28 October, 2006

Crusading still

You can feel the nip of cold at early dawn these days. I'm anticipating the coming chill. Maybe I'll have time to go away to my beloved mountains again. Caradhras!

Though, most things are still the same. I'll continue my lone crusade against a warpes convoluted reality. The cold will give me an excuse to go about flapping in a cloak.
I'll still be likened to Tarquinius of Lucrece. A really unfair comparison.
I'll still yearn after grace beyond my feeble reach. My deepest reverence, my utmost shrine! Hah, even my self-styled disciplined mind has to bend.
I'll still crusade for the shadow-men, the half-dead broken disillusioned men and women of this world. Unbeknownst.
For the fallen lovers and broken warriors.

And be myself. In all its entirety.
The Winter matches my mood. And my spirit.

I wonder at times where all this will lead. Whether it'll all be half-said words and useless nuances. Another regret to add to the pile. A friend once quoted,
"The saddest thing in life is never to have loved. Almost equally sad is never to have expressed it."

Can I ever claim to even the former?My cynicism and aloofness has shut me out from my fellow men.

Well then, God, if it has to boil down to that entity! Good God!
Will it all end? What do I crave? merely acceptance (hopefully calm) of the fact. And that's it. No reprisals, no reciprocations. Most of all, no "we can still be friends."!
To be my highest reverence. That in the darkness that will soon engulf me, and the time of solitude in the world, with only my work to sustain me ... to have the good fortune of knowing that somewhere out there is someone for whom I care. And who knows that I care.

Maybe the problem of being introverted is that these might well remain but words on a screen. Who will I pray for strength? Who will take me in with a glad smile and no recriminations?
And if this come to naught, will any that might now hear me, heed my plea for fellowship then?

I shall go on.

26 October, 2006


I love rambling. Aimlessly through the city roads, letting my feet do the thinking as well as the walking. Down streets that've imprinted themselves into my memory. My mind elsewhere.

In communion with the entire ensemble of humanity. The teeming thousands that lived and died, laughed, cried. Were crushed, and crushed others. And rose up, sometimes. Soiled and potrefied. Shouted old slogans on young lips. Eye caught fire from eye, as hundreds take to the street: the city of strikes.

Lights. The rather ragged show of fireworks. And I high on the rooftop, wrapped safely in my shroud of brooding seclusion.

We are a strange lot. Fly-overs take us over the slums, preventing us from being contaminated by the squalor. As if denial meant nonexistence.
I walked. The lights flickered as dusk drew in, matching my usual mood. I lookes around. The usual Indian mismatch - the very grand and the very shabby, the princes and the paupers. The ideals and the reality. Slogans and the slavery.

Secure once more in my high eyrie, I sigh. Let's see....h'm I'll continue with Steinbeck.

18 October, 2006


In the cool comfort of BCL, I'm staring at a well-beloved screen. And typing.
Walked down the length of Camac Street. Following the exquisite rear of a damsel in mauve T and faded jeans undulating down the broad sidewalks. Darn! had to go off to a side street.

Invariably I hunched my shoulders forward, imagining the dark cloak to be billowing all about me. Striding forward like some Jedi . . .

Watched Rashomon. A milestone. You see the deradation of human spirits, and then the final redemption. Also, I might say the Japanese poetic tendencies are beautifully transferred into the poignant grayscale footage, and the fuild camera movements.
The best of Kurosawa.

Will issue Pratchett's "Strata". He's about the only author that I can fit into an increasingly oppressive schedule. My father's (and my) favourite book of his till date is "Nightwatch". A must read.
I've put Steinbeck on hold temorarily. It needs time. Time that I cannot spare.

I have a mind to paint again. Something idyllic and fragile, rather than the intense scenes of my past endeavours. Wash painting. Featuring, say, a sunrise, distant horizon melding into the skyline, dark foreground. Anchoring the composition will be a tree. Not my usual withered sages, but a lively youth in full blossom. I do not think that I have ever painted or even envisaged painting something this optimistic.

I feel this intense desire to hear Dylan. Chimes of freedom. Then Beethoven's "Appassionata". Anything to keep from brooding.

17 October, 2006

Small success

Okay, so at last my slide-show is working (at least in IE).
Kindly check it out at the bottom of this page. Pics are from a Minolta SLR.

I shall try to express as possible, as often as possible. It gives me a sense of release, this blogging. As if I could pour my spirit through my keyboard, my lifeblood flowing into the words. Oh, how hopelessly abstract!

Now the great wait. The deep breath before the plunge. The Interregnum.
Then, life, either I shall awaken to a new Life or bid an unnoticed farewell to this close companion of mine - existence.
How pathetic! I who had vaunted of being untouched by the weaker emotions, the 'iron' will guided only by the logic and human reasoning for whose triumph I envisage myself to stand for-- all undone by this strange feeling, that transcends Platonicity.
And confessions?
To whom?

'The essential sadness is to go through life without loving. But it would be almost equally sad to go through life and leave this world without ever telling those you loved that you had loved them.' -F P

Come, the more prosaic, usual me. Plan to see Pashomon. Anirban kindly lent me the discs. Then gottawrite something for the Xaverian.

15 October, 2006

Standing...just that

Finished Ayn Rand's "We the living."

I generally do not elaborate on my principles or the logic guiding me actions. Consider it inane, and such questions asinine.
In general, when down I don't tell people that I'm gonna stand up again but i do it all the same.

There was some ballet at Kala Mandir. Wish I'd watched that.

Bug that. Occaisional blogging is like slices of heaven on a platter.

14 October, 2006


Metros. Tube. The Underground.

Packed like sardines in a tin. Communal stink overcoming my own efforts. Still managing to chhuckle with an ol' pal over th new times. Life.

Makes me feel nice, I confess, to know my blog's visited. Unbeknownst to be erstwhile.
Old ideals on young lips. Id always been a liberalist, and egalitarian.
Whatever. I'd get going.

Viva el Blogger!

04 October, 2006

Thus Spake Zarathrustra

I must say Kubrik's 2001:A SPace Odyssey left a rather deep impact upon my conciousness. The sense of scale - a cosmic scale - and comprehension of vast vistas of the unknown . . . seldom has it been expressed in such a style, more a visual spectacle than a film borne by a storyline based on dialogue.
Delving deep into the fabric of existence, it attempts to answer the very basic of questions: why are we here?

Starting of with the famous music: C G C and RIchard Starauss's "Thus Spake Zarathrustra", the film is later borne upon the sublime waves of the Blue Danube, as we are shown breathtaking views of outer space, and human progress reaching out to the stars, like dust. A mighty chorus celebrating mankind's triumph and the sense of discovery that is latent in every person.

Dominating Man's span of existence is the mysterious monolith (1:4:9), appearing at every decisive moment in Man's journey through Time, to propel him forward.

Then comes the famous HAL, the comp that thinks for itself.

Now THIS is a landmark: the Stargate. A series of semi-abstract flowing lights igniting free thought as the astronaut Frank lands on Jupiter.

The film ends as it started, the view of an eclipse accompanied by the trinitarian chords C...G...C then the drum roll. Only, now we see the Starchild at one with the infinite depths of the Universe.

Yeah, I am a bit obsessed with this movie for the time being. It's all about the mission or quest that we all feel we have before us. This rather slow and meditative film seeks to expand our conciousness, that we live not merely on a planet but among the stars that we aspire to. We are not flesh but intelligence-pure untainted that can attain even the lofty heights of the gods themselves.

Escape from Pujo

I'm back from what I describe to myself as Rivendell : an idyllic place for reflection and relaxation to gaze back upon the richness of life to its fullest and to revel in the fact of continued existence. A place where you can laugh or sing or read a library or merely laze around. Provided a much needed respite from my usual drab existence.
Facing a wall of books i attacked in earnest. Read Isabelle Allende (Zorro) ,Marquez (Living to tell the tale) and Steinbeck (Grapes of Wrath).
Exercised my mental muscles a bit.
Hung out with my friends.
Gorged myself on food.
Gazed upon a star from afar.
Went on gazing. . .

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