31 March, 2007

Invisible wraith

We had a powercut yesterday evening. The whole block. The generator failed, and for once I had to share the common fate as well. That was necessary.

Alone. Fear of the dark? Not really. Just ignorance about my surroundings. Ignorance is bliss they say. Ignorance is peace . . .

Night-blindness kicked in, as well as the innumerable floaters that survived the first optical laser. I was invisible then to an invisible world.
Walked out onto the terrace. Still-warm flagstones. Wilting bouganvillea. Over-thorny rose-shrubs. Distant Byepass lights curving like a jewelled bow, aimed for the sky. The night-sky that entered my rooms for this evening, honoured guest in priviledged darkness.
Strode about, reciting well nigh' everything that came into my mind. Started of with the dear Bard of Avon: broken lines of "Passionate Pilgrim", "Oh pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth...", "Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow . . . "
Then Tennyson's Ulysses, Gibran's The Prophet and the eternal Khayyam.

On to my mother-tongue. Tagore 's Golden Boat. A rough traslation (of my favourite lines) by this meagre hand would run thus:

Stacks and stacks of the paddy stalks
Tied in bundles: the harvest's done;
And then breaks the gathering storm
While alone I sit, anchorless . . .

Oh to what foreign land do you sail?

Come to the bank and moor your boat for a while

Go where you want to,give where you care to,

But come to the bank a moment,show your smile-

Take away my golden paddy when you sail...

...Alas, the boat is but small -
Filled from stem to stern
By my very own golden harvest;
Speeding away under stormy gusts
I sit by the bank, alone . . .

Then Jibonanondo, the first modernist Bengali poet.

Stock finished, I gobble supper blindly (not much of a choice, really) and retire to my lonesome bedroom.
A xenophilic friend calls, and it seems some angel forgot not to heed my prayers. For anything to break the spell of Darkness. I came to love the true isolation, then to rue it.

27 March, 2007

Intersection point

Innately satisfying. Meeting as bloggers. All that's left to be said is: successful and enjoyable.

Back to the grind. The pollution documentary doesn't seem to be bucking up. Trying to rouse up the crew: faster we get it over with, more effort can be devoted to the finer details.

On other fronts, I'm like a puzzled Swann as Proust puts it. Finding that Tagore's English poetry too is incomparable. "Stray Birds" stole my heart.

"Do not place your love on a precipice,
Merely because it is high . . . "

21 March, 2007


Let's talk of a group of men.
They invented things like 'justice' 'liberty' 'equality'. Matter is reality. Blazing balls of gas hurtling through the void is reality; so is death, life, passion, hatred, possibly forgiveness and love as well.

But these people, they believed that their inventions were true, that there was a better way of doing things than blasting into oblivion, all opposition in a world of chaos and darkness. These inventions held strong. They had the stubborness to continue and the lack of prudence to give up.

They gave a new meaning to the human race: democracy. Looking at both sides of a coin.
They could change the world. Can I not change myself then? Here's to a better tomorrow and i won't have enough pride to say that it'll all be for me. Is there an 'us'? I do not know -but then who does? We face life as it comes with the amazing ability of facing the unknown on a daily basis.

Onwards then...
For all, the people who thought they were my friends and I thought them to be the same too.

19 March, 2007

So on and so forth

Back to sporadic posting. And plodding on. Not that there's much else to do.

Started messing about with VB. Not getting far though.

Read a bit of John le Carre. Only spy-stories I can appreciate. Finished of with David Gemmel and barbara Erskine.

Yep, it's quite the pot-pourri of literary selection. btw, a couple of friends got together to shoot a short documentary abt pollution in our city on handycam. Busy writing the scripts.

09 March, 2007

Glass rim pause

Dry lipped caress
Thin rimmed - the glass
The edge of reason, lunacy,
Instant apathy: frozen.
Vastened in a limbo.
Langourous strains on strings
Deep red wine flow
Musing . . .
Peering over the conjugal rims:
Glass in hand and that on my nose
And the cosmos is clenched in my hand.

Somewhere it is Fall, and leaves are falling
With a scattering of petals of rose.
Somewhere beds are always unmade
Psychedelic clutter quantized.
Somewhere coffee is always there
And cool hands on soul-scorches,
Tentative, yet sure;
Slow motion like the sluggish stream
Grinding past, what passes for life.
Diffraction on the edge.
I'm a Seer into all time, every when;
The Arrow of Time flying both ways
And I trapped in the bubble.

Somewhen spring is always there
Under the shade of impersonal trees
Somewhen someone always stands
Eyes miniature suns for gazing
Into the dawn of hopes.
Somewhen there is always a smile
Of unsaid words deafening
Swept away on eternal gusts
Of blazing stars that are, must be
Only for us - we the alive
And none may come after.

Eyes wrenched of the sight,
Darkened mind staggering,
Flames now embers like
Guttering tapers in shadowed fane;
But the name still lives
The face-smile-form-eye carven in,
Luscent in the dusk of life

Lick my lips, take a sip
glass rim pause done.

02 March, 2007

And so . . .

A brief snatch before the console. Don't really know when I'll post again. Desperately wanting my last post to be comparable to swansong. Another dream that says exactly what it is.

My thoughts are beneathe fading trees and the rustle of wan amber leaves. That look so beautiful dead, that I almost forget that they too once lived. Spring is in the air, and a long month stares at me squarely in the face, expression as belligerent (if not more) as mine. A month of mock-tests (Guidance - aiming for the tree-tops, at least I don't need wings to climb) and text-books. Busy friends and the spiralling discomfort among people long out of touch. Cringing from blameless family, trapped in my own perception of myself.

My mind is not with Resnick and Halliday and Finar and Khanna and the whole brood of academicains. It is where the wind blows the sand from dunes with no one to watch the sight. Where were-wolves dance beneath the moon, and then on other nights they sleep together nontheless, not wanting the sanction of others in something so very much their own. Where the mountains glitter remote and serrated and each ice-crystal shines in uniqueness.

My self is struggling with the shackles of reality. "if you want to get into wherever you wish to, you better start burning the midnight oil." Oh yes, I've ousted many long nights, wandering as a dark shade amongst the blessed real shadows, lurking on the terrace haunted by memories. The way I fell of the roof, and lied to others abt, it. The way I stare into space, knowing that I've chosen a grey life, and pride forbids me to even think that there is another. There is only the one, or none at all. Either the temple, or a gaping hole. And I alone.

I want to burn, like my torch. No, I have always burned. Always alone. Sometimes I'm alone with others. Mostly, I'm alone by myself.

I am mad. Thank god for that small relief.

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