...La voie, la verite, la vie

headache

2011-06-27T08:04:00.000-07:00

…the dark dust settles

the winged red dragon stares with its fiery eyes

the attic fumes with fires from hell…

and pleads for a moment of rest..

the soothing wind is washing my face

but something reminds me I am not there..

thousands eagles pierce my brain with there beaks that spew blood away

I try to smash them one by one with the sword of faith

but my limbs can only take this much pain…

I seem like a palooka who has just lost his fight

Should I succumb or endure the pain ?

for a efficacious remedy I pray…

hearing my plea a white dove flutters by

she sits with grace…beaming with its soft and pristine form

a flutter of her wings soothes my mutilated soul.

with silent gestures she speak to me in monotone

All of a sudden everything just seems to be alright..

I feel the languid breeze.

the pain in the attic has gone..

the dark mist drifts and gives way to light…

The dove now parts and takes her flight

I bid goodbye asking her to return when the dreadful beast is again in sight….

the path we all shall tread

2011-04-05T10:08:00.001-07:00

she sinks as breath leaves her shore
water drains away life from her form
she wakes but breath that fed her is gone ..

reluctantly she walks..

her steps are numb but yet they move..
the path she treads is dark and narrow..

She gazes through her unruly curls on the side
the path is paved on water by its sides.
She wonders if the sight she sees is an allegory of death itself.
her voice mumbles to all the others that walk the path she treads
they are nonchalant of what she talks.
fright grips her but there is no heart that pounds

The path leads to an end where everything seems so white
she feels blinded with what she sees in sight..

but then a sudden thud …
air enters and brings her to life..
She graces herself and dwells on this tryst with afterlife…

innately perplexed and intoxicated

2011-02-13T05:02:00.001-08:00

…the arena erupts with guitar,drums and deafening metal

smoke and liquids pump and enslave all that seek ..

immersed in trance I see a sight

a ferocious eagle rises up from the stage ,

spreading her wings and creaking at her preys ,

a blend of pipers and guitar riffs greet her presence ..

countless head bangs rise from hell and bow under her beak .

soon a red mist surrounds the arena;

and the devil rises in a blitzing of drums,guitars and hell raising rock.

The devil is greeted as signs of 666 invite his rise;coming from all us enslaved people,

we sit in awe of her multitude…

With unctuous music simmering like drugs within our veins..

smoke white and mysterious erupts from the lips of all that he slanes..

The blinding lights unite and bling like natural fractals and takes us away from reality,

some breakdown and immerse in the cradle of there dreams.

Those of who last ;wake and hallucinate in reality..

The morning draws close and everything is so still;

head aches with regret of the fortnight sins…

the music has stopped and the smoke has settled,

the musical steel are now cold and numb,

her slaves now look for her with there puffy eyes

but the eagle is now nowhere to find

the devil has taken shelter and has disappeared with the dark

…the hallucination dawns now into reality

the morning hullabaloo replaces the deafening overnight trance,

blinding lights replace the surreal morning sunlight

…mist of the devil settles as sanity unchains the slaves to bring order..

but the devil always lingers by the side …waiting for his moment…

as I walk through the promenade

2010-12-05T01:49:00.001-08:00

As I walk through the promenade…
moist with dead leaves decorating my path
lowly black metallic grills hanging by my side ..
a alley of trees shelters the way..
with branches arching like garlands over the promenade..
greenery glitters as sunlight blossoms over dew drops lacing there surface..
Over the horizon the mystic morning sun rises…
the amalgamation of dark and light produces a tinge of blue that envelops the surrounding.
unperturbed with nature’s ways the quite traffic bustles;
with low lit floodlights appearing as circular halos from my sleepy eyes..
I walk as the languid morning breeze kisses my face..
and mumble…

“Its a beautiful morning blessed by the newly born sunlight.
everything she touches is chastened by the serenity of blue
I walk by and everything seems so new…
morning is just a start;
fresh and bustling with youthful exuberance;
and the day as life weathers down as it ages
morning,noon,evening and then disappearing in the night
there are sunny times
and then there is the dark ..
but not without the tinkle of stars and the staring moonlight
all this
only to start afresh ..
in another day
with these thoughts I remain calm
peace ..
and good night to you all..”

inquiry about the unknown

2010-07-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

Perturbed by inhibitions,
ignorant about the unknown,
baseless in conclusions,
seemingly void,
and there I begin my inquiry about the unknown.
I sense its presence with no trace in sight…
maybe its just an illusion created by my mind
maybe there something there still to be found.

The path I tread is rocky and white,
darkness just lingers there by my side.
I run towards it and shear it through,
and there lies my chary unknown.
I feel weightless in the presence of the unknown.
sooty black,muscular and feminine in form.
She looked at me with medusa`s stare.
Gathering fervour and courage
I chain her and take control.

moments passed ..

Bewildered I was of what I saw.
She started changing in shape and form.

metamorphosis' happened !

As white as a dove she shone,
With a halo crowning her brow.
unchaining her I ask…
Why were you not Known before?
with a smirk she said ..

“The dark is my keeper till there is none that seeks.
I lay in silence ;though I hear who calls to me,
the dark keeps me caged,
until there comes the one worthy of me”

To the Teacher who taught me the letter ‘A’

2010-03-04T09:40:00.001-08:00

What do I reason from the words I write,
What do I convey from the words I speak,
what is the meaning of the book I read,
What is the language of the thoughts I keep.

Ohh Teacher,who taught me the letter ‘A’,
I remember you ,as if it was just yesterday.

I may have learnt the methods of science,
may appreciate the depths of literature,
may construe the prosody of poetry.
But what comes of it if you had not taught,
what letters meant from that little graphic alphabet book.

The poems you recited illustrated the world to me,
The text you taught was always a new discovery to me,
The songs you sung ,let me dance in tune,
The games you created,made me learn something new.

I do recall your patience with me,
Your love and care,
as if you were mother to me.

But Teacher how can I forget thy name,
I feel so bitter I can hardly craft thy face.

The cobwebs of time blur my memory of you,
Ohh teacher ,If I can once again meet you…

Bookends

2009-12-27T00:58:00.000-08:00

A small snippet of Simon & Garfunkel's classic song Bookends ...

"Time it was, and what a time it was, it was A time of innocence, a time of confidences Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you"

A melodious line corrugating the soft thoughts of remembrances through pictures which recollect back in time and freeze the very instance where you lived ...and what you now have ..though it may have changed ..but moments stay tucked in the rusty caskets of past memories.Life flows with cascading waves which in them reflect pictures of those times,you hope to touch them but they just go on incognizant of your presence.

When I do remember those times,I mumble ..Do they remember me in that form .. were they touched by the nature of vibes I transmitted ..or my whimsical nature just tickled inside them for fractions; and then was erased with the languid mist of time.

I hope to find those days, circumstances may well have played there part in what has come of it .Though I sometimes find a sense of belonging with people who we are remotely oblivious to our sense of feeling.I sometimes wonder why we humans are crippled of the sense of getting to know how other people feel.But it is hat sense of mystery that is responsible for the tumultuous emotion we feel and endure.

`Bookends` draws to me a picture in which stacked in a dusty collection of books ,tucked in neatly by bookends ;we accidently discover pictures,cards and remembrances of people we love and memories of those lovely times.The sheer metallic dexterity of a bookend plays on one of the most revered emotional strings.

Just beautiful the slender song is… and sometimes magically the essence of life just creeps out magnanimously from lifeless static object..Bookends…..

why do I write ?

2009-03-25T10:23:00.001-07:00

Why do I write ,I know not why,
I'll try to explain in the words that flow.
I write of thoughts that come to me,
I picture them in words as I see them be.
I ask myself ,what do I benefit from thee,
is it just a waste ;that I commit to thee.

I write to hold my life in words,
to inscribe them as they slip through the sands of time.
I write of emotions as I feel them be,
I write of passions which tingled me in,
I write of experiences that I grew with,
I write of feelings that are dear to me.
Hope one day when future doth come,
their smell reminds of what I had done.

I will continue to write till epiphany does come,
or there isn't much that I can share.
I am neither a poet nor a writer ;
all I write is nothing but me.
Hope you enjoyed the time reading me.
If you have something to say do write to me.

Memories

2009-02-27T09:47:00.001-08:00

What shall I call that fleeting moment, that feeble instance I do remember, Is that a figment of my imagination or a feeble mark on past recollections.

Memories we call them ,they come in peace. Bitter sweet symphonies of the time gone by. They lay deep as brushstrokes by an impressionist, Circling my attic like a fleet of pigeons, an armada that sails through the trysts of time .

They lie clustered in those corridors of remembrance, I pluck each one and smell there languid air, they make me laugh and cry ; Some shall not fade though some muffle past by. Clutching onto them I am reminded of times,of love,sadness,fear,mirth and laughter. Some make me relish the time gone by, Some talk to me in the tone I love. Showing glimpses of those I treasure, the one's far,close and those departed souls.

They lay there; all inked in the book of time, turn the page and the moment is alive, I try to hold on to them and they fly past by .

I ask a few not to bother me again, they say ;it was me that gave them space to stay and here I see something happening again .. Call it déjà-vu is what they say ...

Trainspotting!

2009-01-30T02:42:00.001-08:00

..A walk to the nearest railway station ;through a closely packed alley ,with parallel lanes of unsymmetrical shops on whose footsteps countless mini hawkers populate themselves.Past the rusty over bridge I hear thousands of feet trampling over concrete floors,steps ;with a mingling cacophony of human voices and further ahead that metallic commotion of trains .A feeling of rush simmers through me ;when is my train arriving ,platform no ....Trainspotting !

I first came through the word while hearing the title of Danny Boyle's movie based on Irvine Welsh cult classic novel "trainspotting",a tumultuous ride of a druggist from embracing heroin to at the end leaving it and choosing life .And pardon me from mentioning this culminating quote of the movie (vaguely out of context of what I am writing about ) spoken when the protagonist finally cleans up

"So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change, I'm going to change. This is the last of this sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you: the job, the family, the big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die. "

So that's it for the movie I look up into the dictionary and here it comes

n. hobby of collecting and noting down railroad locomotive numbers; looking for a vein to inject drugs into (Slang)

Hmm so the former refers to the movie and the latter is easily comprehendible.So that's it for lexical analysis ,I move up the charred four steps to the ticket counter .A long queue of people flock about the ticket counter ;appearing like a show of geometric symmetry between all this humanly congestion.

The station entrance speaks of multilingual blue boards and twinkling diodes displaying train numbers,platform no etc.Once inside the foray ;a rusty but crowded overbridge laden with street hawkers flies over you .Going down the stairs ,over the footsteps beaten by millions ;and sheltered by a canopy of rippled tin sheets supported by triangular latches of wood.Ahead the platform is scattered with old brazen cement benches ;always laying motionless ;relaxing millions of people who wait for there inevitable train arrival.A peculiar resonates through dictating the arrival and departure of trains,with a "ting tong" sound as an intermission between each consequent messages.Chirping ticket checkers check commuters for a piece of paper to guarantee legitimate travel.A saintly black and white clock stands there like a diligent cop ;like it is never going to budge ;and looks over to the millions who pass beneath it with sturdy rigidity. The white subway breathes through the stations underbelly,with that creepy underground feeling .Its white concrete walls pale with dust and red supari spit,pirated cd hawkers queue on sideways and dim tube lights fill the atmosphere with that hospital ward creepiness.An intermittent train passes through and shakes the underground with its rumbling metallic vibrations.

Trains pass and stop ,the squeaking sound of the brakes resonate clamorously over parallel tracks ,and those red devils emancipate huge crowds and drizzle them through with equal commotions as they came.Trains come laden with thousand of commuters packed to the brim,some hanging on to rods and poles ;in a meaningless void with the strong feeling of; rushing to there destination though inevitably its true that they all will come and reach at the same time. Lives betwixt tracks and compartments,people laden with trash rags collect plastic bottles,junk on the tracks.roadside vendors selling junk food,soda,books ,magazines and any infinitude of possible handy item.Varied semi clad,worn out children and beggars plead with there disjointed limbs for ounces of money.

A look towards any of the platform reveals a marked contrast to all this activity .People lie static on the floor ,cuddling naked children and living life on these tracks .Life is in a standstill here for them; and there fiefdom is limited to the sphere of the station .They sleep by the platform with paper thin sheets , stray dogs flocking in close vicinity.Among them some bath from water pipes meant for cleaning trains,replenishing them from a usable blessing to prove life can thrive in doldrums.

But these sights here breath of life ...of the transitoriness of life ..as the tracks the sun remains static and like the earth ;the trains our lives revolve around these tracks ..sometimes unconscious of the tumbles we take and always asking us that question ..

"Who We Are, Where We Came From, Where We Are Going"

Literary déjà-vu

2008-07-01T12:20:00.001-07:00

..The bustling cacophony of rainwater strikes the earth; a cool breeze sprays water droplets onto the translucent glass overlooking my balcony. Towards the East Mountains kiss the voluptuous clouds that surround them but in front of me are the large concrete living places, chequered with a physical graffiti of windows laced around it. I am sitting on my bed facing the wet glass door with page 238 of Somerset’s "of human Bondage” staring at me...And I read a

paragraph...

“The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I am ready to accept it .I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces from the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it is good I can claim the merit; if it is bad I can accept no censure”

And delve for a moment on the lines obsequiously; the gloomy; black and moist atmosphere adds to my nervous tensions and here’s a déjà-vu I recall the lines of .Paulo Coelho in the “The Alchemist”...

“When you want something, the whole universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”

One speaks of inevitability in life and the other speak so of human endeavour ,though both claim of an unknown forces conspiring to cause it ;one has no-regrets as he speaks of the unavoidable and one suits man to be driven by his free will. In Maugham’s graphic novel the insouciant character Cronshaw who speaks the above words, is aware of the notion of free will; but he shelves himself inside the veil of inevitability. But in the Coelho’s version he aspires to craft the inevitability in the inspirational sense; by stating that if you want something the omnipresent unknown powers help you to achieve it.

I get into a conundrum, if we read Maugham’s quote it inexplicably states that “Life has no meaning” it’s just like the randomness of the spilling rainwater as it hits the ground; what has to happen will inevitably happen. Though Coelho inspires us that what we want will be ours; and the unnamed forces will help us in achieving the same. Yes Maugham’s lines are not meant to be inspirational or express a philosophical take on things; they basically characterize what the fictional characters of the novel feel and he as it being his semi-biographical account; yet they do embody the inherent truth which we clamour to find and do not till the very end. But Coelho gives us the inspiration to strive ahead in life and make a meaning out of it with a sense of want.

Yes to state; Life is meaningless; it’s the objects and the sense of want that drives it...till this desire is living you live; else you are nothing but anonymous in the universe of the unknown.

I turn the page and start to read ahead with alacrity...

...Once

2008-04-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

...Unfold the newspaper, the page is laden with countless reviews of Albums and movies....A flurry of stars decorate each article; seemingly reflecting what the critic have observed about the subject.

I skip the page...

Open my notebook and start watching “Once” a brief moment in the lives of two people, searching for satisfaction .With the inherent lacuna and suffering in their life thirsty to feel the droplets from the fountain of happiness. This romantic yet soft chemistry between Allan Hansard and Markéta Irglová creates some of the most beautiful images that can be painted on the reel .

The initial ice breaking jam session was among some of the most mellifluous mingling of guitar and piano laced with vocals producing “Falling Slowly”;the scene depicts Allan deeply engrossed in the music ,slamming guitar riffs and Markéta follows; looking at him with a deft smile that squints from the corner of her lips to be in tune as she plays the piano.

As they talk ;and start getting acquainted;Markéta asks Hansard about his lost love ; he conveys his inner broken heart through the chords of the guitar and some swear spiced rock snippets. What’s lovely is the conversations between Hansard an Irish lad and Markéta a simple girl with a Czech accent that just creates one of those multi cultural cocktails we so love to hear and watch .

Markéta behaves with curiosity yet maturity when it deals with family ,though she has an inherent inclination for music which comes apart when this passion prompts her to create music
,late night by breaking her child’s piggybank for buying batteries to fuel the cd player to hear the tune created by Allan ;creating a soft rhapsody that rises up from the dark with her singing “If you want me “ with tune to the music coming inside her ears a lyrical extempore.

The song “Lies” with flashbacks of Hansard’s lost love ,is a touching realization of his deep-seated pains in a musical way .The pictures of joy ,love and romance flash back in a grainy palette ,as the songs states “you are moving so fast forward” ...Hansard’s desperate to hold on to her but to his utter dismay can't .

The films reveals some great Irish outskirts with a romantic scenic background,a vintage motorbike,the scene near the backdrop of the mountain and the ocean simmering right down there feet ...Hansard asks do you love your husband and its Czech translation ,Markéta says "Miluješ ho?" and answers in "Miluju Tebe".. not translating it back for him .

The array of jam sessions and recording just generates a collection of great rock ballads...The music flurring in the background with simple clips of joy with family,friends and the band.

The dark scene with both of them seated near the piano,with marketa playing “The Hill” that she wrote about her life and husband,cries Hansard's shoulders;he urges her to come with him to London,and she says "can I bring my mum"

Hansard leaves for London,gifts her a piano ...

And with "Once" in his memory ,laden with a deft smile leaves for London, with the background score “Falling Slowly” strumming up the pieces of “Once” ;and striking all the right emotional chords.

Rolling Over

2008-02-23T09:24:00.001-08:00

We all are in a rush, floating over rough roads, railed tracks and convex flyovers with the intermittent revolutions of circular wheels.
I sometimes sitting in these mobile machines, plugged into doping Rock & Roll, sometimes peek through the windows .The tracks are laden with varied vehicles, running by the help of there circular legs. The speed varies as the number of mobiles increase “traffic” we call it ,a simplistic definition that captures the density and state on the road.Everyone of them placed like a jigsaw puzzle on the track,but this state of synchrony soon gets disturbed by some unruly un-regimented machines. What comes out as a result is a Jam; a name synonymous with stillness, commotion and frustration.
But it is the motion that amazes us not stillness .As humans we craves for change, evolution, revolution, innovation.Seems there is some action in these letters "tion” ...
Sitting idyllically for a while, hoping my watch needle drives me out of this stillness
The Jam clears.
In the rhythm again…
The mellifluous cadence and high notes start flowing through my ear buds,I give a squinting glance through the bus's mirror and watch over the moving ,the vehicles appear like static boxes moving in constant relativist motion to each other .But I lower my eyes at the circling wheels ,they push me into a state of activity .
Rolling over… embossing rubber traces on the charcoal clad roads like footprints on wet soil .There spirit excites me, oscillating with each strand in tipsy-turvy motion like the endless circle of karma; all firmly dictated by the firm axle. Climbing over speed breakers, jumping over rugged pot holes, bruising themselves over rough roads; and still maintaining there indomitable spirit of rolling .
With the musical rhapsody gently absorbing the inside of my ears and sights of the dance of spirited wheels, I stay calm; a feeling of satisfaction and an emotional high grips me.
Can non living objects in turnstile motion inspire you?
Circular rings of steel circumscribed by an inflated ring of rubber...
Maybe I am insane!
Or maybe we humans just crave for a moment of happiness and a cheer.
Cheers!

Hindering from Delirium

2008-02-10T02:38:00.000-08:00

The day passes by flipping pages of literature, tip toying and rattling sound of the keyboard, the hullabaloo of the television and the squelching cacophony of living beings.

Sometimes with the calmness of the day, the calm breeze of solemnly solitude, I find myself .The weekdays which usually bustle, but sometimes finding yourself in the midst of static activity; lying on the solitary couch is a different proposition .The body stretches over the couch and the embossed finger veins appear as per the concomitant activity of my finger muscles .Ideas, thoughts fly by like fluttering flies and sounds percolate intermittently into the fictional world of a novel. Also the loud sound of a bustling crowd comes out of the telly in the event of a skillful antics in a live sports event .I sit tight swinging between the novel and the telly, when suddenly realty calls in and I get up to conclude certain social commitments.

Time swiftly drifts by and its noon, though we all maintain our positions like random stones sprinkled on soft sand.

After a while I put on my headphones and play on Bob Dylan’s biographical ‘I’m not there’ ,rekindling a complex drama with a crisp and touching portrayal of Dylan’s life ,each played with a separate theme by different artists. The great music jingles inside my ears, folk, pop, rock and roll and an amalgamation of Dylan’s classic works. The end of the movie lends me again into delirium, an attempt to characterize Dylan, his various facets good and bad, maverick and a revolutionary. Though I conclude that he was just a free soul caged by the worldly pollution, who strived to be a complete unknown, having no direction home..Like a Rolling Stone ….

As the dark glooms out of the transparent shutters, the flickering tube light lightens; illuminating the inside, though an omnipresent shadow of darkness glooms on the outside. Again the chatter starts, the telly creeks, the web becomes alive. Talking over virtual networks, with virtually existent avatars, discussing life and publishing thoughts on the web. Sometimes I wonder ,is the entire universe under the realm of my fingers and these plastic buttons .Are the signals and bits that pass through encapsulate in them humans and a part of there life, all for a gust of subtle virtual satisfaction .

I wonder.

Though they do engross you in superficial cages, yet we still crave for the outdoors, crave for the divinely universe.

Should I still be reading books?

2007-11-27T10:12:00.000-08:00

The question interrogates me! To read or not to read that is the question, to read is to travel, explore, educate, and marvel through reams of endless pages and not to read is to enter into a literary menopause, just a bit of Shakespearian plagiarism on my part.

So to answer the question let me first start from the premise of what are books, what are they made up of, who is their creator and who are the customers of this product which comes in different sizes but yet is basically a cuboid.

A book going by the standard Oxford Dictionary is “a written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers”, it’s a printed work ;the home to numerous alphabets, emotions, thoughts, intellect. So who creates them? Writer’s, the eclectic race which immortalize what they think, believe, understand, and dream through a composition of words. Now lastly who are the consumers of this product, these are “Readers” the ardent literary foodie’s who feed on books.

Hence, who should answer the question, I believe it’s inevitably the readers; the one who live by the words, who enjoy their company and believe them to be the “Men’s best friend” .Now what questions me is why do we read is it for the pleasure and marvel a fiction novel brings or the educational scientific text provide or the nail biting suspense of a thriller and so on. We all read for a purpose, which can be any one of the above but the purpose is not mundane as Newtonian “cause and effect” ,it goes further down into the metaphysical realms of reason to what we call “Love”.

Now what lends me into an impasse is the question “Should I still be reading them “, when does one stop something ,maybe if he gets bored by it ,he finds it worthless or if he loses the drive and conviction to continue with it . As per books none of the above suffice, I ask you “will you stop to explore the seas, knowing that it unearths precious pearls” the answer will inevitably be a ‘No’ .Its just the endless enormity of these pearls which perplexes the attic of our system to keep on reading, not to is a step back from that illusive eudemonia.

Though my talk above may sound a bit biased, books are really the repositories of knowledge. Now a different perspective to the question may be that are books the only repositories of Knowledge?, has the advent of technology changed us .For some books now might just be a static medium, compared to the easily googled trillion bits of information that flow through the world wide web .Books have a challenge ..Should I still be reading them?

Though the answer to this is a placid “Yes” from me, I may be from the old school of thought. But I still continue to use the web for information and patiently flip my way through knowledge hidden between the veils of endless pages.

Blog Erratica!

2007-09-14T14:23:00.000-07:00

After a trail of intelligent,well structured posts, I finally thought of playing it a bit rough…something of a literary freestyle or shall I say going Erratic ! So should there be a theme to it? What the heck! It’s erratic …But anyways I wanted to always make an inquiry into the minds of those wordy wordsmiths, contemporary philosophers, avant-garde poets…in short Bloggers.

So why do Bloggers Blog! Why do I Blog and why do you? Free speech they say...Expressionism…Literary inclination...Whatever it may be we all love it, do it. May be there is a sinister Joy which can only be felt…a inexplicable thud of motivation that a comment gives or the effusive satisfaction of a incrementing visitor counter can only be felt. May be because we all want that elusive unexplainable eudemonia.

What about Blogs then, they come in various shapes and sizes ,Crafty designs; personalized templates ornamented by widgets each reflecting the psyche of the owner or more precisely his public face. Some of which I came across range from extremely dark to plain textual to fancy script work ;few chained into themes ,few just directories of bundled information .Are there creators really dark ,in pain ,erudite, geeks or information collectors. Are Blogs just opaque masks to hide what lies beneath or transparent mirrors to our souls? That is the question!

Bloggers usually have virtual personalities, avatars and pseudonyms …ranging from gothic, mystic and iconic names. The Characters and icons they embody signify there beliefs; there passions; there individuality or there attic of ambition. What they really do! I don’t know, maybe that is the question?

But blogs are also virtual diaries for some; a log of life as it passes; a chronological trail of its pains and joys … a textual reincarnation of unchained time. They represent the tone of there hearts and the words of there mind .They broadcast verbose thoughts through unfiltered bits .Another interesting factor I carved was that we as pure broadcasters just sail our Blogs like paper ships into a seamless sea .Decorate them with effulgent colors to reach other sailors .Then is this just a waste of time or just a swop of our creative sweat, that is the question?

Then in comes the commercial aspect, Google’s disruptive innovation adsense! Making money from Blogs was now a reality .Advertising not through content producers but by the content of Bloggers through a free platform. So should blogging be going to realms of business? It’s still for the joy of writing and information logging .Is it moral in the Blogosphere, to the hardcore no! “But what if a little money can be taken, No harm” .So which side do you belong that is the question?

Also has blogging become a fad of our times; are people really serious? Yes some are...as some were in the ages of diary writing a religious inky log as compared to the digital logs we have .That was private this is public .So are we opening what used to be private to us .Yes that’s our prerogative…But should we ?That is the question ?.

Whew!

No mater how many question I ask... the fact remains we love Blogging…we are hardcore…and though my post may be a scintilla of dust in this desert...We all will continue to seek for an Oasis

Rear Window

2007-08-12T09:56:00.000-07:00

…Just another Bus drive after Office, the dowdy red bus drifts by with the bustling traffic. Sitting relaxed on the window seat after a grueling day’s work I look out, as the bus moves all usual recurring scenes play by like an old record. But suddenly a strange curiosity develops in me and I start giving squinting glances at rear windows of buildings looking down at the dark grey highway.

The windows spread like checkered patterns over a concrete canvas, lit by candescent lamps that spark up the canvas. As per my sinister escapade I try to observe these windows zooming through my eyes inside each one of them .Exploring the lives that dwell there from a Big Brother view. Every window revealed a typical mini clip ,whose meaning was open to my interpretation .The windows threw varied sights i.e. people glued to TV screens ,some partying, some showing sights of pity fights and some with children studying ….Every window had some strange story to tell .Each having lives thriving in there own private spaces.

After minutes of peeking through I grew a feeling of guilt. Is it ethical to look through to one’s private space, and was I also one of those “Peeping Tom’s”. Though I carry a view that we all as humans crave for a thrill of exploring what goes behind close doors, and windows serve as gates for our curiosity. As I drew to the end of my ride, walking along the road scraped with muddy holes the peeping began again with sights of curtains which veiled the windows, semi lit houses, some with people preparing dinner...Finally when I came to my house sitting near my rear window I questioned myself “Is somebody watching me?” .Surely these windows serve as gates to several other with the premise that “The one who watches shall be watched!“.So at the close of the day laden with my inquisitive temptation ,I gave a watch to Hitchcock’s classic "Rear Window" a psychological thriller ;where the protagonist James Stewart finds out a crime due to the development of a voyeuristic habit of spying over his neighbors .Gosh ! so there might be something Sinister going on inside these windows ?

After a night’s rest, with cryptic thoughts of my escapade; I wake up and peak out of the window ,where a gentle breeze blew with tiny dew drops of rain falling over ….

Spherical Intersections

2007-07-28T05:44:00.000-07:00

A morning walk through the promenade, stamping over wet leaves and the muddy debris …feeling the sporadic droplets that fall from a queue of trees lining up the track .A feeble drizzle is falling sprinkling miniscule showers after mingling with the faint breeze that blows .As I move past I see people moving, chatting …some busy, some rushing, some strolling …observing eclectic mood swings bitter, Happy, puzzled, reserved… These numerous frames which pass by make feeble impressions on me subtly reflecting on my mood …

This shoots up a question to me …how do we have these mood swings...Surely they come from the mind …also I guess they transpire from our environment …as in the company of friends in a party or by the site of death .So how can I give reason to this …how can I give a model to these intangible aspects emulating from the attic of my system.

The answer to this came to me Just had a brief surprise training yesterday on personality development from a psychological perspective …My first acquaintance to the concept of the Human Brain and the mind. As per the learning the instructor put forward a marked distinction specifically revolving around the basic notion that the Brain is just a physical vehicle to the Mind which is represented by a sphere with its center around the stomach area (gut).Hence it’s the invisible sphere at least at a philosophical level that characterizes the human mind.

This gave birth to a fecund imagination in me…do these sphere intersect? Is there surface semis permeable …is there inter spherical Contact?

Taking this as a premise, though I am not Freud or a doctor in psychology I anyways had a pattern coming at least at a philosophical level. So how did I experience mood swings on my walk, maybe my sphere had an intersection with numerous other spheres which come in my proximity. The closer the interaction or the larger the intersection; greater the impression on one’s moods .This might not be closeness at a physical level; but intimacy at a mental level. Hence my mood was oblivious of a quarrel going on but effected by the site of an elderly uncle jogging and waving at me cheerfully. So the superficial membrane of the sphere does not let all pass through.

So at an individual level we all have our own world in these spheres, with individual emotions, values, thinking, prejudices and priorities. But as humans are a social being these spheres were bound to intersect and effect the way our world functions ,these alien interactions slowly creep in to formulate profound entities within us ,that is why profound emotions for others such as love ,hatred , discrimination ,friendship ,respect… are developed. Also I think the notion of our bonding /un-bonding with some is actually intersection the former in a positive sense and the latter in a negative.

Ohh,here I come to the end of my walk ,so what’s my mood ..I guess it’s a flavor of all the sights I saw, also the lovely rains but typified by the sight of an Old man being helped by his grandchild ……

City under the veil of Darkness

2007-05-19T02:37:00.001-07:00

Picture courtesy Dan's Blog

…As the dark envelopes her,
and it's black sooty cloak stretches,
Nature calls her to be numb...
to Sleep in the brilliance of her heavenly lights,
But she like a recalcitrant child…..
Pierces out with her Blinding lights,
Shines brightly than the heavenly skies,
her concretes rise crowned with red lights,
her toys piercing the mighty winds,
her veins rushing with the moving traffic…

The curvature of her shores,
Lace themselves with glittery billboards,
With slow tides sweeping her sandy and rocky feet's,
She looks down to the vast Seas,
marshaled by, her child's on there floating sails…

The hullabaloo digs into the night's austerity,
When her children rise from there cadaverous stillness,
After the economics which feeds her, closes down,
but some of her children wake,
to serve her neighbors seven seas apart,

She shelters all...
…high up in concrete's,
Low down on foot paths,
Or under convex over bridges...

But in the veil of the dark,
Her sinister sins unfold,
Her trodden children linger for a living,
There souls sell as flesh,
Vampires of crime rise from the cadaverous underground,
Shrouding a shadow of fear and distress…

..Sleep immunes her children...
They rest in there cozy cushions;
On top of mighty concretes,
Some lie on paper mattresses;
On parallel footpaths…

Few groove through the night,
Many sleep for a new day...
And some nature rebels work to let others sleep...

……………but the City remain nocturnal

A Wildly Sojourn

2007-05-12T08:12:00.002-07:00

A break from the leitmotif journey, the calling reverberates into my ears from a far away wilderness …So I pack up and follow...

Never written a travelogue so I go on this escapade with my little mobile cam to capture the moments I visit ,My journey begins from Mumbai to Delhi and then to Ramnagar (famous for the Corbett national park) …though not going there in this heat. So I take a ride to the hills.

The road ahead goes touching the park on its outskirts, the towering trees run parallel across the road looking down at the thoroughfare through the land of the wild , there shadows form textures over the driving track with the sunlight peeking lazily though there dry leaves. Staring outside the window gusts of cool breeze hit my face, fresh with moisture of the nearby Kosi River and the green resistance of the mushy vegetation .Nearby the Kosi river lies a range off mid size mountains with rocky bottoms and Negro hair like vegetation .As we move high on altitude the flat peeks pass to form conical mountains laden with classic evergreen forestry.

Nearing Ranikhet we come across lovely placid pines. the road gets covered with golden hairy leaves on the sideways, the path appears like a road to golden route to heaven spiced up by the scenic surroundings .We pass by the Ranikhet cantonment area with finesse cut grasslands with there dilating curvatures lying on either side of the road, as we go forward up to Almora the pines increase exponentially and the evergreens clad mountains start recuperating to neatly terraced light florescent farms of rice blooming in there youthful exuberance. Our journey constructs a secant around Almora, if you look from your side window you will recognize the mighty hill laden with concrete that’s the hilly town of Almora stopover for typical kumauni delicacies specially Singora and Bal Mithai.

The sanctuary is a whisker away from Almora comparing the distance you already have covered. The road to Binsar goes through a flurry of villages which drop down the road, and by rich deodar and pine forestry .Your last stand lands you at the gates of the sanctuary, on the sides of the gateway are these beautiful natural crafted wooden seats, basically barks of trees trodden outside a small restaurant .As you run through the gateway the bumpy road welcomes you, though there is plenty of forestry to beguile you from the inconvenience. Also here you won’t remember whether it’s a summer season going on, so do keep your woolens handy especially for those coming from metros.

The sanctuary boasts of leopards, wild birds, goats, and deer’s etc,

though it’s a remote possibility that you’ll have a face off with one of them .The place shall I say is a heaven for getting in synchrony with nature, a nature trail a trek through the wild .The road takes you to the top where lies a old English styled bungalow,a great place for a sunset view though I was unfortunate either to see the sunset or the sunrise .

Yet the trail starts from here .the road is rough up through the jungle ,great sights for bird lover though I am not one of them also suffering from my outdated low range mobile cam ,anyways you will find lovely flowers and ayurveda herbs If you have a guide around J

One of its distinct floras is the Buras tree .It’s juice is said good for the heart, though you might well have guessed so .After a upstream trek up the hill we reach the top ,here lies a tower around 8000 feet ,the view up her is really brilliant ,green, green and green sparsely laden with remote estates and far fledged villages .Yet the wild vivacious winds find you here ,an experience to remember at the attic of nature

Binsar isn’t a place to watch wildlife as may be the case in sanctuaries such as Corbett, it’s a place to get touched by living right in the womb of mother nature, tranquility, cacophony of a gamut of the rustling of tree leaves, chirping of birds, an occasional bark of a barking deer, smelling the odor of the greens and sleeping up with the sun dipping down the Himalayas.

After a day and a half at Binsar we went to an spiritual pilgrimage to Jageswar a couple of hours ride from Binsar ,said to be constructed during the Padavas epoch .The temples lie on sides of a small stream with huge deodar trees on the background , constructed as rocky artifacts capped with flat pyramidal sheds comparable to the temples at Badrinath and kedarnath

On the gates of the main temple you’ll be greeted by a bunch of dogs waiting to get the prasad (offering to the deity) ,as you enter the gates you will be in the midst of Hindu mythology, almost all the deities you might remember are here. In addition to the main Shiva temple there will be numerous other temples, so to be healthy on your pocket don’t make the monks perform ceremonial prayers for you at almost all the temples, though it remains as your prerogative to do so. After getting the blessings we come to the closure of our journey, on the way back we visit a temple (can’t remember the name), here the tradition goes like ,you have to tie a bell for a wish you make to the Devi and swearing not to disclose the same .

As expected a few days later I land up in Mumbai with figments of that wildly sojourn, under the ceiling fan midst of the humid heat in the cradle of conurbation …

A leitmotif Journey …

2007-03-16T13:25:00.001-07:00

Sitting on my couch nonchalantly pressing keystrokes ,twirling the mouse and surfing through the endless flurry of web pages ….

Hey its 1’O clock get ready for office!

Ohh not again!(sigh) it’s time to gear up for the JOB, just flap down the screen of my lappy (laptop) pull out the charging cable and go straight to the bathroom.

Is the water Coming ? Let's check

Rotate the tap’s dial anticlockwise and a drop of water falls like heavenly dew trickles down preceded by a void and succeeded by a void .Water problems are now a part of life in my part of Mumbai, so we are also in toto with it, hence kitchen water storage comes to the rescue..Kept not in those gigantic reservoirs but inside several coca-cola, Pepsi bottles ,a by product of my fizzy addiction of yester years. After finally getting fresh,I move to the window sliding the glass , lies a parallel cascade of cloth drying rods ,pull out a shirt and trousers from there and get back to the sturdy job of getting them ironed.

Then assiduously get myself ready ,a zigzag spray of the deo and a thorough mashing up of the gel .Now to get geared up decorate myself with the gadgetry ,back goes my purse and company id and in the front pockets the mobile and my iPod ,and here my journey begins …………

Touching ground from the ride in the lift, I plug in the buds of my iPod sliding to my favorite “Best of Rock” custom play list … Coincidentally it begins with Jackson Browns number “on the road again “ …The usual spectacle is the uniformed crowd of school going children and sights of the drainage construction going on ..I take a shortcut moving down the alley between two colossal towers .The alley opens up to the road and the burning sun, moving out of the gate I cross over to the second lane get into a shared rickshaw...a typical lingo around my side of the woods. These are basically economically viable avatars of the mundane meter system. Riding in a rickshaw typically in Mumbai places you in the midst of some strangely mellifluous melodies...a typical Marathi folk son played at a disquieting high volume level from local made transistors .Between your plugged in headphones also come in the firing line and lay helpless against the sheer ferocity of Rickshaw rock .Alas my boarding point comes and I pay the rent by virtue of a few coins.

From here the journey starts upwards ,strolling upstream under the shadow of the haughty sun to the nearby bus-stop .As soon as I reach the bus stop I hide myself in the shadow of the trees beside the bus instruction post ,cause of no seating at my bus-stop people usually flock beside the nearby trees .Waiting for a few minutes the specter of a red B.E.S.T appears glancing from a crowd of moving traffic ,guided by the nameplate a hop onto it and place myself at an empty seat .The conductor arrives and I pull off a five rupee coin in exchange of the ticket .Casually I make random folds of the ticket until it is molded into a spherical form and hide it somewhere between my fingers .As the bus starts moving I start to get into the groove of the music with the world drifting by the side window .Static sights of malls, flyovers, constructions, buildings accompanied by on the move mumbaikars and the traffic appear .The surrounding alarm myself that my destination is near ,so I catapult my self up and away to the buses turnstile exit door.After experiencing the brisk inertial effect of the Bus’s rear brakes ,I get down to my final stop.

The road from here is the shortest yet the most tiring, walking under the flyover,up the steep incline, across the nasty smell of the garbage box,the office greens and finally landing at the Office gates.

Plug out my iPod, Clip the company id and fade into the gates …..

iRock

2006-12-31T22:40:00.000-08:00

With the deft touch on the play button of my iPod, timeless bits decode into mellifluous cords …

>||

Starting out with Jimmy Page on his Gibson EDS 1275 Double Neck playing a masterpiece ,with a swift cord interchange orchestrating the stairway to heaven .The guitar springs a melodic jingle, resonating a heavenly verse and later continuing up with Jimmy's exaggeration placing you right at the doorstep to heaven .

>>| on the pod pad …

Slowly stepping down the stairway the tune changes to Layla by Eric Clapton ,lovely acoustic anecdotes, with tinge of Clapton's everlasting verses just fills the air with melancholy to add to that ,what next in the list than creeping in slowly to the November rain, the breath taking and visceral Slash guitar solo, the Church and the cerulean sky on the background ,truly befitting the cry depicted in Axl's words .

Ok now let's try the shuffle a.k.a I am feeling Lucky

Whew! I … I have become comfortably Numb; Gilmour psychedelic score just lends you into that classic floydian hallucinations .The words just enter straight to that sequestered domain of consciousness ,a delirium between the thoughts and fantasy ,a predicament ..A sterile numbness …

>>| switching to music videos

A pure black & white classic... Metallica's One, the saga of a landmine tragedy flowing through Hammet on the lead guitar. One speaks shows and smells of the darkness which is plainly indescribable, a prayer to a gruesome tragedy …

MENU >||

Time for a snack …what better than Hotel California... Don Felder/Joe Walsh classical country rock ballad, with pristine lyrics and a somewhat ghastly flavor, subtle sweet ruffling of guitar and velvet vibes. The song is really puts vintage flavors and leaves us on a sumptuous note.

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But above all is another of jimmy's masterpiece Heartbreaker, the song goes on a solo with Jimmy flaunting guitar riffs …a showcase of one of the greatest medley between vocals and the guitar …though sometimes the latter goes on its own !

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Take a bow for Bohemian Rhapsody, a ballad, an opera, a guitar solo …a musical gourmet .A cocktail of classical opera hymns, introduced by thread winding verses and shaken with guitar riffs, progressions and improvisations molding into the psyche of the listener …though as for the real meaning, it just gives you space for imagination, and rightly as The Queen say the answer is a '?'

>>|

Ok now something for the adrenaline rush, a true raw punk and heavy metal than Nirvana's Smells Like a teen spirit and GnR's Sweet child of mine .For the former Cobain's swings impromptu strokes meshed up with his slurry vocals, creating a impertinently swinging head bang .And the latter Sweet Child of Mine …emulating with Axl's steamy vocals and accelerated later by a crispy jam from slash..

….Finally my favorite Floydian number, really love Glamour's guitar riffs and those words

How I wish, how I wish you were here…

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Once upon a time there was a book…...

2006-12-03T08:07:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a book…... resting sequestered in a pallid looking bookshelf, dust embraces her as flowers clad a deity, I just puff off all the dust and a once glittery cover rises like a phoenix from the ashes .The cover presents itself with a murky picture of a child peeking out into an deserted alley and beneath lies a line written in a peculiar calligraphy which reads “The Kite Runner by Khalid Housseini “.

As the book opens, Amir the protagonist takes us down memory lane initiated by a phone call .Suddenly we are on a time machine, back twenty six years in time to post war Afghanistan in short “down the deserted alley”. Pages paint the canvas with colors of Amir and his servant boy Hassan’s childhood adventures, recitation beneath the pomegranate tree oblivious of the inevitable pashtun and hazaras caste divide. Amir talks about his taste for literature which is against the “manly” metaphor which his “baba” seems to perceive him in. Soon an air of emotional divide between Amir and his father starts to grip a dozen of pages. But on the hind site he finds comfort in Rahim Khan, his Baba’s friend, who really appreciates his literary tastes. Flipping though page a slight pause occurs when Amir and Hassan meet Assef, a psychopathic boy who tries to bully Hassan to calm his odium towards Hazaras, aiming a slingshot Hassan comes to the savior, though a fleeing Assef threatens of vengeance.

Soon the pages are filled with multicolored kites, just like a gamut of angels fluttering in the endless Elysium of the sky. The famous kite fighting competition begins in Kabul and Amir with his kite runner Hassan just showcase there talent and finally fire the coup de grace by cutting the last kite in the sky, and hence rejuvenating his tacit relationship with baba .As blue kite flurried down Hassan ran after it, oblivious of Assef waiting for him. Assef and his friends catch hold of Hassan; driven by racial hatred they sexually assault him. Soon Amir comes but caught up in an impasse between courage and cowardice, in which Alas the latter wins. He imprints this show of guilt in the pages to come and just tries to ignore Hassan with all intimacy. So is the extent of his guilt that he fears Hassan’s shadow also, hence tries to frame him in an act of theft which his father later pardons.

The pale colored atmosphere suddenly turns grayish when, the book presents a geopolitical instance the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. Thus a poignant twist occurs exacerbated by the war .Baba and Amir flee to Pakistan and from there to Fremont California, lost everything baba does menial workmanship jobs to earn bread, but still provides Amir with education and all that he needs .There once tacit relationship germinates into a strong bond, Amir now respects his baba and also helps him whenever he can. Amir falls in love with Soraya the daughter of “General Sahib”, finally marries her though knowing her tumultuous past, though he also had one! But soon to there bitter loss they come to know that Soraya can’t bear children. Irrespective of this life for Amir Settles down and he finds his literary acumen being recognized, his debut novel gets highly acclaimed.

The novel seems to be settling in, though turning the pages back, I look for traces of Hassan, the tale isn’t over and the book has a lot to speak yet .Just when I move forward my journey back into Amir’s cosmos, I find him against what is a revelation. The tide of time suddenly takes me to the present; remember the phone call from Rahim Khan.

Rahim call Amir and tells him that Hassan and his wife were brutally murdered by the taliban; also that Hassan was his half-brother. The news renders Amir into a predicament, but still Amir leaves for Peshawar for rescuing his nephew Sohrab But the way was not a bed of roses he had to go to taliban occupied Afghanistan, a war trodden conservative reign . Again recitation of the pain and turmoil caused by the talibani dagger on Afghanistan is portrayed, punishments in soccer fields, a boddy picture!

In his search Amir learns that Sohrab is held captive by Assef, the person who bullied and raped Hassan, Assef also used to sexually assault Sohrab. Amir agrees to fight Assef in order to free Sohrab, succumbing to Assef muscular strength, again as did Hassan ,Sohrab rescues Amir by hitting Assef with his slingshot …reminiscent of his father .Amir on returning to Pakistan spends time there recovering from the blows he suffered. Soon he tells Soraya all about Sohrab and his adoption. He also learns the hassles in adoption, as to which Sohrab has to stay in an orphanage for a while, but little Sohrab resists the intention of going there as per his experience in Afghanistan .Sohrab attempts suicide, fortunately saved by Amir. Soraya arranges for Sohrab’s adoption through her contacts and they finally land up in Fremont.

The whole debacle lends Sohrab into an emotional asylum, he stays calm and quite .A feeling off numb frames creeps, though finally Amir resorts to Kite flying and finally a Lopsided smile glimmers in Sohrab’s face, a hope a savior to Amir.

The book finally reaches its closure with Amir pulling those pearls from the past, Hassan's rebirth as Sohrab to reconcile his guilt, to run again to catch the blue kite flying thread less somewhere in the Elysium.

Turning the back cover filled with bitter sweet erudition. I gradually come back to reality, swiftly read the books appreciation ,and then gently place the book on the attic of my bookshelf.

The grotesque search….

2006-08-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

“The bond period is going to expire shortly! “

An air of albatross’s grips, forming of esoteric groups usually put together by preferences or some bizarre reason. Sinister plans for getting a house for rent emulate between these refined circles. The search is on a go.

We are presently a bunch of guys put together under a single roof; the reasons are varied ranging from circumstances to inescapable compromises .we are presently tied to the same socio economic slab and nearly of similar age groups, the blending of such a group has been fun, some pity clashes though none gigantic in nature. But somehow there lay repressible demons inside, Reason! As you probably might find between a bunch of Neophyte College graduates nonchalance, cleanliness and a lackadaisical attitude .So the outcome! An inevitable split, cause the frail glue of economic consideration that bonded us is no longer sticky enough .The imminent salary rise provided us the Philip to proceed with a search.

Searching a house can really be a lousy proposition, especially in a conurbation like Mumbai .It throws a spectrum of experiences ranging from to utter dejection to a probable discomfit. The cynosure of a search in Mumbai is the inimitable brokers, who are the single link between you and the illusive owner. The stepping stone of the search is to figure out an array of brokers in the area of your preference ,then querying each and hoping they come up with the exact mapping to what your needs are . The next step is you’re browsing the apartment he presents to you; the browse will take you to varied places in the neighborhood oblivious to you until today. A few apartments will come that are deemed to be cursed by some mysterious ghastly apparition as they lay abandoned for quite some time. Though later you will learn that the curse was nothing but a mere superstition, a horde of people start living there and you are laid astray, like a victim of a stupid social satire.

A broker is usually a shrewd, fluid talking person, always holding a cluster of permutations and combinations, and making you constellate around him until he gets you into a compromise. There may be instances when you might get the house with a one to one correspondence to your list of preferences, you agree to and the broker gives you an assurance, the next day when you bug him it comes to your notice that someone else holds it now, the reason being that they came up with the token money prior to you, and he just discomfits you ignoring all your ranting about it.

Usually brokers have the same DNA; owners are petty humans like you though there outlay may vary. They have there own preferences like we have ,these range from “Bachelors not allowed “,”family only ,we love small kids “,”only 3 boys, none more “,”cleanliness”,” we will take the TV ,comp, cupboard and the new table we bought, yet anyways the house is fully furnished “ and many more bizarre reasons that render you into vicissitudes .

Now even if you get the house the next game to be played is the balancing of rent and deposit. Though ostensible formula exists for the same but the proposition is always flexible. The usual theme will be “we can adjust with the deposit but the rent will not alter”,” we can lower the rent but your deposit must increase “,”The house is furnished ,therefore the deposit will be on a higher side”. Again you look perplexed and squint towards your pocket. If you overcome this imbroglio procedures and a set of rules from the mythical building societies come up .To your amazement it comes to your knowledge that you can’t use the gym and pool inside your complex. The building society tells “The gym and pool are not for tenants”, you go with a perturbed look to your broker who had promised you these ostensible facilities, he assures you and lets you run around him for a while until they become mere apparitions and you learn to live without them.

Finally our search has also closed; we have found a nice apartment in a scenic location, though with traveling constraints. But I still exclaim these words

“Whew! Skepticism is still there but alas we have found an Elysium in this conurbation .Hurray!”

Living in an hourglass

2006-07-22T07:39:00.000-07:00

Hourglass.n.a device with two connected glass bulbs containing sand that takes an hour to fall from the Upper to the lower bulb.adj.shaped like an hourglass.

Fragments of sand percolate through an outlet down the line to fade away and measure up at the base, TIMES UP!

Life is like sand which slips and cannot be recollected, moments are those zillions of fragments of sand which trickle down bit by bit. Past is the sand collected at the base, Present is the instance of time when the fragment percolates and Future is the upper bulb with a lobe of sand continually quantifying the reservoir of your moments left.
Past is to savor, Present is your omnipotence and Future is a dream …
But what’s life to us, beings caught up in the modern day conurbation .Living for plastic treasures, oblivious of the fact that the sand is trickling by, going by the tide never introspecting about it .Having ostensible symbols like “I am Busy “, “today sure gone by fast” mocking the moment, the fragment of sand, the Life .So are we really alive or just running our majestic structures by feeding them, then are we human?

So does this all mean we don’t work, live like a saint go on a spiritual escapade .Life is something to savor by relishing every moment as it comes exploiting the omnipotence of our present .A day for us is a mixture of a rainbow of varied instants ,it will be a time at office ,at home ,traveling and the illusive weekends .Office a place we usually deter, work ,tension in the air and those sturdy deadlines .So can moments at office be savored or is it just a organ to be cut off as deceased i.e. devoid of life. Actually its not so, we can make the time at office as beautiful and alive; say what do you do when you accomplish your work, overcome a deadline? Just start on another! What if you took a moment and relished the occasion, enjoyed it with colleagues had a snack and cracked jokes about each other, sharing your experiences in the project .Also what’s all about being busy? its just an apparition constructed to conceal your “Bad time management “.Similarly at home, when we usually switch on the telly and after a while our body gives up so we go to bed, and that’s the end. What if only we would have spend time with the folks at home, took them out or even shared with them there experiences of the day, chatted about a topic or even enjoyed some good music .Now what about when we are traveling, through the concrete structures on a blunt black road, just an activity to reach home! Though even while traveling we can look around, chat with fellow commuters and you will observe that even traveling can be fun. Now what about the Weekends the day off, the precious gems in your calendar to enjoy, so how do we go about them, movies sometimes a dinner that’s all? Weekends are like desserts in the seven course weekly meal, they are moments to explore, to go on a rendezvous of nature, feel what living is, taste its sweetness, smell its odor and be beguiled by its magic.

Though these are not any ideal examples of living, just thoughts but indeed they cynosure to the magic mantra

“Live the moment, paint it with colors of mirth before the sands slips by into an Impasse”