mishap -- had downed a virtual double martini last night, as an animated Deep Throat Debby gave him a lap dance.

I couldn’t resist a smile, then a chuckle, and then I burst out laughing, tears blurred my view as I thought: Some people just don’t change, and will not die, at least not as long as this wonderful Other World exists.

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An atrociously edited version of this piece appeared in HT dated December 20, 2010.

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Intermission over

Dogri has made a return to the movies after 44 years, no less. Led by a son of the soil and his friends from Bollyland, a motley group of artistes from Jammu has put together a family tearjerker that would bring a smile to the face of those who waited for this, Dogri’s bold step back into pop culture.  

Story:

It took some coming. So long that Amit Choudhary, the hero-producer of Maa Ni Mildi, wasn’t even born when the last, and the first, Dogri film released – Gallan Hoyian Beetiyan in 1966. The 44-year gap is ineffably wide; seems all the more so when one sees a hilarious, impromptu dance performance by a fan as Pinki (Rittu Mehra) starts singing around trees, wooing Amit (Choudhary). Somebody did want to watch this movie all these decades.

Choudhary, who has also written the script, screenplay and dialogues for Maa, puts this gap down to “lack of guts”. Quite the answer you expect from a man who played Surpnakha in a Ramlila at his village Vijaypur in Jammu, landed in Nineties’ Bombay with only the burning desire to be like Mithunda, meandered his 6-foot frame way through TV and Bhojpuri cinema, and returned when he had the 30 lakhs to make Maa, which released August 13 at Apsara Theatre, Jammu.

Sahitya Akademi-feted Dogri poet Yash Sharma supplements Amit’s theory, “The new generation prefers Hindi and English. It seemed insane to make a movie in Dogri. So to take another shot, it required a revolutionary spirit.”

Sharma would know. Sole surviving member of the 1966 film crew, he wrote the songs for Gallan -- a tale about feudalism, scarcity of resources, and the triumph of hope: Sixties’ staple. It attracted hundreds before a faux pas (see box) ended its run abruptly at Shankar Talkies, now an ice factory.

Maa is describable in a paragraph: Pinki falls in love with Amit and marries him, willing to shun comfort for love and near penury; but realises it’s easier said than done. So she forces Amit to leave his mother (Usha Slathia) and turn a ghar jawai. But Amit has a plan. He makes Pinki realise she was wrong in parting the beta and maa when he refuses to let Pinki meet their newborn. Pinki cries, is forgiven, and they rush back to maa. Butmaa is dead by then. Everyone cries. Credits roll.

Yes, there are curtailed sub-plots, including one with part-time actor Subash Jamwal, an education department employee, as Amit’s brother who starts out bad and turns good by the end. The sad ending, perhaps, is the only remarkable thing in the movie.

But how does that matter when audiences are dancing. It was never meant to be refined; it’s a popular product of passion.

To supplement the passion, Choudhary had an army of Jammu’s thespians and Doordarshan mini-stars willing to work for free, newbies who lined up for auditions in a village 20 km from Jammu, and assistants who shunned assignments for that first shot as heads of music and lyrics (Devinder Rathoure), choreography (Kedar Subba) and editing (Rocki M.). Singers Vinod Rathore and Sadhana Sargam are the only ones who cost some serious buck.

Leader of the pack is director Roop Sagar. A Bilawal native, he assisted master filmmaker Hrishikesh Mukherjee and directed those insistent teleshopping shows through the Noughties.

“I came to Mumbai 35 years ago and never imagined of making a movie in my native tongue. After old friend Amit (Choudhary) started discussing the possibility, I found it was a desire I’d hidden from myself,” Roop says over phone from Mumbai. “Suddenly, after the auditions, I found myself in the middle of talent I’d never expected to find.”

The shooting, mostly around Samba, ended in around a month in Jan-Feb last year, but the movie took another year and a half to reach Apsara. No money and no government help meant Choudhary sold land and his car. “I had no reason not to have put my money where my heart wanted me to. Regional cinema is thriving everywhere,” he says matter-of-factly.

“This movie has sought to bring Dogri back into pop art,” says Lalit Magotra, president of Dogri Sanstha, a body publishing poetry and prose, holding seminars since 1944. “Literature will always have connoisseurs, but language cannot stay indoors.”

Mohan Singh, a DD-Jammu veteran who plays Pinki’s father, adds, “After DD launched Kashir and later a dedicated Jammu channel, stage talent moved to telefilms made on contract for the government. But no one put money into regional cinema due to the risks involved.” Mohan now has plans to partner with four others to make a movie in Dogri.

A little bird also tells how a veteran litterateur-filmmaker asked the state to partly fund a Dogri movie three years ago, but was told “if we give money for a Dogri movie, people would line up for Kashmiri movies as well”. (There hasn’t been a Kashmiri feature film in decades.) No one, not even unnamed little birds, say anything further on this.

Choudhary, meanwhile, is in his own space, desperate to preserve his passion “in the face of all-pervasive negativity of a politically correct, unromantic world”.

“I would welcome government help, but that’s not what filmmaking requires. I hope people put in money and inspire each other. Just the way any thriving industry works,” he says. To that obvious question on whether he’ll make a movie on the ‘Kashmir situation’, he replies with a vigorous left-to-right-and-back motion of the head. 

For now, he has plans of releasing Maa in the rest of ‘Duggar Pradesh’ and selling its TV-rights.

Then, if need be he’d sell some more land, gather another motley group, and work on the two scripts he has ready, both of which, he says, have social messages. That’s one thing Choudhary knows how to do: send a message that transcends the movie.

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An atrociously rewritten version appeared in HT Magazine dated Aug 29, 2010.

here's the link: http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/PUBLICATIONS/HT/HC/2010/08/29/ArticleHtmls/Intermission-OVER-29082010585002.shtml?Mode=1

C, I told you!

Here's the post you've allegedly been waiting for. On the alphabet C.
Let me confess right here at the start, that I am not getting disciplined and doing what I promised, writing a post on the third alphabet that is. It's just that i went to a conference today, and wanted to write about it. And since the word conference begins with C, it fell into place. Important you know that; I have an image to protect after all.
Let's get to the point.

It was a fine conference. People talked about how online media was going to overtake offline media. Filled with Jyoti's jokes, the whole show was just the way conferences are supposed to be -- clean, composed, cliched, yet coated with (com)passion. Hence, presumably easy to swallow, or even chew if you like.
It gave me food for thought. But the food, figuratively, should be good enough to give me mental indigestion, force me to fart out thoughts on the subject for at least a day.
The sad part was, no matter how much I wanted the whole thing to block my bowels, I got only enough to merit a belch. Just enough to fill my mouth, be chewed for a while, downed, and digested.
Everyone largely agreed on the same things, disagreed on the same, had no idea about the same things, and, frankly, there wasn't much to say anyways. I am everyone, too, I must state.
So my learning experience was limited to knowing, or being told, that:
1. Online media is the future, just let Internet penetrate a little more!
2. Offline media is limited in scope, has space constraints.
3. Online media is real-time, more interactive, yet prone to being frivolous, like any growing medium.
and so on.. you get the drift I know. I was a disciplined member of the choir, and agreed and disagreed as required.

But of course there was the mouthful of food, which tasted rather good in the air-conditioned environs.
It was the use of the word 'overtake' (and even 'takeover', by some people who did not know the difference between the two terms).
I wonder how online media could overtake offline media in my lifetime. I mean it could sell more than it does now. May give competition, stiff, to offline media, in the ages we are yet to see.
Overtaking is so relative in the media industry I believe. Has ToI overtaken the Express? It has in figures, but has it in substance. Debatable? Exactly my point!
Why use the word overtake? Why not the politically correct, and more appropriate, 'co-exist'?
It would give credibility to the whole discussion.

And yes, I have to mention this. There was this woman in the audience who said the meaning of news had changed. I wonder what she meant. I wonder if she herself knew what she meant.

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I have to tell my lovely friends who organised the conference, that it's just my observation, bordering on critique. And it's only about the one big session I sat through.
Before you label me a snob, or a jealous wannabe, I would want you to read what i wrote, again, if you would. I presume you respect opinions.
BTW, I am still dying to jump onto the bandwagon called emagzin.

One day at a time

A post on the the third letter of the alphabet is due. But as I wrote earlier, my reliability is known for its non-existence.

In the meanwhile, I return to spit venom on life, the period before one dies that is.

A lot of people talk about how existence and life are one. And a lot of others use the two words -- living and existing -- as opposites. I belong to the latter school of thought.

One ought not to have a purpose in life; that'd be too hard -- a vague idea like 'helping others' is, however, sustainable . But in the transient, and sometimes rudely so, world we live in, it is essential to get through every day with a purpose.

Most people hook themselves back on the crane's beak much before they should, only because they were busy getting depressed. (I have a friend like that, and I also have a mirror that sometimes reflects that girl.)

A fulfilling life is to have a day that had you doing something you wanted to do, it may even be something you ought to do; duties aren't always boring or limiting.

It may even be sleeping, or skipping the wink.

Long term planning helps only if you have a backup plan, and a Plan C.

If you do the day's deed, all you need is a decent amount of RAM, not tetrabytes of Harddisk space that can only lead you to depression cause it has space for every failure you ever encountered.

Spelling B

If the letter B were a person, it would certainly be an eight-year-old hyperactive kid. For some reason.

No. On second thoughts, it would rather be a curvy woman -- the nouns that make up the curves both start with B.

My association with B, however, is not because of my love for the things those nouns denote; it's primarily due to the pompous nickname I have. But I am not telling it, and would issue a denial if it were to be revealed by those who know it already.

Here's my list of B-things that I guess are worth writing about here.

Of people, there's Brishi. He used to be a great friend till Class VII before I was thrown out of the school. The he left town too. Many insignificant details later, he found me on Facebook's ancestor Orkut. We have each other's numbers, but don't go beyond deciding to meet. He is in the same town now, and I made another promise the other day. I never showed up though, and neither did he call. Times change people. You possibly knew that already. Anyways, I will call him again tomorrow.

Then there's that strong-headed child-woman who has layers and layers, but still puts up a needless act of being mysterious. She is mysterious enough; the needless pretence takes one thin layer off her. Fault-finding aside, the countless other sides keep one intrigued, hooked. It often makes me gaze and gape at her face, that shapeless nose, the lips she takes such care of. The eyes that look at you with a kid’s distrust in a stranger her mother told her not to talk to. And when she talks, one listens. The admiration of the shapelessness of her nose turns into love, love for the sincerity of her naiveté, the boundless curiosity she claims she does not bother to possess. I haven't named her because she does not like people talking about her in her absence.

But you possibly know her; such a She is there in everyone's life. The shape of the nose may differ.

Bhupinder Utreja. He probably parachooted into this list for the only reason that he was my humsafar in the first big independent trip of my life. We went to Nagpur for a human rights meet with me posing as a teacher at the age of 17. Was as much fun as boring as it sounds. He made me drink in the train; we drank in a cinema hall, in the loo -- 'cause it had 'great climate' as he said -- and we drank in the streets. I had grown up. He was old enough to be my dad then, still is. He is the reason why I am more comfortable with people double my age; I consider that a good thing.

Booze. It needs company; nothing else matters. It could be Rocket, Dhol or Famous Grouse. Conversation is the alcohol content. Peanuts would be nice though.

Tipsy, i'd say bosoms and behinds could be the defining mounds of a woman's personality, and also a man's. I notice them like any other man, and i admire them like any other man. This has distracted me towards porn.

Bimbos. The girls who look beautiful when they don't talk, says the dictionary. And when they talk, all those great talkers with average looks look beautiful. I have a special place for them on the shelf in my heart. They seem to be the brand I attract most, yes with those teeth I still do. And they make me believe my own theory of choosing a good tongue over nice tits (good conversation over physical assets, I mean).

----------------

If you read this, let me tell you there's not much to look forward to in C. The sound of it is so hollow.

I might change my opinion though, and could churn out something worthwhile.

By the way, C spells Comment.

Starting with A

I wasn't here 'cause i never had anything to write about. So I stole an idea! This is what it is. Here's my A to Z about people, places, feeling and all that emotional stuff, and what not.

I'd yack about stuff by taking the alphabet as a guide. It could be every day or every week, or never, as my reliability is known for being non-existent. It begins:

A is the first letter in a lot of people's names. Some of them are dear to me.

Aman Sandhu merits a mention. The hot chick I boast was my girlfriend before she left for Bangalore to become hotter (proof is in the pic). OK, we never had sex, and that means, in guy-terms, that she wasn't my girl. But she certainly drove me around, and crazy, in her Black Alto, and wore those horizontal-striped T-shirts, allegedly meant to accentuate her perky breasts for my pleasure. She described hot for me, more than any wallpaper of Hayek I've used on my laptop. And she described 'free'. Was a bimbo on the outside; she worked hard at it. On the inside, she was the perfect Punjabi backslapping buddy. I loved both.

Then there's this supposedly flaming love story I have. The object of desire is a girl called Anvita. It would take a long post for me to describe her; that's what happens when one doesn't know the subject well. But I've never wanted, never bothered do, know her. For me, that animated wave of the hand and that laughter is enough proof that I've good choice. People in my life see her as someone I love, but I' put it this way: I've fallen, for her, more than once.

Angad is what a woman should be, for me. Interesting, a brilliant listener and talker, can make any cup of coffee seem the best you've ever had. Not quite intriguingly sexy, but surprisingly smart for a sardar. The man's an encyclopedia on anything he wishes to pick up. He may have been given the nickname 'Jhooth', but he's the object of envy for those wanting to 'know'. For people inherently curious, like me, he's a treasure of a friend. And even without that know-all, he remains the person to sit and drink with. I'd take that quality over all the encyclopedic traits. Fortunately for those who are his friends, he has both qualities. Rare.

Anubhav, the friend I grew into my teenage and with. And then I grew up.

My sister Anjali. She's anything you'd want an elder sister should be. Calm, patient and fierce only when she wants to be. I wish I could be like her. She makes me want to be a teacher, an academic; I, too, inspire her, I claim. But I've never known someone as well as I know her. Not because we have had heart-to-heart chats or anything; we hardly sit and talk. But I've never had to do any of that to get a sense of what is important to her and vice versa. I wish she could trust her instinct a little more, and herself a lot more. She would some day, and then she would soar. I'd cling on to her finger and soar with her. She is the sister I love the most among the three I have, with lots of love to spare for the other two.

Then there's the inevitable mention of my town, Abohar.

It has not had the same effect in my life that maybe Chandigarh has. But it's a part of my being. It signifies, for me, that there's nothing called small-town mentality; your mental make-up cannot possibly be primarily an outcome of the place you live in. Abohar is dusty yet clear-hearted, hot yet warm, and extremely cold in winters yet not biting. I sometimes romanticize it, but I've never had a conscious love for the town. It must be in the heart, that love. I am dealing with my brain most of the time. I don't even know why i go there now; there's certainly something between me and the town.

Alto. The car I love the most cause it's the one I could afford. Have had two, one after the other, both white. Put a good music system and the tiny car could be on fire if you press the pedal right. Someday, I wish to replace it with a private jet. Till then, i love you Alto.

Azhar. The wrist-master, the man with that royal walk and confused talk. He was the reason I started playing cricket, and his match-fixing spelled the death-knell of my cricket career. But I can't stop watching him play on YouTube. It's like watching someone paint, or recite his own poetry. Skipper Azharuddin, the only man who wore a joker-cap with red circles on it in a Test match, and carried it off.

A is also the letter that starts the word Almighty. Now I know science can't decide and decipher everything. But someone who has not even proved his existence yet can't be running my life. The guy they call God can't be a person. He is a thing. A system maybe, a substance that ensures balance in the universe. A man running a planet or the universe can't be stupid enough to send down Meg Ryan or Raakhi or Sushmita (Pick you own names for the god-being-a-woman scenario). PJs apart, I believe it's your own goodness that's god. Be good to people and they'd be good to you, mostly. You'd have a good life then. Isn't that what we mainly wish for from god Almighty? Your deeds are you destiny, and the person next to you right now is the god you should be willing to serve.

That's my A for now. Tell if you liked it and bark at me if you didn't. If you were bored, let me know. Leave a comment, be good!

The next post should be more interesting, less about people. A lot of interesting words start with B, you know!

Paper Planes

It’s matter of four lines,

To a board that you will pin,

A piece of paper that’ll whisper in your ear,

Make seem distant all the din.

Hard to come up with lines,

That you won’t find aren’t mine,

Rantings that sound personal,

Words that claim you as mine.

Distance is just numbers,

It’s all in the mind, they say,

Since am no good at numbers,

I’d rather figure, coming all the way.

A

Am flyin'

When you want to give it all,

it's a soothing, endless fall,

Believe me am not lying,

This, actually, makes me feel am flying.

You

You are like -

a missing tooth that your tongue keeps feeling for...

a bouquet of flowers that I would never buy

the books... i'll never get tired of reading

my horny dreams... =)

a long lost puppy that finally makes its way back home...

a fish that likes to irritate people...

a song on everyone's lips...a poem noone would read...

my stupid mobile phone that has a mood and mind of it's own...

a radio that works only if u hit it hard... THRICE!

a punk with amnesia..

Self-Love

I am no wuss nor am I a warrior,
waging a morality war,
but the world is too didactic for sure
I know I know not if I am ill,
but this disease, funnily like love,
seems to have no cure.

Bombarded with opinions,
and even super-suggestions,
leave alone poor Dad,
even the so-called God's will,
seems unwanted, even condescending,
self-love, at last, seems too bad.

Returning to Pleasure

Riding on a rustic rickety rickshaw again
Through the same sultry sandy street
I wonder ‘What calls me back?’, and wonder
Why I so wondered as an old friend greets

The lock’s been missing me or so I like to feel
While I turn the key and cries open the door,
The walls greet and ask for a promise,
“This time you have to stay for a few days more!”

Last visit’s pleasure is lying in the same corner
The urban tactful me makes way for glee
My old study table, the silence, the space with
Half-a-bottle pleasure is enough for myself and me.

______________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________

The Black n' White Town-152116

Walking through
those neon-lit streets,
I recall the place
where all the moonlight lay

Looking through
those mascara-laden eyes,
I recall the eyes
where all the innocence lay

Those neon-lights, those eyes
make me laugh but not smile
and one thing is for sure,
I am not here to stay

The lights show no white
neither is it all black,
all that's visible is a shade of
dirty, misty gray

When I've walked all the miles,
I'll start living once again
in my own Black n' White town,
I am longing for that day

Oh.. How I am longing for that day....

Among Myselves...

Meandering,
through the streets of sound,
i wonder what is it
that I am listening to,
Just the little old radio playing?
No, there;s more
I can sense something more
coming through!

I can hear,
The bedsheet cursing me
the blanket is tired
of the turns & twists
Is it the effect
of good old rock?
I can't help but sway,
clinching my fists!

"Battery empty!",
pleads the radio as
the rockers too join the herd,
the herd thats headed
to the lullaby-land,
I wonder why
i am still wide awake?
Why the days seem so dull
and the nights so grand?

I figure,
there's no melancholy,
neither is there
some tremendous glee,
It's the stillness,
the space, the silence,
The night just lets
all of myselves be with 'me'!

Tad too bright....

As the dawn breaks,
with the sun galore,
I crave for the night,
O God, please.. just a li'l bit more...

Why such a wish?
Why an upside-down routine?
Its no more once-in-a-while,
such wishes have been umpteen...

Sleep caresses my eyes shut,
finally, to another day so bright,
I figure out in my head,
why I crave for the night...

Its the Sun itself,
ya, it's sounding right,
Sun, now-a-days,
is a tad too bright!!

In Love with the Night - II

Through the window,

i look at the night;

a night worth falling for,

it seems it wants me closer

as it makes me

slowly open the door..

Dutifully,

I walk to the terrace

where I actually wonder,

"I love the sun's brightness,

then how's this darkness

makin' me surrrender?"

Nothing's hidden in me,

surely nothing as dark,

me and this dark night,

the contrast is so stark.

I look at the pole star and

recall that smile so bright

The darkness is all gone,

now its all seems so right.

Beaming 'she' and

this beaming moon,

There's a difference so slight

now i know why I am up here

now i know what's makin' me

fall in love with the night....!

Walking the Same Mile

Hopes of a hopeless man-boy,
Oh! This silly 6th sense!
keeping this happy-go-lucky image,
Oh man, I hate this pretence!

This mirror is a liar,
Oh! That funny smile,
Show me the real me,
The smile is just a guile!

One of the crowd,
the crowd thats perpetually depressed,
Each despo has a reason,
But , hey, why am I so depressed?

The unkind speech, the hateful stare,
neither has she a flawless face!
Am I worth the insult?
The insult I so lovingly embrace.

"All that you've got,
and even what you've not,
I've been in love all this while..

Noone's in a hurry
So gal, Don't you worry,
The boy would keep walkin' the same mile....!"
----------

Verse or No Verse!!

Lying on the comfy couch,
pen & paper in hand
maybe i`m nervous or,
something`s wrong with my sweat gland!!


Thinking what to write about
for the school magazine,
maybe about the festival of lights,
or maybe about the Halloween!

Maybe about TIME,
the future or the past,
muttering to myself,
"WHATEVER YOU WRITE ,MAKE IT FAST!!"

Quickly, I get hold of the pen
and put the notebook in my lap
scribbling something & then cutting it,thinking,
THEY WON`T PRINT SUCH SCRAP!!"

Why not just copy
from a book by someone else?!?!"
just then my soul shouts,
"DON`T YOU HAVE YOUR OWN BRAIN CELLS??"

I reply,"It`s not about brain cells , darling
it`s about creativity!
i can`t write a good poem
just `cause i`m a little witty!!"

Maybe i should write about
the conflicts of my heart or
maybe about the sheer simplicity
of a slow and steady bullock cart!?"

''STUPID IDEA!!!!",
roared my conscious,
"You`re writing for the college magazine,
so be cautious!!"

On a more serious note
I start thinking again,
trying to use, what my friends call,
my "non-existent brain!"

Glancing at the notebook
I suddenly realize
i ask the people around
"Isn`t this a verse , guys?!?"

"Whatever i have scribbled
looks like a verse
Verse or no no verse ,
THANK GOD! it could have been worse!"

In love with the Night

Fearing the fruitful future,
brooding over the times gone by,
Am lying here, sleeping,
as another day in the furnace passes by.

Dreams are few and far between,
Nightmares!? well, I have none!
Mum shakes me awake as I wonder aloud,
"Is it finally over? Am I done?"

That same old knock on the door
and, the messiah is there!
"Don't you say you have no money,"
he yells,"Don't you dare!"

Jeans climb up the lean legs,
Blue as a rule,
The balls start rolling,
the mandatory game of 9-ball pool!

Back home it's me
and the insomnic-me again,
A new day has begun,
marks the sound of the midnight train.

Dad is busy snoring,
the Binary-Box is all set,
the insomnic-me tells me,
"You love not going to sleep,
you love it, I bet!"

Tagged-by Island Girl

• Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
  
• People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
  
• At the end of your post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

so here it goes..

1. I am a thinker. ( no special reason, its just that thinking is an activity that requires minimal physical activity)

2. I must have been an owl in my last birth as I sleep during the day and stay awake all night.( am no call centre employee ok!)

3. I love being with my male friends. ( I am not Gay! but then again.. u never know!)

4. I dig into non-fiction and social commentry. ( as long as the writer has views similar to mine!)

5. I hate show-offs. ( Wat are they there for as long as I am alive?)

6. I hate to see people cry and feel like slapping them. ( So wat if I am a sorta cry-baby myself!)

7. I love to talk. ( and a guy called Aarish is my favourite topic! )

8. I am careless and forgetful. ( i've come back to write this one as i forgot i had to write 8 things and not 7!)

-----------------------------------------------

now that I am done.. here's your turn.. I tag--

Jatinder

Nothingman

manveer

Kateri kranks

zedekiah

thats it.. i dont have many regular visitors!

Kinda WeiRd explained.....

Not morning child ....
yet an any hour delight..
lean looks.. eskewed teeth..
yet appealing.
quite a feat.......
black eyes..thwarting light
or a mirror to the soul
dats infused with light.........

easily provoked....
yet a calm facade...
like a storm brewing
behind a tidal wave..............
a pleasure for the senses ..
yet tumultous...
where ur destiny wud take u...
no one can telll........

---------------------
this one's a poem on a weird subject ( yours truly!) by a girl I was destined to meet i Guess..She's the female version of someone called Aarish!

Thanks gal
I am smitten!

तीसरा आदमी

एक आदमी है जो रोटी खाता है ,
एक आदमी है जो रोटी बेलता है ,
एक और भी है ,
जो रोटी से खेलता है !
यह तीसरा आदमी कौन है ??
मेरे देश की संसद मौन है !

---- by the great Hindi Poet, Dhumil

Gulzar at his eternal best!!

मुझको इतने से काम पे रख लो...
जब भी सीने पे झूलता लॉकेट उल्टा हो जाए
तो मैं हाथों से सीधा करता रहूँ उसको
मुझको इतने से काम पे रख लो...

जब भी आवेज़ा उलझे बालों में
मुस्कुराके बस इतना सा कह दो
आह चुभता है ये अलग कर दो
मुझको इतने से काम पे रख लो....

जब ग़रारे में पाँव फँस जाए
या दुपट्टा किवाड़ में अटके
एक नज़र देख लो तो काफ़ी है

....मुझको इतने से काम पे रख लो॥

Just One-of-the-Crowd!Really?

The good old Vespa was up and running after a long over-hauling session and Arjun was 'enjoying' the ride (somewhat!) as it was after a long time that the scooter had traveled a full 8 kilometers without making one of its customary stops.

A smile took over his face as he passed the post-office and remembered the day he had mailed her the 'poem' he had actually penned down for her, he never knew he had such romantic thoughts, thoughts he earlier believed were quite feminine and for those good-for-nothing kinda devdas's who'd prefer dying in the tragic never-ending pursuit than actually going and telling her to her face. But hadn't he done that? And failed!

Suddenly, the smile turned from one with that romantic tilt-to-the-right to an apologetic one as he came to a sudden halt, narrowly escaping a hit with a scooter or something, or rather some'one'! Turning back, (ready with the golden words ' oh! I’m sorry!’) he saw noone."Must've turned into the street on the right!" he murmured and resumed his little journey towards the Mecca of movie lovers in the city beautiful, Fun Republic.

On the way, of the many thoughts that came and went randomly into his under-utilized brain, the one that brought that apologetic smile back was when he tried to imagine how he would have reacted if the 'someone' he had almost run in to was the one he had had written that poem for.

Anyways, that was then! If it always happened as per one's own plans life would be so boring. "But, hey.. wait..., ain't I bored as hell anyways?!" he thought as another one of those irritating red-lights stared him in the face, as if it was mocking him.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, reaching FR only 15 minutes late ( quite an achievement by his standards!). His friends, with that same old 'can't-you-ever-come-on-time?' look in their eyes, (a look he was used to for the last 7 years that they had been going for movies together), moved towards the ticket counter while one of them stuck a hand out asking for his contribution towards the movie-and-burgers fund.

"Oh yaar, for how many more years do we have to make up for each other's non-existent girlfriends and watch these movies staring, in jealousy, towards the couples getting all cozy sitting on those corner seats??" said Capple, asking one of those typical desperate-guys' questions.

"Till the day people found out the fact that we were all gays!!" Anubhav replied before breaking into one of his stupid dhenchu-dhenchu laughter-sessions thinking as if he'd made the funniest remark of all time.

Arjun and Capple were busy exchanging one of those 'why-in-hell-do-we-bring-him-along?' looks when Kakkar(the co-ordinator of the whole movie-and-burgers session) interrupted the dhenchu-dhenchu with the dreaded news. "No tickets available!" he said, staring at Arjun as if he was the one who had coaxed such a large number of people into buying all the tickets before they could buy their quota of 4 tickets.

The movie plan was, obviously, dumped into one of those 'Use-me' bins and they were left with nothing to do except the ever-so-refreshing bird watching. They took the seats with the best view inside the oh-so-cool McDonald's restaurant and waited for the ever-so-efficient Kakkar to bring their Aloo Tikki Burgers and Coke. The guys were searching for some 'birds' with their eyes-wide-open, all over the mall-cum-multiplex.

Arjun, meanwhile, got up to make that customary touch-up trip to the wash-room outside. He was busy giving the final touches to his spikes(his hair!) when a visibly exasperated Anubhav entered the wash-room and shouted at the top of his voice,"Arjun, 'She' is here!!"

Arjun stared at him with that 'oh-I-know-its-a-prank' look and turned back towards the mirror. "Oh Arjun, believe me man! She is here!" Anubhav pleaded and gestured him to follow him.

Arjun did. He, with fingers crossed, wished it wasn't one of those disgusting pranks and, indeed, it wasn't! There she was, sipping out of an extra-large Coke while chatting, as animatedly as ever, with her bossy elder sister. Yes, she was beautiful but her real beauty was that, she didn’t seem to know she was.

He was happy, happy-like-hell! Ya, he knew she had relatives here but....

He checked his dress and approached her table, ready with the customary sugar-coated 'hi', before Anubhav pulled him towards their own. "Are you nuts? Hitler is with her!" all three of them shouted together.
Arjun was back to where he belonged, a bunch of despo's and he was just one-of-the-crowd, wasn't he?! They quickly finished off the burgers and-coke and walked towards the exit hurriedly. But, as luck would have it, she was there too! While coming out of the restaurant, their eyes met and ... he saw that same-old cold look on her face! "What makes me love her?"he asked himself.No replies!

Arjun's eyes followed every movement of hers as she entered one of the movie halls. Thankfully, the movie was a Hollywood flick one which meant that he had to wait for just a hundred minutes for her to come out. But.. wait..... Was he gonna wait at all?... well .. he had, probably, already made up his mind. The other three of the group were talking about the usual guy-stuff like bikes, chicks and, of course, sex. But he wasn't interested neither in Anu's ever-so-funny jokes nor in Capple's speech on the latest bikes. For once, he wasn't even interested in the profound thinking of the intelligent good-boy Kakkar.

They roamed, up and down, left-right-centre, till there wasn't an inch of the mall they hadn't set foot on. The routine was done, minus the movie of course, and they were ready to head back home. Arjun looked at his watch and found out that 98 minutes had passed since she had entered hall no. 3 to watch the new Brangelina movie "Mr. & Mrs. Smith". A couple of more minutes and he'll catch another glimpse of hers. The guys were shoving and pushing him towards the exit-door as they, obviously, didn't want him to go into hibernation after seeing her again. They hated the poet in him!

Arjun managed to delay the exit for just that extra minute as he saw people coming out of the hall, hall no. 3. But, they were out already and into the parking lot in no time. As his friends started looking for parking tickets in their pockets, he ran back to the exit-gate and looked for her. She was pretty much there. She looked at him but so did her sister. No real reaction!

He turned back, obviously hurt, and made his way to the lot. His friends had all vanished, obviously disgusted at his behavior, as he kick-started his 1989-model Vespa and made his way towards the exit-point. The guy on duty stopped him and asked him for the parking ticket. He put his hand in the rear right pocket of his torn jeans only to find nothing in it. He checked all the pockets but the tragedy was, he had lost it!

As he tried to prove his integrity to the parking-guy, a car bumped right into the rear end of his scooter. He turned back in anger to give a piece of his mind to the one who had damaged his heritage-scooter only to see 'her' sitting besides the driver who apologized straightway (he was forgiven anyway!). Arjun took an eternity to steer his scooter out of the car's way and as it passed him, she looked out of the window and..... Smiled!!

"Oh! I know what makes me love you,gal!"Arjun murmured as the Parking-guy kept on shouting in the background. He didn't matter and neither did the world around. The moment that mattered, had just passed!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wat to do??!!

well well well... ( no no.. don`t be afraid it`s not that deep! )

Its been a while since i last updated this web log ( u mean BLOG..)...
... so thought of posting something...

( that`s a crap-alert.. so think before going ahead!!)

Lately, I`ve been busy tryin` to figure out wat i want out of life after all... and i`ve failed miserably till the moment i`m writing this ... ppl say its the case with all teenagers but man.. i am 20!! and i am havin` a hard time really..
WELL....lets ponder over some possible reasons..:::::::

1.I guess i`ve had a hangover of too many jobs(9 in the past 2 yrs, to be precise) ...and missed a REAL hangover that cud give me my own space for a while!
( so wat if your bed turns into a roller-coaster after that!!??)

OR..
2.I am a damn over-confident snob who likes being the brat and poses like a real responsible son wen in front of his DAD, a dad who likes him to b Independent..
( only he knows wat it means!)

OR..
3.I need a purpose in life
( well.. lemme think....isn`t that wat you are confused about??!!) .
.. let`s move on..

OR...
4.I am affected by the fact that my galfren` dumped me
( wait.. she did that 4 years ago na??!!.. am i right??)

OR...

5.I am finding it difficult to digest that i am one of the many bright and intelligent ppl in the city
( The over-confident brat`s here again!!)

OR...

Leave this ****ing self-analysis and...

KILL THIS DAMN GUY WHO SPEAKS IN THESE ****ing BRACKETS!!!...

Its All In tHe Mind!!

A Windy day! Perhaps the windiest of all! "

"Just what you don't want when you have used the largest possible amount of the costliest possible hair-gel to straighten up the messiest possible hair.” sighed Matt, wondering how he, a self-proclaimed atheist, a non-believer, was thinking of this as some sort of a Bad Omen.
A cap would've helped. Only if he had one for the occasion!

He came out of the house into the lawn, a small tract of wet and muddy soil with all the possible types of weeds growing to enormous lengths and breadths. This was his humble contribution to the mess his research-scientist father had got them into when he went into some sort-of hibernation while his more-than-enough pension took care of the household.
And Matt believed he had no mother, with good reason. He had never seen her, not even a photograph. His father never told him about her, ...he spoke so rarely anyways.

Perhaps Matt, himself, was the end-product of one of those smelly chemical reactions his father carried out in the garage, his lab.

The stinkin’ smell and the lawn were slowly left behind as he trudged along the sidewalk towards her house. She had dropped enough hints and he had to act, 'had to be a man!' in her words!
He wasn't going to let go of this one good thing that had happened in his life.
The stage was set.
He had confirmed with Cyrus, her neighborer. There was no one at her place.
No Hitler-Dad! No Nagging-Mom! And, most importantly, No Bully-Brother!
This was his only chance.

He had managed the guts to do this after a long sleepless night pondering over all those things that earned him the title of a Geek. This 'not-being-able-to-say' was on top of the list.

Everyone in school knew that there was a 'scene' building up here. His good friends had brought it into his notice a lot many times. She was 'genuinely' interested. Only then did he discover the real meaning behind that touch-on-the-hand and that wink-of-the-eye! He had rehearsed the whole night before, lying in bed, in front of the mirror and imagining the pillow to be her. He was one-hundred-per-cent Ready!
There he was, in front of the princess' house. Although it was merely one small kilometer away from his, it took him an eternity to land up in front of it. With a thumbs-up from Cyrus, hanging in the balcony of the adjoining house, he knew the house was devoid off all its disgusting occupants except the not-at-all-disgusting one. A row-house, mediocre at best, seemed like a fortress to him.
He put his now-numb finger on the door-bell button and … pressed it!
No ding-dong!
It didn't work!
He tried again, again, again, and once again before deciding in favour of the good old door- banging. And Just when he was about to thump the door with the side of his fist, a strong thrust of wind pushed the door open. Perhaps the wind was not a bad omen at all.

"What a cute gesture on the part of God!" he thought," Or was she expecting me?!"The hall was empty and the house was drenched in silence except for the tingling sound of wood burning in the fire-place. He feared the worst. His Piscean instincts told him there was something wrong। Perhaps some burglars had sneaked in and slit her throat। "Oh No!!" he said, his voice squeaking with fear, and just when he was about to shoot out of the door and yell for help, he heard her oh-so-sweet giggle.
He was relieved and, not-so-strangely, felt like going to the bathroom.

The giggles were getting louder and clearer with every passing moment and he followed the voice, up the staircase, and then he heard a thundering voice, ...a male voice, coming from the same room.
“Damn Cyrus!", he said to himself," The Bully-Bro is in the house itself!"
This was the perfect anti-climax to his love-story. An ironical smile appeared on his face and he turned towards the staircase. He felt as if someone had painted I-AM-A-LOSER across his now-red face, in bold letters.
He heard the thunder again and, to his delight, it wasn't the bully.
But the delight soon turned to horror as he came to terms with what was actually happening. It was Ben, the guitarist of the school's rock-band.
Yes, he was damn popular among the girls but...'She' wasn't one of those girls.
Or was she?!

The look on his face was horrible enough already when it turned to a disgusting-like-hell one upon hearing those words.
"You really want this, baby?!" Ben asked in a naughty tone.
"Oh Ya! Badly! Really Badly!" she replied, with that last 'y' stretched just that extra bit.
"I never knew you were into all this stuff. So which one?" asked Ben.
"That...oh I can't remember... the one that's on the TV all the time......... during late hours......... oh Ya, got it... he he.... I want 69!"

That was that!

Matt had lost it!

One part of him wanted to bang-open the door and beat the hell out of him...and her too, but the other, civilized, part made him accept defeat and head back home. There was no use hurting anyone.
It was her life and the girl had good choice too. Ben was a real hunk.

But they could have bolted the main door at least. Oh whatever.....

"But why at this precise moment??" Matt thought, moving down the staircase," Oh! If only I could get rid of this preachy little creature inside me and have my way for a day...”But the preachy creature coaxed him and pushed him down the staircase and into the hall when he heard the strings of an acoustic going berserk somewhere in the house.

And then, the lyrics started flowing out of Ben's mouth,

" I got my first real six-string,
Bought it at a five-and-dime
Played it till my fingers bled
T'was the summer of '69.....

"Oh! You dirty dirty mind!" murmured Matt, with a sheepish grin on his face। He was embarrassed and, for once, he was damn happy that he was। "

.....standin` on your momma's porch
you told me that you'd wait forever
Oh .... n' when you held my hand
I knew that it was now or never ॥”…………

...he couldn't help but hum along with that sheepish grin intact as he slowly made his way out of the door and into the street।

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LONG LIVE Bryan Adams!!
Badfan till I die!

What Makes Me Love Her?!

The twinkle in her eye ,
the kiddish anger within ,
Took me to a world , where ,
Not many have been !

A hint of a moustache ,
Lots of teenage flair,
I was charming ,or so I belif`d
But no less could she care { but she didn`t really care!!}

She pretended to listen ,
To her, whatever I said ,
Made me feel unimportant,
Her cold look!,
It turned my face to red

Gifts didn`t help ,
Neither did the coaxing nor the crying,
She must`ve joked to the mirror ,
“ Let the Geek keep trying!!”

She stays the same even to date ,
No less , no more ;
`No run-of-the –mill stuff this , mate!`
Maybe that’s what ….
.. makes me love her even more !!

WeB HoStInG!!

Web hosting , in the simplest of terms , allows you to have your own space on the World Wide Web through a server owned by a Web Host . The server , no matter how complex it sounds, is nothing but a computer having a very fast-paced internet connection .You can have your own Website with a domain name, like www.your name .com with the content of your choice placed on the Internet where the whole world can access it ! !

· You can have a Website for free as long as…

◦ You don’t get irritated by having advertisement-banners pasted all over the Web page

◦ Customer support is not that big an issue for you !

and , most importantly ,

◦ You don’t really believe that your site will grow big enough to have money spent on it !

This type of hosting is ideal for small sites as even getting an exclusive Domain name is not guaranteed. You might end up getting something like “Your name.TheWebHostCompany.com”!!


· If free Web hosting sounds not -so -exciting to you , then you’d be quite eager to know as to how much a full fledged paid Website costs !?! Well , you can get rid of all the irritating banner ads, have a highly dedicated 24 x 7 Customer support and a Domain- name of your choice starting at a price as low as $1 per month !

Paid web hosting is of two basic types that are ;

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And ;

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As for the performance, you need to take into account the `Uptime `. Hosting uptime is the %age of time for which a host is connected to the Net. Most of the hosts claim a 99.9% uptime, but here’s the catch! The uptime they refer to is the % age of time for which the server is switched on and it doesn`t take into account the Internet Connectivity!

But these misguiding ads and the ` catches ` is all a result of the market environment
as there are thousands and thousands of Web Hosting Providers all over the globe and the competition is so fierce that even the biggest of Web Hosts {like “Mydomain.com”} owns only around 0.3 to 0.35 % of the total market share . Banner ads of Web hosting providers are among the most frequent irritants on a Web page and there are numerous E-mails { mostly in the bulk folder ! } addressed to you by these companies .

But most Consumers , be it individuals or companies , have the yardsticks of low pricing and good customer support for measuring the reliability of a company . So most companies resort to extremely low pricing and an aggressive marketing strategy .

This results in a wide choice of options to the customer , which is a sign of progress for the World Wide Web , assumed as a plaything of the elite not so long ago. Now having a Website is as easy as accessing one ! So what`s stopping you ? Go ahead and choose a Web Host and get onto the WWW-bandwagon!!

The poem i adore!!

IN TRANSIT

BY ANURADHA MUKHERJEE

Holy men hold up traffic,

Whores lure taxi drivers,

and mad women live on roads,

swaddled in rags, sheathed with

perverse lust

or so I was told...

Until I discovered madness could be passion

Holyness: Disdain and repulsion

And whores could be the real saints

Taking in loveless, luckless men

Remembering Old Pals

A tribute to my favourite pair of jeans........ and shoes!!