Where could i possibly begin?
At an ending. May be an impending ending. That kept us Waiting.
i couldn’t possibly start counting the memories we are both bestowed with, And in great vain, i attempt to remember the mortal remains of memories of togetherness.
For Memory is a burden.
How do i remember thee? Let me uncount the ways
i remember thee to the depth and breadth and height
To the beginning of the warmth in your touch
i remember thee to the end of every next-day
Most quietly waiting by my g-talk for a message to pop up
Into the laziness of your day-ending as my day dawns to the sound of your voice
i shall wait, my time to serve with memories intact
To see you somewhere in all my griefs and faith.
i shall but remember thee Always
For i know no greater love than, of remembrance
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”
A year that just slipped by, a year of grief; certainly,`The Year of Magical Thinking’ when a thousand things dawned onto the quiet mind basking in laziness. An urgent need to seize the slyly time that refuses to wait for any tides. A few memories, that needs exorcizing, if not will continue to haunt the remains of time. A happy memory of learning, loving and living together for a short worthwhile. As the year ends, a few deaths that scarred me remains untangled, in the web of memory. An haphazard need to bid adieu to a thousand things as the year nears its end.
At times, Waking up is a like a dream. A certain kind of feeling it evokes as one wakes up from/to a dream. She did remember this; a distant memory, a near-fading past- his feel of lips on her navel. She could only chuckle at the memory, his less than short of obsession with navels.
Next only to books, those unread, but buying books at every other day, the untidy linings of the books along the walls of every shelf. For only the beauty of Japanese language can find a word for book hoarding – Tsundoku.
To end the year with something that i recently read/lived through. Kafka on the shore is one of the strangest books i’ve read. A journey that stretches itself onto the realms of magic as the reader approaches it. The story is narrated from different perspectives of Kafka Tamura, a fifteen-year-old boy who runs away from home to escape an oedipal prophecy and thereby making it true and then the story of Nakata, an old man who gained the ability to talk to cats after an incident in his childhood.
This entire book reads like a fine collage of intense vignettes of unrelated dreamy scenes and poignant conversations. A meandering dreamlike tone drives the entire reading experience. A surrealistic “Kafka-esque” thread runs all along the narrative tying the loose ends, before the book ends. At times, it takes a toll on the reader to make connections every now and then, that said, it ain’t an easy read.
One can sense an intentional ambiguity in the very narrative and the plot.
May be the book speaks to me in a way, as to the threshold, that had been pushed onto me.
“Listen, Kafka. What you’re experiencing now is the motif of many Greek tragedies. Man doesn’t choose fate. Fate chooses man. That’s the basic worldview of Greek drama.”
As often, i feel the lure of the unknown quite regularly. May be like everything else, “Kadhalum Kadandhu Pogum”
Life… sigh.. Became unstoppably an un-happening affair. My one and a half year stint of life in Shillong, the Scotland of East did let me learn and unlearn a lot of things. The idle town/city, where I spent a considerable portion of the nights in my life awake and half asleep, woken up to an earthquake, wade my way through its charm and closeted streets; yet it stops me often to raise an important existential question. What am I doing? Here? Off late, certain, at times an inevitable complacency creeps into me. I untangle myself and let it go and I go on.
A crisp cold evening; the winter is aloud on air; when you feel the wind biting into your skin unaware. As I stroll on the streets of my neighbourhood, I can’t escape feeling this feeling of discomfort. If I were to borrow a certain Bollywood description for the beefed up security measures on the context of President’s visit and called this scene as Kashmir-a/like. Mind me, I am righteously wrong here. I also prefer to shy away from such-any filmic description, as it would give away my misinformed nationalistic view of things.
Yet another successful bandh, following a series of bandhs, office picketing, and road blockades. Nothing works as perfect as Fear in this small town. All I am worried about now is the missing Red-Carpet or maybe I did manage to miss, it being laid out somewhere for the Honourable-His Excellency. I should make a mental note to check the Secretariat, Raj Bhavan, CM’s residence and the university. It would be a gross Grecian disgrace to miss out on such an important colonial/comical custom. I looked for it in the streets as well.
The streets looked deserted, rather deserted by people, who preferred to huddle up inside their houses for an evening. Scattered sparsely on either sides of the road were few men and boys who went about their business. A few kongs and chai wallahs were busy in their evening order of things. The Haphazardly parked police and security vehicles seemed to make up for the empty canvas of an evening in a Shillong street.
The charm of the place has definitely taken a day off on Mukherjee’s maiden visit to Meghalaya.
Come whatever! I am out to enjoy a cup of tea in this cold weather. Balancing the plastic cup in one hand, I manage to get hold of my mobile from my pocket to read a text. “It is not Meghalaya, it is bandhalaya.” Makes sense in one way.
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He was new to the place; with hundreds of new faces around, he not only felt new, but also out of place. Still he braced himself for what was ahead in store. With each passing day, he became familiar with the new faces. Soon there would be someone to greet him, smile at him, and stop by to ask, ‘had lunch?’ ‘Do you have class now?’ ‘Nice shirt yaar’, ‘Want to have chai?’ Casual acquaintances do happen this way in a new place.
But still there were few people, who do not need such mere casual niceties. But there was something else; Some other people who took him to them. Kevin, The Great Dane Singer, Nagaraj, Swami, Oliver Twist, Range, Henry, Kalyani, Robert Langdon, Jamie Sullivan, Sparks, Jayakanthan, Harry Potter, Erma Bombeck.
And not to forget Alvin, the cute kid, who lost his family on a Christmas Eve. It was Alvin, who showed a different him to others. People by then knew that he was a story teller. And she loved to listen to his tales. She knew, he is different and all that mattered to him was the words and what they convey to world.
There was this guy and the first novel he brought for him. “The pleasant Interlude”; and from then it was their ritual- A book for every birthday.
Oh! Not to forget how these three met on a mid-night to be introduced as hard cotter potter-maniacs. Be it the mess, corridors, Stone benches, the front shop. They were never tired to carry a conversation of what would happen to Harry and Hogwarts after the death of the beloved Headmaster Dumbledore.
There were a few girls, who met him almost every evening/weekend to get/share/exchange/rob books from him. Also they loved to call him Krishna, for they believed he has a way with girls, but not just with words alone. Those evening spent in the stone benches and those never ending conversations at the girls hostel gate. Girls, it seems had to face a tough time with their infamous warden because of him, as how someone later testified.
Then came two Psycho Seniors. Remember Kevin, not just a problem child in the case of high school shooting, but someone he held close onto and someone who grew on him. She knew that behind this stupidity and Vainokki, rather Bada Jollu Party, there is a sensitized guy.
Not to forget the beautiful world of Malgudi that R K Narayan weaved with his words and imagination, which brought us together and also the hatred of you for poor Ginny, I have never seen anybody so much drooling for our Harry.
Oh! And then the senior and the sister, with whom he had real tough time, when it comes to make her read books, and had to throw up real emotional tantrums to make her read books. Someone who got him Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on the first day and the last day of his life in Coimbatore.
Pray for me Brother, Gone with the Wind, My Days, and a Readers Digest Edition of A Walk to Remember were their last exchanges. Rather the meen curry and Kari meen at Neyyattinkara.
Have you ever sit on a public place reading a book? Well you would. But have you ever snatched a book from someone when they were deeply immersed in it? And then call your friend and show, “Hey Look, Nicholas sparks.” And still forget that there was a guy standing in front of you, mouth wide open and little intrigued. I know someone, who just got lost in North Carolina then.
A junior, who was introduced as a fellow Potterian and a co-Aquarian, someone who shared the equal madness and passion for books. Someone who made him gift her, Tuesdays with Morrie
And then someone else walks into his life, a junior to start with, and then turning out to be a precious little brother he always longed for. They grew together without books. I remember those Friday evenings when he went to see him off. Those old book stalls, where he leisurely spend an hour or two buying half of dozen of books, only to be snatched/robbed, when he is back to campus.
It rarely happens that he gets to read the book first. It was always made sure that the book is circulated among their reading circle; read by everyone and then promptly returned to him.
Such was the life of The Book Broker.
P.S. To all my Book-Lover friends from PSG… Love you folks…
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Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving asErma Bombeck points out rightly, plus I realise that guilt is also an element that keeps the going on. For that matter, I don’t set out on a propaganda that I’ve stopped feeling guilty, but I don’t necessarily guilt myself for I have also realized the guiltiness of nothing and the nothingness of guilt is more dangerous than the guilt itself. There are things that matters as they are something that I have learned to appreciate. For I remember a few glimpses that which compels itself to be told and to be shown.
The myriad of memories that oozes out from me turns me numb in pain. I wish I could cry out loud and let the despair out than to be gnawed inside by the memories that are set on a painful blooming inside me. They create a pattern, a pattern that would set my mind to a roller coaster ride through the times I have lived. What I couldn’t do is to muster enough courage and say a Positive NO and be out of the maze. Photographs are not mere memories of the past frozen to future. The shadows bring in a cocktailed tinge of nostalgia and regret and set us to a brink. What can one possibly trade with time to go back once to a moment and re-live them? No wonder, God is cruel. And Fate is crueller.
Have you ever sat alone and listened intently to the rain? Have not you ever realized that the rain drops falling on the roof with a clutter actually long for an intimate conversation? Have you ever looked at a child watching wistfully at the rain outside through a window? Why would we distance ourselves from such beautiful moments of life? I realize the beautiful rain, which rains inside me, when I sit and watch the rain that rains rhythmically to the music of my solitude. And then I do the loveliest thing. I let it rain and I let myself rain.
But where on earth or heaven can I expect a shower in this arid Hyderabad April? All I want is to rain outside my window and me cosily sitting with a book? For a change my thesis this time, as my countdown is set to write and submit. Here I come, to you, the world of academia….
Goavaiku Poovam, My name is Khan, BalyakalaSakhi, Rendezvous with Vicky, B’day surprises, Loonnnnng Hiatus, Un-blogging days, A laid-back life, JRF, New year, Life and all…. etc.., all for a cosy-catch up………
Never Ever, I had been so desperate, that I came back from two back to back movies, and log on at five to write a post! I knew, I’d been idle for almost four months. I realise now that I’d been simply procrastinating life, in every way possible. Kind of guilty too for that. But indeed life had been happening, The best of Books, The best of people, the best of all, I’d wished for, Life goes on and I cling on…. And this is an attempt, a desperate one to get back and come back… I wish i could wish….
Been in a book-buying spree, mind you, Buying but NOT READING. Have ordered a dozen books online, and waiting for them and Thesis took huge diversions, yeah! Am doing my M Phil in Comparative literature for people who had forgotten me… And the most wonderful part is that now i’m a JRF qualified Research Scholar, which means LIFE is settled as of now…
Ever started a trip, just like that. The fun in doing things as a matter of fact, the spontaneous crazy decisions. I wish I can live life, just like that!!! It started as a long drive in Bombay Highway! Four guys, two bikes, Started from Campus, went to Sangareddy district, caught up a little dinner and drove just like that to reach Humnabad, the border district of Karnataka and lucky were we, to be guided by a lorry driver who understood us so well that he minuted every little detail well and we were just left with two bikes, a lil cash and of course ATM cards to fuel up the journey. With all fun, driving safely at 60-70, we reached Gulbarga at around 5 in the morning.
And it actually started like this, four guys riding and suddenly met with a question from one, Why don’t we go to Goa, the only fact we knew was it is around 800kms from our place. And it started thinking we would decide to return back to campus at some point of the trip and after reaching Humnabad, we decided to go on further. And after reaching Gulbarga, Something struck me about Goa, a friend of mine, from whom I have heard about his frequent freaking to Goa, And then We came to know through Vicky, who enlightened us with his information that From Gulbarga it is 400kms to Belguam and from Belgaum its 160kms to Goa, well we already drove 250 kms and reached a place called Jewargi, where we thought we will freshen up. But the thought riding another 500+ kms and we didnt even have anything with us except money. We had our breakfast, caught a little nap in Gulbarga fort and started back, and reached our campus around 6. It was fun and well, what Azeef said was true. When we plan, we fail, with every other reasons coming up and Things get dropped out at least we were able to ride upto Gulbarga… And it was FUN!!!!
My Name is Barath, and I’m NOT a RSS, But Why such things like this movie? Karan Johar takes up the burden on him to Indianize Muslim. And HE sucks.I don’t understand his need to stuff movies with too many things.. Muslim life, Terrorism, Good-will, Autism, Good Muslim- Bad Muslim, NRI life, Natural disasters, Bad Bush, Good Obama, US-Elections, I really wish Bollywoods comes out of this formula of representation. I don’t understand why the burden is placed on muslims often? To showcase their good-will,Patriotism and Loyalty to the Nation… And Talkie towns can stop playing National Anthems during the start of the movie and let me tell, I DONT STAND UP THEN FOR NATIONAL ANTHEM…
Balyakalasakhi, a malayalam novel of Basheer is a timeless tale of love, sorrow, hope, childhood-love and Optimism.I read the Translated version in tamil, though I had been read to, the original in malayalam, It is flavored with muslim dialect of malabar malayalam and the everyday life of Muslims. No other story can stand before it for its narration. Majeedh and Sughara were childhood friends and they grow up only to face the harsh realities of this world. It is also partly-auto-biographical. The first half is a delightfully narrated on with happiness, that makes us long for a childhood and the second half with grim and sorrow, yet the author has brimmed it up with his humour. It is the story of the most sincerest and innocent, yet unfulfilled love. As M.P.Paul suggests in his foreword, it is a page torn from life, bleeding at its edges.
It happened last june, when I went to write my JRF exam and I met him again after I have got my results. The first rendezvous should have been accounted, I didnt, for my sheer lazyness and Now I do try just to recollect those wonderful moments for it is the first that lingers as best. Vicky, Amazwi, a name that would recall a part of life, where I happened to meet an Alter-Ego. A casual Blog-hopping, comments, mails, discussions on books and movies, a casual SMS sent, the first phone-call, and life happening, and through been dumps and downs and after all that you feel that someone had been with you all the while, the unalarming yet the filling presence of a sole-soul. With all the apprehensions, I made the effort to meet him, You have known so much a person, shared a million minute details of life, and meet him for the first time, you will feel Butterflies.. Thats was it…
And the second time, it happened, met! went for a Movies, shared all that could be in a few-while and the rest is his Tweet, “Met Barath. in that little time we had, discussed everything we could. I drove behind his Bus till he went out of sight. Tresure you Bro.” and looking forward for our proposed trip(s).
And I was visibly shocked and surprised for the rest of the celebrations. It was indeed the best of celebrations we had. Love you little ones……
And As I confessed, I am at the peak of my laid back life and each day passes with at most certain uncertainty and I rejoice fully regale in them
P.S.1And This post is an attempt modest from me, almost after four months to get back. the return of the Native. Hope to see everyone around… Love you folks 🙂
P.S.2 And Guys, the template is a gift from Amazwi. And am loving it bro! And I kept my word.
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Well, this is indeed a tricky part of admissions to any course, which I am in absolute love with, to write and write. At times what is expected is a profile or simple write-up of why one needs the course in the concerned institute, or how we see ourselves after the course. I don’t want to sound too technical or too much of a know-it-all or teach here, How to write a purposeful Statement of Purpose.
It is indeed a joy and happiness when someone approaches you to help them with something. Way back into years, right from my first year of UG life, I had been this guy, who takes pleasure in anything related to writing, editing and translation. Trust me, had first hands-on experience in editing theses, research proposals (proposals???) research articles, write-ups, essays, resumes, CVs, SOPs.
Remember my Jun N, who is in UK, I remember the excitement when he first told me his plans to go abroad for a masters degree. All the time, we spent in discussing how the SOP should look, the construct, the importance or clarity, conviction and the coherence in the writing. And how he wanted me to sit with him all through the writing process, and it was 3 AM in the morning when he finished. “Bro, here it is, just work on this and change whatever you want to,” Giving me the total autonomy, he slept off. I was rather happy for him, because I took more time to persuade him to write one on his own, rather than going for a consultancy’s ready-made, here-we-serve-your-needs and thus killing the originality of the students. Honesty in Statement of purposes comes from writing what you’re and what you genuinely want to do in life, rather than mere impressive verbose talents
It is such a contagious happiness, when you hear people make it up to their dreams and live the life they imagined. Also it is more an inspiration for me to. May be this is how we grow up with people, seeing their dreams as your own, standing aside and sure by them, cheering up every move, those necessary pats and slaps when needed, and those pep-talks when in really deep-dumps and also the huge throwing up a party to celebrate.
Now I’m at home, looking through a couple of SOPs, and also it is more of a view to someone’s dreams, and I respect each, as I know they are too personal, It takes a lot of courage to actually open our dreams to someone. It is a loving experience to actually read them, help them create the one they need, I sit like that ultra-professional with a sharp HB and an eraser, a thoughtful-I’m-in-work look with an invisible Do-not-dare-to-disturb-me board thrown over me. I soulfully take efforts to just edit the language, the grammar and the mood of the write-up if needed and make the conscious effort to retain the Writer’s tone in it. And it is indeed difficult an effort.
I remember the senior R, indeed a best bhaiya, who often tells me that people take advantage of me, many a times I assured him, not so and I indeed love doing this, I feel people appreciate our work by simply giving us more work. I often think this way, “When there are so many people around, why would someone prefer you over others. It is a confidence that they place on us.” And just play by. The feeling of importance comes from making others feel important.
And when A, got his job, hey I prepared his Resume. And the phone-call, hey dude I made it and the following celebration in that Aavin milk booth, just chai, coffee, Milkova and cookies for rs 289/- and that show-off to my friends that I have a friend who treats his friends in Hotel Residency, a Posh-place in Coimbatore. Actually, that Aavin milk both is just next to the hotel. And this way, our next treats in CAG pride Restaurant and Jenny club went every time someone gets placed.
My talent for writing(sound too much though) goes back to my third standard, when I helped my desk mate D in writing a love-letter to his crush-our senior P, I was caught badly, as I tried to send that letter to her through the Moral Science book, which was accidentally the teachers copy. Hey I still have that letter with me, a very old, badly torn, battered and dog-eared corner of a page torn from the copy-writing book. And also there are few reminders of my talent such as messages that I come up with at times, randomly out of the blue. The text I sent to a friend who was on his first date, the frustrated writings in a boring lecture, the notes sent among the bench-mates, a porn-story I wrote, the first thriller novel, me and alter ego co-authored and of course my first and last love-letter(still in my sent-tems folder)
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There are certain questions, one should refrain from asking, especially when you happen to travel with someone who calls and considers him/her self a writer.
“What kind of a writer are you?”
Well. I never had a clue, all other times; it was either a warm or an I-don’t-encourage-such-questions smile. But that day, to the most unfortunate despair of the interrogator, I had this answer, spontaneously brimming up inside me.
“I just write, hence I’m a writer, but my writings and my being of a writer is multi-layered, rather a multi-staged process. I’m a reluctant writer and when I’m past my reluctance, I turn to this compulsive writer and keep writing, only to end up as a voluminous writer. I cannot help identifying the little things and people prefer to call this labeling. So I’m even a labelist-writer, in a way.
She had this what-wrong-did-I-ever-do-to-you look on her face. For the greater good, I excused myself, “It is quite sultry inside. I’ll just go, stand near the door for a while.” And I left my window seat.
Pre-script: This post can be lengthily lengthy! Read it at your own ease.
Then I did realize the importance rather the necessity to traverse in the depressing murky narrow lanes of human mind. I did make the journey. In a shorter while, I stood face to face with him. He was tall and nude. I glimpsed down at Him, sensing his faltering hesitation, I averted my glance. I found out, he was shy and got intimidated by my presence before his naked self. It looked pale. It didn’t bother me anyway; for I had a mother’s eye. I was not disgusted by his nudity. His sudden appearance brought out the rather dormant motherly instincts alive in me. I reached the door of his grief-stricken soul and gently knocked to wake him up. He understood my silent plea to unburden his sorrows on me. I still got a chance to identify my own self in him, overcoming all my possible short-comings and human weakness. I can hear his prayers. I prayed/wished there were fewer burdens and more people to help him with his yoke. For the first time, I looked at his eyes, to see the fear blooming away to a smile.
When any mind is dug, the depths are seen to be filled with the acid, frustration- the source of hatred ness, which gets accumulated due to the needless and endless rush to no-where. People don’t let the flow of base, literally and chemically i.e., assurance-the source of love, to neutralize this and so as to stop the mind ending up, thoroughly eroded and turns to a scathed monstrous inside spitting words of venom outside.
What could I possibly tell, to let him learn that nudity is sacred and so are every private secret. No god/human-made-god is sacred. Believing that thy gods are sacred is the absolute Blasphemy. Nothing is more sacred than/as sacred as Human spirit.
When you sow love in life, you reap only smiles in return, the other synonym of love, which is pure and blissful, like that of a baby, which arouses a desire in you to touch and caress in rejoice.
Ever patted someone’s cheek with love, when they smile? You will know.
Sitting on a beach, feeling the coarse texture of the sand against my skin, with the music, plugged in, either Savage Garden/Bob Marley, with Italo Calvino unveiling the secrets of the Invisible cities, sipping apple juice spiked with white Mischief to be lost in the magical orange hues of the evening sun.
How romantic! How rejuvenating! NOTHING ELSE MATTERS
Only, when you’re in Pondicherry, Marina, Marine Drive, Kovalam, Goa or Gokarhna.
Sitting in the living room, awake at an unearthly hour, with four other souls deep asleep at the dead of night, I look out of my window and heave the usual sigh!
I found myself awake to the deserted sight of my bedroom. No clue! When I fall a prey to Insomnia. I get up all by my self, prepare the most-cherished-I-made-my-own-chai and sit at my dining for the morning my-alone-mono-conversation. Brother would have left to Bangalore, remembered seeing him at 7, when I tossed around. Heard dad’s voice and spotted him in his usual I-don’t-see-my-spectacles-anywhere look, when I blinked and adjusted to the morning light entering through the window. Listened to mom’s daily set of instructions, “Keep some milk for puppy, you have your breakfast soon, clean up the kitchen, put away the used dishes, keep the house tidy, pay the grocery bill”, when I got up to switch off my alarm and sleep again.
Watch Television, sit at the PC, listen to music, stare at an empty space, sit idly, read, pick up a novel and start umpteen times, sketch/scribble/cook. Mono/multi/juggle tasks. Do nothing/everything. A day is gone. I spend my whole day regretting not being early, missing the jog and curse for being lately late every night. And naturally you grow around the middle.
Vacation does this. No matter how well you plan to finish novels, jog/jinx/jingle everyday learn guitar/music/cooking, watch movies plan a thousand trips. Nothing happens. Believe me, been through it badly, madly and truly.
VACATE YOUR HOME DURING VACATION.
When you’re an adult
1) NEVER EVER holiday at home, you’re past the age of summer camps/cramps
2) Home is meant to be missed and not to SPEND vacations.
Orkut and face book even bores the hell out of you. And you turn the most perverted poet. G talk status – a testimony to this statement
With all this now going in for a more while. I plan to write books/scholarly articles on the following topics
1) The Ignored Psychology of the Blissful Boredom
2) Being the second born – boon or bane.
3) Ten sure and safe ways to seek instant attention
4) An Introduction to holidaying at home.
5) The Psycho-analysis of bored-minds: A socio-cultural approach
6) What not to do, when you’re Home Alone.
7) Understanding the problems of the Youngest Kid.
8) How to be a successful attention Seeker
9) The nuances of being a nuisance at home – A beginner’s theory
Efforts are been given at a full fledged pace and wish me all luck.
As Erma Bombeck quotes, “Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation. If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you.”
And as JB ma’m puts it, “You’re home-sick, you reach home and soon, you grow sick of home.”
Yet, how I wish, I get up every morning to the beautiful sight of the snow-clad Alps Mountain on the meadows with that special dream-girl rather my-kind-of-girl cuddled up beside me.
No! No! NO! I’m a single, and not that desperate or waiting to mingle-single. It is just that I wish, to know what it is to get committed and to flash my COMMITTED status in Orkut and face book.
No Shrings! I’m still the committed single. Remember we can flirt, flirt and flirt, No worries, we’re still committed to our single hood status. We’re The Committed Singles.
And you T**** Now don’t call me a predictable pervert, you Pakistani *******U**. I miss my campus life, BIG time!!!!
I abstain form the temptations of running away, deserting my own self. I just cannot imagine my own self deserting the precious me.
The best way to overcome temptations is to yield into them – Oscar Wilde.
For I know, there are less and less worthy things in life to run after and more and more beautiful occasions and meaningful things to look forward. “Everything Waits”. As Samby puts it, “Nothing great has been achieved except by those who believe that something inside them is superior to circumstance.. And I continue to believe..”
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I don’t have a clue, when I fell in love, my first memory of my love dates back to my six or seven years of age, when I first saw my parent’s wedding album. I regretted being not there and determinedly decided that I would sure want my kids to witness my wedding. Brings a stupid smile now. But, Why not???
Well coming back to the wedding album, It was the pictures that I loved the most, The coarse feel of the black and white pictures neatly arranged in the black charts, beautifully bound gives an almost nauseating nostalgic look which slyly creeps into me, making me feel want to live in the bygone times. It is the frozen memories of the past, well hidden from the Wheel of time.
I go to greater extents and take risks to collect copies of photographs of my people. I greatly pester people for their photos, for which many don’t have a clue why I should go gaga over photos. Believe me I have albums of many with me. Somehow I feel a magical connection of going down the memory lane and reliving them when I see the photographs. When I see those pictures, I see their childhood and adolescence unfolding before me- letting me get a glimpse of all the missing pieces that I had only imagined. They affect me in a strange way; I feel neither sadness nor anger for having missed living with them in their yesteryear lives. For I always love to grow up with people.
When I see my parents wedding album, I get a thousand thoughts. Well, for first thing it is love before marriage, then accepted at last by their parents and an arranged marriage. I wonder how my dad would have felt being the groom, knowing that he would be spending the rest of his life, with the person he loved so much. Did he really think then, that he would have a son, who would be writing about his wedding in a blog? How would have my mom felt? Had she ever looked him into his eyes and smiled with a mischievous twinkle full of love? Did she ever have the clue that she is going to be the mom of a son, who considers himself a treasure of their cherished love and wedded bliss?
Well the photograph speaks, each picture has got a thousand stories to tell, If you’re ever a willing patient listener, listen to someone ramble about their youth and blessed will be you, if they have photographs with them when they tell their tales of loved and lived lives. But for me, photographs are just not the magic alone. It is their youth and more importantly having lived their youth in 70s and 80s which I personally consider the golden/classic/ best of times in life.
I am thoroughly in love with the art and literature of 70s and 80s. Be it the movies/music/pictures/literature/persons/advertisements/Television serials, nothing beats the magic of those times for me. May be the black and white print gives a lived-in authenticity to them, And till my ten years of age I believed that Life was in black and white or in grey in 70s and 80s. I visualize how the mountains, lakes and greeneries would have looked in black and white. I visualize life in the metros, sub-urban, abroad and villages alike. I visualize how people would have spent their young and old life in 70s and 80s.
I feel a tugging at my heart with a painful lump forming in my throat and I sigh heavily till the tingling tinge fades away in me. How much I wish, I want to live my life in such a period. I get jealous at people who have lived/spent their youth in those times. Certain Golden olden movies rekindle my longings and stir my heart, making me nostalgic for the past which doesn’t belong to me, a past I partly own. I smile knowing inside that, though I didn’t live then, I belong there completely.
For the simple reason, I believe life was simpler then, people were inherently good and people had time for life’s little things, everyday chattering were part of life then, people had time for humane interactions; families had time for dinners and for gatherings at terrace after dinner, casual acquaintances was more happening than social networking. Neighborhood and life in government quarters gave people to come-together and rejoice in camaraderie. Life was less mechanical, people certainly had the humane touch and more than anything, people wrote letters. Yeah I know, I whine here. But accept me. Just once in your life, realize what I’ve fallen for. Take a paper and write a letter to a dear one, at least a text mail. You will know the magic for yourself.
That was the time when life was not commercialized. I greatly believe that the art of those days celebrated love, people and the human spirit. I believe I’m made of that and made for that. I precisely conclude I’m a person who still live in the black and white times, pen and paper days. My world still counts in 70s and 80s. I take everything possible of me to make life more momentous and memorable with just people and people around. As I know, I’m born to love and I live now to love.
பருவ வயதின் கனவிலே பறந்து திரியும் மனங்களே கவி பாடுங்கள், உறவாடுங்கள்.
“To those hearts, fluttering their dreams in the youth. Sing poems of life and love and celebrate them. “
Curse the good god, (if there is any). What’s happening with my musings? It is like; I had been ditched by muse. Ages since I had immersed in thoughts, No I don’t count my exam days. They are far worse, but best when it comes to exercise my mind. For I imagine a lot, when I write exams. Probably you have, when you have no clue about what’s been asked in the question paper. Half my answers are hypothetical and the other needless to utter, non-sense. Well that’s how I had been till now. But my best memories include exam days, be it the board exams, entrance examinations or semester exams. I can never forget those days. There’s apparently something magical about exams, that only an average under dog can know. The thrill of being ignorant about what you need to know and still make it to the exam hall. And spending a considerable chunk of time, day-dreaming-looking around, reading the instructions, hall-tickets, question paper, what ever available to read, randomly looking around, wool-gathering, reliving memories, pretending to think and acting as if you are smart know-all and write some crap to fill-in pages. Those days are now gone. Me on a way to be research scholar soon, Heaven willing…..
Life is quite different now, outside campus and especially being at home. feels like am deeply grounded and living in an island of lost abyss. I wish things were a bit better. Have got loads to do, don’t where to start to sort out things. Feeling crazy yet unreasonably depressed. Let’s see.
And Well I have exactly never spoken about this, The coming of a small town boy to a metro. It has been two years now. and I remember the day, when this small town guy landed in hydreabad, about to cry when his dad wasl leaving. Thanks tto Rajitha akka and the timely offer of pav bhaji! from then it was a journey, mostly the journey of the self into the self… and then I started blogging! well, That was one another thing that happened to me. well the other thing is the meeting of people. People from various parts of the country. I learnt a few things and well even un learned many..
And this i9s how my musings have been evading me for the past two months. I honestly couldn pen down a single thought! there has been a block/clog in my space… and Of course things were nt fine at my end. Not keeping for a long while. All i know is my search grows bigger in my life and as Known to a few, I just want to give up everything…
And this wonderfull thing happened… Lets just call her N, for a few close folks of mine know, her! It was exactly in my first year UG I met her in coimbatore bus stand. She then was in her secomd year English literature. well she is my Kinter Garden sweet heart. Well. My first ever friend, The first person I consciously loved outside my Family. We were been this inseperable pair, well everyone knows that peopel till tease me, for I did everything to be with her, sneaking her out of the class in UKG and going for a walk in the school garden while class hours, spending the noons with her while we were supposed to take rest. It was innocence of love with pure bliss and joy. I remember the time when I prayed that I should be put up with her after my fifth std. And How she prayed to Mother Mary to change me to a girl so that I can be with her…
And we didnt meet so ofetn after that. and the last time I met her was a few weeks back, most unexpectedly. I heard she got married to a guy she fell in love with. Her parents were really nice ecought to let her marry a guy from another religion and I met her with her husband. Well All I remember about N is her dimpled smile with her trying to tuck a strand of hair. She remains the same. and then after a casula conversation, when we were about to leave, she smiled and told me, “Sure da bharatha, You will like V, he knows you well. and he is more like you.” and she looked into my eyes and smiled. God! I love her. and You know I smiled inside, a knowing smile of seeing her happy!!! when you love someone, you smile often… and Guys! I love you. V and N. My sincere wishes are prayers for a happy life…
Well Nothing much! am not still out of my writers block.
Jb ma’m gonna finish her thesis soon.
Haven’t spoken with anyone, should call and speak…
Got three more exams, well Thats counts more important
My trip is waiting and so is my friends
HAvent spokent to Mano, asish, Raku, Raji akka, sudar anna, winny, and a lot more
Been a year! I met Raul…
Should meet Vicky this time, no matter what happens..
Should visit my old school and college…
Samby would be back soon…
Well a lot more
Hoping against hopes That I would resume writing soon…
Exams got over on 25th.. And I had been blissfully awake all night till 30th working on my Research Proposal.
Well had total fun, boozing after a short-while. I started boozing in late march and still looking forward for a last booze in the campus.
It is odd, staying put in a place and watching people leave, people who I met here and people who mattered to me more in the last two years.
And Now I’m here. Not knowing what to do, Haven’t booked my tickets still. Don’t know, should I stay here or leave.. but where?
Spoke to Mano after a long time, It’s been a year since he left the campus
Anu akka called me, it seems she hates coffee and that is what she gets all day. Life???
Many more Happy returns of the day Asish, My Alter Ego’s birthday today.
Have got two more major exams. That will determine what next?
Got a travel plan to kerala, Well Plans never works? Been a victim of plans often lately.
Just wanna hit at a place with no humans around.
And Kind of pissed off with things, lately????
It’s Okay Baru!!! Life….
And I need a Re-Invention now
Well, It seems Samby is back, Welcome back lil big bro!!!!
And I smell Jasmine, now… well Just a girl sat next to my system. I turned to look at her. Oh! Chechiyo???
And sorry people, will soon hit at your blogs too. It is just that I need some time to wake up from this Hibernation/sabbatical idling away …
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