27 May, 2007

Why do I blog?

Alrighty, before anybody thinks up something smart, I take a long time to respond to 'tags' or whatever be their ludicrous nomenclature.
Now then, the task at hand.
All in all, there are times when I need to open a valve, and let out some of the steam that accumulates with alarming alacrity. That's one reason for blogging, as good as any.
Also, there is an inherent tendency in every man (as in human, don't become all feminist now...) to try and leave a mark on the blackboard of life. Try to at any rate. The reason why people scribble their names on monuments, walls, benches, generally followed by a declaration of their brimming affection for some fair damsel.
The reason why - on a somewhat more-gargantuan scale - monuments are built in a desperate attempt to prevent the inexorable progress of Time from eroding all memory of one's life and times.

Think of every life as a pebble held above the limpid pool of Life. The dropping of the pebble is the sum of all our actions in our lifespan, such as it may be. But I believe that a life is not truly over until the ripples flashing across space and time are stilled.
However, at the end of it all there is the uncertainty of certain Void. Subconciously, I guess, most of us try to obviate the fact. Hence this blog - yet another bravado-filled shout of "I've been here, I led a life, I'm not just a handful of atoms spinning away according to the vagaries of an impersonal Providence/unbiased Cosmic dice."

Wanting to be heard. Wishing that the echoes linger on after the voice is (for some, thankfully) still.

Now that people, is vintage musing at random. I was out of form, so the posts began to come dangerously close to making sense.

A thousand words.

Interior and the exterior...
A few days respite from the city heat, in even more heat!

15 May, 2007


They had blood once, strong and heady
As the wine of heretic dreamers;
Blood to be spilled, ever ready
History's unremarked streamers
Apron-strings of the dispossessed...

Under the shroud of a pearl-grey sky
Whereto prophets reach gnarled hands in vain;
Freed, I soared and wheeled on high
Where ecstasy absolved the eternal pain.

Rusty blanket of turmoil
Sons of the soil that forever did toil,
Give me(and them) the eyes ever calm,
Wistful curve of the lips - balm
To sore souls like mine.

Action!...of sorts...

The holidays stretch as deceptively as ever to infinity.
Which means I'm more languid (others irreverently call it 'lazy') than ever, my body ensconced in comfort so that the mind may explore new vistas.
Trying to leave my mark upon the institution before I bid it adieu. Like the Bangla play we had for Rabindra Jayanti (our transcription of Puraton bhritto into a play), my inconspicuous self as the narrator. Other times just trying to be something I felt I was by definition, but never through effort: a Xaverian.


To slippery souls like me, few things leave a lasting impression. Least of all the things most people think ought to. I'd find an eternal moment before the break of a storm more memorable than more than half of the people I know.
The unpardonably depressive 'metropolitan-ness' of our metropolis is being somewhat ameliorated by the frequent squalls and thunder-showers all eager to receive my blessings. There are few things more cheerful than watching a brand new hoarding (of McDowell's: some surly pseudo-Caesar) flapping willy-nilly before the welcome blasts of the storm.

On my terrace then, I am Gandalf and Thor and Ariel all at once. Put in Zeus for good measure.

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