29 February, 2008

One down, several to go

Okay. So the best way to unwind after the first theory paper happens, I mean just happens to be blogging. Mainly because watching The Constant Gardener with my father a while back doesn't count. Both of us expressed out dissatisfaction with our uniquely distinguishable snorts. Having read le Carre's book before, we already knew the story (anyway, it's an old release in any case).

Oh, and I wrote this essay on 'ambition' Overlaid with generous dollops of Ayn Rand-ish ego, Ulyssesian (not that incomprehensible monument of our dear Dubliner) thunder, garnished all over with liberal amounts of convoluted phrasings and half-misunderstood truisms. To which you may add if you wish the seasonings of siestaic somnolence and the general torpid stupor which clogs the recalcitrant essayist during a board exam.
To which may be added the short-bread of laziness as slovenliness slops onto the saucer of apathy.
And now the monument of my 'ego' is in for repairs.

May I now include an extract from a fellow blogger . . . .

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

School life : The End

Here's a little something that I wrote for school :

Now the cold of winter comes,
Starless night shall cover day.
Nirvana eludes us still
And all hope fades like light
From far Triangulum beyond the stars.
Noradrenaline floods our blodd,
Our minds are dulled to a faint throb.
We walk a crowded road,
We know not why we go.
Transhumanist ideal and xenophobic fear
Mix and meld in one foul broth.
We rush now to the event horizon of our destiny.
What lies before us now?
Some hellish canine to tear our hopes?
Some Ibola plague to burst our veins with despair?
Yet we flinch not!

There can be victory without sacrifice,
No triumph without loss, no interregnum before the end.
Fell deeds await; fire and slaughter!
Spear shall be shaken, shield shall be splintered,
A sore-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising
We come singing in the sun, swords unsheathing!
To hope's end we ride and to heart's breaking!
See now the wormhole of hope,
Forth now, there's a last march remaining!
March beyond hope, beyond despair, beyond life, beyond death,
March now to our glory beyond the ending of the world!

27 February, 2008

In the glorious expectation of nothing very much

There's this thing that old photographs, silverware and memories share.

They all get a patina over them with time. And trying to get it off ruins the whole thing. I keep on staring at the faces, unlined and unburdened with my continued exixtence. Trying to read some invisible message into every nuance captured on film. The fungus slowly ruining the features. We all play that game: reading our own lines into other's mouths. One time or the other.

Here's a few scanned in. A half-hearted effort to stop time's decay.

Technical details for those interested in obsolete stuff: The camera was a Himatic-7 Minolta, with a Rokkor lens coupled - 45mm and 55mm.

09 February, 2008

... And when we leave the portals so dear

Sat through the long and exhausting speeches (yet entertaining, our alumni featuring some of the best debaters in the city) of grey-haired pundits who passed out of those very same portals that we will never enter again as students. I realised that some people can never get the debating rebuttal out of their speeches. Heh!

They say, "you may have left Xavier's, but Xavier's never leaves you".

That's it then. One by one, the strings are being cut, the baggage packed and the mast hoisted. The long phase of my student life at St. Xavier's is at an end. The new voyage about to begin. But sitting there, looking up at , and to, those prolific alumni who have gone before . . . I cannot help but feel I have a lot to live up to.

There was an indefinable sense of fulfillment, and a curious numbness at the centre of it all. Even euphoria and grief have taken on a patina of grey, no primary colors anywhere. Smiles, back slaps and three cheers. Words unsaid and curses lifted. 'Lakshmi' mispronounced as 'Lakme'. And my humble self being presented with a ghost-story (aarghh, the ignominy!!!) and a spoof 'Joint Best Essayist'.

We went out then into the dark grounds as the veil of evening settled over the outgoing batch of 2008 for the last time. And, in scattered ragged bursts, the Alsoc caps were thrown high into the darkening sky, like rooks winging swiftly from their nests.

Night fell swiftly, to discordant strains of "For he's a jolly good fellow" (people kept forgetting the second line) , raucous shouts and general hullabaloo that it the soul music of any boy's school.
And our predecessors smiled and thought of '..how many times shall this our lofty scene be acted o'er...'

Did I say I felt we had a lot to live up to? Well, yes. Then again, Nihil Ultra. Nothing beyond. To be held as a good man is a blessing, but to be great, one has to go beyond.
Seriously, if in my sojourn, a cynic such as myself can feel such things about the institution . . . there might be something in all that, y'know.

02 February, 2008

A declamation in an interlude

I am. I think. I will.
My hands . . . My spirit . . . My sky . . . My forest . . . This earth of mine. . . . What must I say besides? These
are the words. This is the answer.
I stand here on the summit of the mountain. I lift my head and I spread my arms. This, my body and spirit, this
is the end of the quest. I wished to know the meaning of things. I am the meaning. I wished to find a warrant
for being. I need no warrant for being, and no word of sanction upon my being. I am the warrant and the
It is my eyes which see, and the sight of my eyes grants beauty to the earth. It is my ears which hear, and the
hearing of my ears gives its song to the world. It is my mind which thinks, and the judgement of my mind is
the only searchlight that can find the truth. It is my will which chooses, and the choice of my will is the only
edict I must respect.
Many words have been granted me, and some are wise, and some are false, but only three are holy: "I will it!"
Whatever road I take, the guiding star is within me; the guiding star and the loadstone which point the way.
They point in but one direction. They point to me.

Anthem - Ayn Rand

Well, that's it. End of existential angst. I wish.

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