03 January, 2015

old jokes, new year

The same old jokes, the reassuringly never-changing one-liners and ribbing.

That's what the New Year should be about, at this time of life I think. That the best parts of yesteryear remain as constant as ever. And the new things ring joyfully close to the old cheer, which gives more a familiar welcome from the sameness.

 We have become resistant to change, at some deep level. As a generation. Or rather, this coterie from my generation.

21 December, 2014

with a little help from my friends

I traveled to New York last year for Christmas. Spent it with some very old friends. And a schoolboy's cavalier little promise of meeting in the Big Apple came true was made to happen.

Shall be doing the same thing this year. In a country too new to grow roots in already, this seems wonderfully like the beginning of something that could grow into a tradition. And we need tradition to call it home.

But that trip is for next week. For the here and now:

Driving to Cape Cod to catch a sunrise in 4 hours with my roommates. Then a quick peek into Boston. Back home and a short stint at the lab, as planned.

That gives me Monday to get into the groove of things (neural networks are temperamental creatures) with work, do the last minute reshuffling of packed bags. And then the bus to NYC. Sinatra.


The first time I visited that place, it was all the movies and the music and the aura. And a meetup that was also a 5 year promise being kept..
 But this year, it would be the friends. Growing into a tradition swiftly, one hopes. And long, long talks over good food and good cheer. It's strangely reassuring to know that your friends are looking forward as well to this very day, with as much bated breath as you. Maybe I am not as much a Lone Ranger thingy as I project myself to be, on an overdose of Aragorn. After long hours, strange paths, bitter winters, bitter words and bitter endings, after the flotsam and jetsam of my diligently burned bridges leave behind only the sick smell of charred conversations, after the sour turns bitter... who better to cast aside all this and talk and talk till the stars fade and the eastern sky blushes like a desert bride with the ones you grew up with. After all, I do get by with a little help from my friends.


15 November, 2014

On routes, roots and bridges




Fall colours are essential.
 As are yellow leaves (fallen into the sere, haha!) drifting lazily down just outside the window.
 A carpet of gold outside the door, not yet trodden into a sodden mass of mulch.
 Hot coffee on cold nights, when you look up to see the icy fires of the stars pricking the firmament. And naturally Thus Spake Zarathrustra from Space Odyssey has to be playing on cue in the back of the head. Or the Star Trek theme. Somehow.

 A long hiatus from writing on the blog. One would like to say that the interregnum has been productive in tangible forms, thus the lack of need for blogging: for the usual semi-defined ephemerals and self-bolstering diatribes alluded to in here.

 One would be half-truthful of course, like most things in Writing and in Life. Let us merely say that it had its ups and downs, the moments of unmitigated douchieness and blurred boundaries - some bridges burned, others still a little rickety; and the notion - a reminder actually since the halcyon days of yore - that in life, as opposed to songs, the Summers always end.

Maybe I am still getting used to this unaccustomed earth, and instinctively prone to grasping like a drowning mariner at those rare straws - that remind me in another universe of lost rain-drenched Park Streets, the rows and rows of books at Oxford as a child, afternoons spent wandering about the streets of Macondo. And its a precious thing, this memory, and equally so are the handful of persons that can remind me of it amidst the coffee-fueled death marches to looming deadlines and trips to Walmart that doggedly define Real Life in all its (b)anal splendour.

It is so very easy to forget the roots. Why are we doing what we are doing? What made the decidedly arduous journey worth it for each of us - that which fueled us above and over the wicket-fences of safe homes and the reassuring bylanes of familiarity? What balances the columns if we were to total up all the things that we jettisoned - the glad, the sad and all those broken souvenirs kept over the years but now suddenly an addition to the airline baggage limit - over the side on this voyage?

On that note, with maple leaves drifting outside, distant birches murmuring in the morning sunshine, I shall end these words with neither a holler nor a sigh.

--

Postscript
There will come a time when the well will dry. When there would be an end to laboured sonnets recited to bygone evenings, when the pang of crossroads not taken fail to take hold on starry nights. Or stop my Bogartesque posturing at some lovely lady with that certain faraway wistfulness about her - like a echo of some childhood Macondo/Nishchindipur; the joy being purely at mouthing the film-noir lines, the thrill in only those cinematheque moments that give some meaning to existence, the final answer never ever mattering.When one stops yearning for the creative, the elusive and the ephemeral and accepts the world as it is.

There was a time, not too long ago, when this man would never have dreamed that day would come. It hasn't come yet. But it will. An end to the cinematic overtures, which is really a filler for things too difficult to speak out straight. To be spoken only when time, place and person converge in some heady moment of truth. It will happen.

19 October, 2014

Hankering for Edgar Allan Poe


 A sudden desire to re-read Edgar Allan Poe.

 Specifically the Fall of the House of Usher. And another, I think it was called The Red Death.

 I had first read them as a young schoolboy, alone in the winter afternoons at home. The chill in the air contributed to the horror and grimness of the stories. It was a book from the library that my father had chosen for me, and it had those old style full-page illustrations. All very gothic and horrifying in full colour.

 Wanting to read that specific book. Or a print of that very edition. Those are so very rare to come across these days. Modern books look so cheap and are so godawfully expensive! Hah!

11 October, 2014

On summer and other waits


  I think long odds are meant to be beaten.

 That huge distances of separation can be made into magic, so that when meets do happen it is nothing less beautiful or terrible than poetry.

 That "tho much is tak'n much still remains" -- enough for a last attempt at living it the way it should be. That will have the bus-rides and plane tickets, house bills and bickering; but also the sound of Baez on a rainy Saturday morning at home over coffee. Oblique references to Abani at returning home.
  The movies, music and places that weave a different kind of poetry when two people are in that perfect symmetry. Its not the smell of new books, but the mildewed musty welcome from dog-eared yellowed tomes that are old comrades.

 That a wait is so much more when it is worth the wait.

 It is not all a dream. I have seen it in friends, albeit once.

 That if there ever was a time for taking a mad chance, for cauterizing old wounds and taking on glibly the chance of new bruises -- it is this.

  That I have never been more certain not to do again the usual litany of those late nights, sudden fevered touches over wine, Pink Floyd and darkness, messy one-shots and the inevitable knowledge that "this is not it." Which has littered most of my undergrad. It is worth the wait.

 That rhododendron is worth it. And that we both are waiting for summer and a chance.





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