26 January, 2009

Behind blue eyes . . .

 I solemnly confess to being more shaken than I care to recall. You see, I've always had a fascination for Order, the Jedi over the Sith, Light over Dark and that whole thingy. Yes, the occaisional forays into Vader-worship and Hannibal Lecter-idolising were . . . the exceptions that prove the rule. Lawful (occasionally chaotic)-good at the end of the day.

 Case in point:
   Today, 12:30. Weather suddenly too warm. Gariahat Pantaloons.
 Blue Eyes comes up, brainless head lifting up with a smile as I emerge from shadows (hah). Well, what can I say? The quest for my lost Grail continues - the ever-despairing search to unite the beautiful mind and the beautiful smile. Always seeking for the once-attained perfection that has been swept away into the West. Leaving the greys, the lonesome dusks and smoldering embers that vainly recalled what once was, and never more will be.
      The current specimen is . . . an urge I have indulged in. A passing similarity to the Temple's name, a simple soul and a smile that dredges up forgotten memories. Flashes of tucking in the blanket and fluffing pillows before a quiet 'goodnight', of wistful glances, photo-sessions and brimming mirth. As my Infernal friend observed, "You are hopeless."

  Anyway, the reason why I am shaken today to the core of my being: continued.
  Blue Eyes clad in sky-blue T (no surprises there) and three quarters,
  We retire gratefully to the coolness of pantaloons. Sits curled up with her legs folded to one side. Then comes my Fall into the Dark Side. On the paleness of the calf there was an oval patch - a faded scar. I glanced and glanced again. Unable to tear my eyes away from the light-brown Medusa. Gripped by an insane desire to grasp it, to clutch, to caress. Madness!
    I have never enjoyed S-n-M and other such morbid manifestations of the human psyche. Then why the obsessive desire to see how that wound was made, to be the one to make it, to be the one to nurture it's gash on the smooth curve...
  No, the monster stirring in me has to be held in check. Somehow managed the proper responses to the usual banal banter - lecturer-bashing, how reunions with school buddies are about the greatest thing ever, who the hell is Manasi Scott, hope you enjoy Beyond barriers; you're not coming? No sorry - family stuff.
   Blue Eyes' eyes are a rich dark brown, like burnt almond-skin. With black streaks. She had come straight from sleep. I noticed that some of the sand was clinging to the left eye's corner. Strangely fascinated by what would generally repel me instantly.

 Kaz calls. Godsend, I think. Only chap with some . . . erm, firsthand experience. Bugger eggs me on! Damn, like I need any encouragement!

   Feel the path diverging at my feet, past constrictions falling away in this terrifyingly new maelstrom of sensations and intentions. Blue Eyes . . . the Temple . . . and all my other lost Grails are tumbling together now. I can't hope to sort it out now - the usual attempts at logical analysis are leaving me more turmoiled than ever before. The temple's doing psychology . . . but this is too drastic a thing to reveal. The rant blog must be my sounding board.
 Tomorrow I plan to read this and glean some insight into what triggered this, and the way to cease this thing.

23 January, 2009

All for 150

Yes, yes. I'm still high on the post-150-years-of-Xavier's euphoria.
   After some maneouvering I managed to secure an alumnus seat with the rest of my batch. Trust xaverians to think up something - in any large gathering visibility of the stage is always an issue, as is the visibility of any large screen that projects the events. The people arranged for a number of medium-sized LCDs along the sides of the enclosure.
   The music was ... enthralling.
    Then of course we slipped back into schoolboys mode - mimicking the hapless guests as they spoke. There was a point when the words of wisdom were "aand we hab industrialisation... more jobs.... forward economy.... more industries.... factories...." I knew that Agni's gaze was mirroring my own exasperation and despair at things in general. An educational institution's 150th year celebration for crying out loud!
  The State Assembly speaker spoke wistfully about how before the college was co-ed he had to sneak out to meet the Loreto girls.Now that was something we all could enjoy....

 Later on the hulabaloo of informal reunions - Bachha, Buchu, Chandu, Arka, Biri, Ranjan, Sumon, Bhaduri Nata (who actually responded to Kaz's hello. Nota bene: for once the shirt wasn't torn under the arms.) and the rest.
   Let's get to the highlights. Other than the usual bonhomie, back-slaps, back-stabs, cheesy smiles and guttural guffaws and a juvenile mystery solved.

  1) I heard the best euphemism for liqour at the Alsoc event at 6. Mr Singh Roy compering: " And ladies and gentlemen to my left we have... well, I really don't want to say the words.... let's just say those seeking spiritual assistance may head there."

 2)True to our tradition I smuggled in a former classmate through the police checkpoint as he had never picked up the pass for the evening's event.

 3) We inadvertently forgot that despite being sexagenarians, the dignified gentlemen had nonetheless passed out of the same 'portals so dear'. When the snacks  were brought out . . . let's just say it put our tiffin-time orgies to shame.

4)Teachers boozing. No one passes up free liqour.

5) Gave the SXC people a snooty glare - 'we were here - walked the walk, talked the talk - aeons before you lowly creatures...' Caught in the act by Rai and her scathing tongue ("blazer ta boss to portei hobey na - nahole school-er xaveriana ta dekhabey ki korey?").

6) When the cries of "Three cheers for Xavier's" were taken up Kaz joined in while still on his mobile. I can only surmise the reaction to the blood-curdling yell on the other end. :P

7) No free food. Our dirty dozen took the shadowy  walk to Middleton Row. I sang along with Agni (Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer - completely random, but that was hardly the point) as we passed St. Thomas' Church and took the turn past LH to chase my phantoms away. Had our fill of food and khisti at Golden Spoon. Dylanish whine as we started off on "My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet...I"

 Home. Exhaustion and elation. Watched Bunuel's Unchien Andalou.
   Nihil Ultra. Nothing beyond. A sword we have tried to live with and would die by. And be worth more than my meagre words can express.
 I knew then, more clearly than ever before, that if I were to ever reconcile my lost Grail then my life will be infinitely poorer. For me there is nothing beyond the Temple . . . and I will finish my quest.

20 January, 2009

Ever seeking

 There are times when one is wrapped in greys and maybes. And then there are those times when pure thought illumines the path to be trod. Whenever I have contemplated desolation for too long, there is but one poem to which I return: hopelessly idealistic and unashamedly epic in proportion in these days when half-sentences and jagged metaphors strew modern 'meaningful' poetry.
 Tennyson's words were sounding in my ears ever since last evening. After a prolonged tête-à-tête with former school buddies, mutton tikka rolls, chanachur et al. College, girls, breakups . . . progressing steadily to the capitals - Life, The Future, Idiotic Buggers, She's et cetera. 


"I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life!"

  Wish that every day before drifting into dreamland everyone could say "I have drunk life to the lees...."
After a life of compromise it never amazes me that a person can still think such thoughts and aspire to such heights. There is a Roark in everyman.

10 January, 2009

Tystnaden and pools of sunlight

 It's streaming through my windows, and brushing aside the curtain's feeble attempt at keeping the sun out.
 The neighbors are thankfully quiet at this hour of the morning, else the beats of Linkin' Park, the wails of some devotional hymn and the concerted orchestral tutti of cawing (the crows hereabout dive-bomb even the pariah kites) makes quite the symphonic experience for the early riser.
 Faint, ever so faintly one can discern the few true birdcalls to enliven the heart of the city.
 The sky outside is one solid sheet of fire. My rooms face the east and I can still see the green-and-blue afterimages of the sun's gathering strength. Winter is passing.

 The sparrow are chirping! Trucks rumbling up the bridge, engines revving. I want this to last forever: me, the sounds, this room and the pools of winter sun on my bedroom floor. At times solitude is bliss and this is one of those times. Making the ivory tower worth the desolation.

 On an impulse I decided to retain the stubble that's now tending to grizzle.
I'm remembering inane things. A rather diminutive friend once stood stock still at the Ballygunge phari - nearly causing us to be run over by enthusiastic drivers. Turns. "Your eyes will haunt me." I tried to come up with some wacky retort. Unfortunately, evading being run over, all I managed was "You are shorter than a pygmy." Ah, the ignominy of missed opportunities to be scathing . . .
 There, Mr. Arora's Enfield's coughing its guttural 'good morning'. Hey, alliterations too - this morning must be charmed or something!

 I must soon murder the magic with my clawed hands for the rest of the day must be charaded through. Deliver stuff to Salt Lake (now that place haunts me - where every turn bears some memory), smirk and nod dolefully as required and contemplate pizzas on the drive back.
 Forgot to chronicle: the blogmeet with my old enemy went well. Reassuring to find that craziness can always be indulged in.
 A rare conversation yesterday. I'm still under the spell of wistful eyes and carefree laughter that flirts with the wind. 'Typical' as indeed so many say.
 But today I am glad of my worst friends and best enemies, of soup, cheese and pale sunlight. St. Xavier's deserves a visit, then I'll be off to my tryst with DA-block. And the evening chat with my lost Grail.
*Dons the helm.*

01 January, 2009

Thinking ahead

Another year. Another slew of to-dos. First things first - Happy New Year my dear visitor!
Right now I'm bent on focusing my generally myopic view on academics. Other than that I have mulled over a few plans/intentions.

  • Take up Assembler from where I left it. I'm one of those people who get an innate joy in pushing bits around registers. :P I'll be using NASM for the dissassembler and DJGPP on WinXP initially. After PCasm is done, I intend to move over to linux assembly using nasm or gasm on Ubuntu. The language may not have any intrinsic value as many opine, but it will definitely help anyone who wants to know the 'why?' after the 'how?'.
  • We'll be having Introduction to programming using C this semester. Which is pretty much a cakewalk. I'll be honing up on gcc on linux while doing the college assignments. There are a few syntactical differences which I have to get used to on linux when migrating from Borland's IDE. Moreover, this'll force me to let go of IDE dependance.
  • Re-install Bloodshed DevC++ on Windows. At times an IDE helps. ;)

Who am I kidding? The list of hum-drum to-dos to fill the void of actions that have a meaning. Beyond skill-sets, grades and assignments. The little titters and daily masquerades that etiquette demands. The thing that chills me to the core is the unsettling fact that this new year's day was so much like the one before, which was like the one before it, which was . . .
Think beyond the new calendar, the sliding stocks, the daily litany of horror on the headlines. Those that have been there forever.
The sense of transition is that of a smooth cruise in a sedan. Not the hurtling sensation of motion of a gallop, or the reckless rush of a train viewed hanging half-out of the compartment.
I'm craving for a cataclysmic change like an opiate. Yet in my heart of hearts afraid of what it will entail. Every desire attained presents its bill somewhere along the way. And sometimes the interest accrued is . . . substantially devastating.

One of the few things I look forward to is receiving Neverwinter Nights - Diamond Edition. :D Over this last year I have seen the gifts passing through my clenched grasp like so much water. The words no longer come to my fingers as my mind grapples with the profundity of everydays, baked beans and christmas cake. But I can no longer make the glass glitter like diamond, parade sleights as skill and somnolence for wisdom. The last sky I painted was a flaming sunset, but my ride into it has fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf (hah! How vilely doth this muser qoute!).

The ivory tower of mine, once-vaunted, is now reeking of solitude. Not the splendid isolation of sages, but the miserable bile-in-your-throat nerve-sapping unsatiated yearning of the dark ones that lurk in shadowy nooks for ever, hating the darkness that clothes their frailty.

My eyes are dimming again, the macular degeneration accelerating blithely. But my mind sees frozen lakes, black denuded trees and snow-swept ridges which I should have stood atop. I feel the Keating creeping up, in stiff competition with the Toohey while a remnant of Roark struggles with blueprints. With no D. Francon in sight. Or maybe this is the last vestige of Wynand: "...to the spirit that is yours and could have been mine."
Funny, I had liked none of them unconditionally. It was Galt, always Galt.

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