How would it be?

If every time I thought something about someone, the person I am thinking about knew what I was thinking?

Would Amma, Anna take comfort in the fact that I was thinking about them a lot? Or would they think , "what's in thinking ? thoughts are dime a dozen, why can't she be here?", Would they be disgusted by the dreadful thoughts that fill my mind when I panic how my life would be meaningless without them? and even in that, I am thinking about myself?

Would my husband know, how much or little I love him? and would that change anything in the way he feels about me? Or would he see the inseparable selfishness that comes with my love?

Would the people I care about, who don't care back, care any more ? or less?
I dare not imagine what happens when people I don't like, but tolerate, know how I feel!

More importantly, What would I think? knowing everyone can know what I am thinking? Would I train myself to go blank? Will I try to think only good things, so that I appear good to everyone? Will that altered version even be "me"?

What will I get to know if people are thinking bad things about me? How will I change then?

Where will my hypocrisy lead me in such a crisis?

My mind is getting overwhelmed by the repercussions, the possibilities, and the mysterious questions therein. I think there is a HELL lot to this question.. I need more time with it... but office hours are not the time to go chasing this line of thought.. :-)

Stripped off..

My house was broken into. They robbed us off of everything.. all my precious jewels full of memories..I had.. ring my husband gave me for my anniversary.. the earrings I got from my friend from Philips, the inexpensive trinkets that I bought from when my husband and I traveled across the world, everything is gone..

Our pictures.. of our home in Venezuela, and from India, our videos of Prince's Grandma, everything.. I don't even want to look at what is gone and what is left..

We have now, No TV, no video cam, no digital SLR, no lenses, no audio mixer, 2 laptops (the one I got after 2 others were stolen 2 years ago about the same time) ..no hard disks full of pictures, music.. memories..

everything is gone..

On top of this, I changed my passwords of an email account I have had since 1998.. my first email address,.. And now I don't remember what it is .. so I lost all the emails I have saved since then.. 11 years of my emails.. fond words, heart breaking messages, memories.. stories ..everything I had never thought I would have to part with..is gone..

I guess I am being.. neatly stripped off of things I used to feel homely with.. Things I identified myself with..

I am not OK.. Although, I am much less emotional about it now.. having told the template-story to everyone who called... I am not OK.. I feel very helpless... I don't want to think about it..but I have no choice!

Latent currents

Things have been going on so fast, I have not had time to catch my breath.. At the same time, things have been so stagnant, I have no motivation to breathe in... yup that is my regular life..

I had a dream again yesterday, one more of those things where I must have picked a small scab and it all came flooding out..

The dream went like this..

I was in some house.. In my dream it was ours. I don't know who else was there, and we went to the terrace. to look at something.. can't remember what it was.. I think the curiosity was that probably a neighbor Q, had set up a small junk yard up on their terrace, and we wanted to look at it. It was a exotic collection of things.. almost like a small world.. a pretty one.. on their terrace, in the sun and the sky..

And while I was looking, my mom (I think) started telling me about this other neighbor P, who had a monkey, and he used to play with it up there in his terrace. Neighbor P was there wearing a big gown of sorts, his back to us (the kind you see in Harry potter or Lord of the rings or such stuff).

The monkey was happy, it was finding ways to tease him, annoy him, seek his approval. It would fetch little nothings to Neighbor P just to get ruffled on its head. I think we watched it for a while to see the various antics and I felt like a kid watching a show, an innocent, lovely show.

Once when Neighbor P bent down to ruffle his pet, with a smile on his face, and he happened to look at us. His was a face I can never forget. His face made this a dream I can never forget. When he recognized who it was, It changed slightly.. from a congenial smile, to a little sad, that is still trying to smile, and fell short of either. But his eyes..there was the depth of emotions in it, that had no limit. There was care, (did I see a hint of joy..?) and a lot of pain.. There were millions of stories in the eyes, that I knew would never be told.. but wanted to be conveyed. It was like this one look, was going to be the one that summarizes everything, the millions of seconds of our histories that divided us, and every inch of the miles that had taken us in separate ways, every thought that had gone on in our minds in between. I felt the gap of the two terraces dividing us ever so badly..

When I saw who he was, and how he looked at me, I took one deep breath, and it never came back.. What came out was a deluge... and I burst out sobbing.. Not a sniffling sob with silences in between. But, one that just comes out in floods.. and never stops.. and I cannot control it.. and the more I shed tears, the more I want to drown in it.. and I wailed.. and loudly and uncontrollably.. on that terrace.. in the open sky..

Three girls are sitting here.. with their long-forgotten coffees,,
Talking about other girls.. other girls' brothers, and their families..
Sharing questions, answers, sharing gossip, stories..
Their phones, their calls, their homework, grades and parties..

All I hear is their laughs..Then I realize, why it is different..
Why this laughter strikes so close to heart but yet feels distant..
Over the time, I have been on a path that seeks a supposed betterment,
I have built my own time-space-thought capsule..minus the human element

Things that I spend my time on, are not the things that make it worthwhile..
Things that I deem important, do not cause a random smile..
A mobius strip within my mind has made my journey somewhat futile
It is no surprise that I have not laughed in quite a while..

It has been a while since I felt at home with my life, my way..
It has been a while since I woke up and grinned to greet the day..
I drain out slowly as time goes, no flash floods not even spontaneous spurts
It has been a while since I have laughed till it hurt... and it hurts

Addendum to the Worst Lyrics Songs

Jaane do na - Cheeni kum !

No rhymes.. no reason.. no friggin nothing!!

If you remove "na" and "do" and "tho" from the song.. There is NO FRIGGIN SONG!

garbled shabbily assembled badly metered dog-crap of a song!

I just feel real real sad.. Especially since the original song is so pretty.. and young...

The closest I ever came to quarter million dollars

2 days ago, when I went shopping with Prince, I wanted to buy a bag.. Prince said.. "why don't you check it online? perhaps you will get it cheaper?". "If only, I could check it right now..", I said to him.. "May be we can develop an application, to take a picture of the bar codes of products and do some basic image processing to get the UPC code and do a google product search.. won't that be cool?" He said "yeah.. but I bet, the shops will prohibit you from doing that.. bla bla" .. and we got lost in a digression..

Today, I got an email from Graduate Women in Computing (UT AUSTIN) , inviting all students to compete for a workshop.. When I browsed through the website, I saw the Google Android Challenge. I called up Prince immediately, and asked him, "why don't we participate with our idea of the bar-code scanner + google product search?" . He said "sure, sounds like fun!". Then, I went to see the details of the challenge..

It turns out, that my idea has already been thought.. and IT HAS FREAKING WON a $ 275,000 AWARD!! ..

Well....

Moral of the story: GO SHOPPING MORE OFTEN!

Quote from a Quote from a friend

"...Ivan Illych as he awaits the great leveler, contemplating a past which was throughly dominated by others, a life in which he had given up control of himself in order to fit into a system.

"What if my whole life has been wrong?"

It occurred to him that what had appeared perfectly impossible before, namely that he had not spent his life as he should have done, might after all be true. It occurred to him that his scarcely perceptible attempts to struggle against what was considered good by the most highly placed people, those scarcely noticeable impulses which he had immediately suppressed, might have been the real thing, and all the rest false. And his professional duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his family, and all his social and official interests, might all have been false. He tried to defend all those things to himself and suddenly felt the weakness of what he was defending. There was nothing to defend.

"But if that is so," he said to himself, "and i am leaving this life with the consciousness that I have lost all that was given me and it is impossible to rectify it — what then?". . ."

I think I faked a shit load of emotion today..I am pretty sure..

How do you know you honestly feel something? Why does anyone want their emotions to be known, if there is nothing can be / needs to be *done* about it? Is it because, you just want to be known for having had that emotion?

When you say something out loud how do you know you are not modifying your feeling to be more expressible? to fit the need of the audience?

Suppose, someone expected you to be proud, and you are talking of your achievement, if you pump it up a notch to make the impact? isn't that not pathetic and hypocritical?

Suppose, someone expected you to be guilty, and you started talking about your guilt, and if you end up repeating some sentences about your guilt that you had said before, how screwed up is that?

Why do I notice in myself, a constant need to be perceived as someone of this or that quality?
Why can't I just be ?

Where do you go when you have no where to go?

A few days ago, I watched the "Last Lecture". The guy is smart and he had some good things to say..He said, "when you are making mistakes and no one cares enough to tell you, then you are *really* are in a bad state". I thought about myself and my pursuits and my lack of direction.. and it felt right.. what he said felt right.. that perhaps, i am going on a track to ruins and no one will tell me i am being wrong.. either because they don't want to hurt me.. or because they don't care..

Today, another friend of mine told me, something interesting. We were talking about two great people say, A and B. A does not allow people to get away with mediocre quality work.. He grills them until they turn up right.

B on the other hand, thinks that if some X is doing mediocre work, it is not his job to tell him. X deserves to find his own direction and can go to hell if he wants.. B will even facilitate this ignorant journey towards mediocrity.. because he does not believe in interfering.. He believes that every one deserves to struggle, make their mistakes and find their place.. He knows what their place is, but he wont tell them.

So perhaps my universe, my B, is watching, amused at my miserable attempts to win over an invincible fate.. Perhaps I am sitting on this high-and-mighty pile of sand of my ego , and the universe is just laughing its a** off as to how by the end of my life, this BIG MOTHER deluge of a wave is to going to wash me away like a twig.. and how then it would be too late..

My friend told me, not in so many words, but in essence, that I was one of the idiots on the ignorant band-wagon on my way to mediocrity.. who was not being told so by my B.

It is strange.. this feeling.. There is a deep sadness and there is a sense of calmness that comes with confronting truth. I ask myself at this point, where would I go now.. I don't know any other way.. but to do what I am doing.. I would rather be a failure at this than a success at something else, I guess, .... so I go on.

Some times it is just too good to know there are good people around!

I have often feared idealistic people. They make me feel insufficient, uncomfortable and in summary, miserable. It is because, they make me realize where I need to improve, how I have been too lazy to get off my butt and put in the effort and see how far I can go. I have always taken shortcuts..I have always leaned on supports, always forgiven myself with fake reasons. I have never kept my words, never resolved my resolutions, never ever been happy with my results. It is ridiculous to even say "I" and "Idealism" in the same sentence unless it has "am-not-remotely-associated-to" in the middle.

But once in a while, when I am not full of myself, I get a rare vision of perfection for its own sake distanced from my banal comparisons. I see people around me, intelligent, talented, saintly in their existences, some what, yogis in their karmas.
They exceed their own limitations by the simple rule of giving-everything-they-possess-for-the -cause. They lose their boundaries from their skills. They lose them selves in their pursuits. Greed, vanity, conceit, have vaporized in melting out this pure gold. Whatever was superficial and carnal in their existence has burnt in the friction of them accelerating towards excellence.

To watch them do the things they do, is a pleasure so pure, that it is hard to be selfish, to compete, or compare, or even recognize your trivial existence in the presence of such perfection. I am glad that at least once in my self-obsessed while, I get to see a vision so sacred. Thank god for them. Above all, thank them.

Inner lies

There are some things, (I won't call them facts or thoughts or beliefs) in my life that I hold so dearly close, that it will shatter my very foundations, if I were even to question their veracity.

For some people, it is THE truth. These are the people who just know things.. they are perfect colors, be it black or white or even beige. They live and die happily.

Then, there are some other people like yours truly, just do not identify with anything of a definite shade. They are just floating clouds of grey in the plasma of indecision. They desperately seek things to give them shape, color, meaning, identity.

For example, I can never question that there is hope. I can never question that there can be change. I cannot help but think that people can rise from their worst and improve. But you already can see, even as I write it, I would not have had to cling to these thoughts unless I had not already feared (perhaps even accepted) defeat.

I can see this in many other people around me too. People spend lifetimes clinging to things that they wont question for a moment because it is the dearest thing that they have. A self image that is closest to what they would want to be. Sheltering themselves from whatever the reality (whatever that means) is. Remarkable is the power of self delusion.
Is it worth a try to wipe this mirror clean? Why do we lie to ourselves? Why is truth so ugly?

30 today!

I am 30 today, it may as well have been 40, 50, or anything like that.. or even zero years old for that matter. Nothing has changed really. Nothing ever seems to change. I am as helpless as the day as I was born. Unable to change myself or anything around me. Misery and Suffering are everywhere around me. I dont even have to turn and yo! it is grinning in my face. The only way I can handle them is by forgetting about them temporarily. I can understand why people need to get high, like never before.

If there is anyone called God, it is high time he showed some grace. Should it be really my helplessness and sorrow, that should make me start believing in such a thing? The other option being, have to face my utter pathos and inability to help anything or anyone. It is at these times.. that I wish there were a god.. and he would listen to me praying. I mean, the God, the creator of the Universe, shouldn't he have a more pleasing way to make people look towards him?

What do you know!

I miss Kannada. I don't speak enough and I want to keep in touch with it. I am not a chest beating lobbyist. It has a unique vocabulary, that is insufficient in some aspects but has a most beautiful collection of words in some other aspects. I like my mother-tongue.

So, once in a while, I read a blog called churumuri. What is Churumuri? Well, the name is known to all Mysoreans. It is a delightfully light, crispy, spicy (read salty, tangy, hot), mouthwatering, closest-your-tongue-can-get-to-heaven evening snack. To me, that is how home would taste, if it were edible. It is exactly what I crave for. That is exactly, what you cannot make even with the finest ingredients from the US of A. Sorry, it is hard not to get distracted with a thought of churumuri.

Coming back to Kannada and the blog, I ended up noticing this song:

The lyrics are SO lovely, I haven't come across such original poetry in movie songs for a long while. I am happy I am in touch with Kannada! I tried to translate it, but English is not just sufficient.. dark-clouds can never sound and feel like "kaarmugilu", turmoil can never sound like "miditha" .. but for what it is worth, here it the translation:

The endless silence that my breath whispers in a monotone,
The colors of my dreams dissolve on the brim of eyes that overflow,

killing me, is a love that won't step into my heart's abode,
Lining the dark clouds of my mind is agony's rainbow..
A perennial solitude,that's what is love..


The endless silence that my breath whispers in a monotone,
The colors of my dreams dissolve on the brim of eyes that overflow,


The nectar that takes your life, Can you name it Love?
The disease that saves your soul, can you call it Love?
In the sheets of a golden dream, sleeping on a bed of thorns,
When a smile emerges at pain, when the tears in my eyes dry in vain,
chanting her name, that's what is love..

The nectar that chokes your soul, Can you name it Love?
The disease that saves your life, can you call it Love?

In the four words of a poem, can you describe the throes?
In the three notes of a sonnet, how do you let your heart flow?
A passionate song moans in a flooded throat,
A dead poem laughs in the sobs of an aching heart..
The master of loneliness, that's what is love..

Rewind: The revelation called New Delhi Railway Station.

I am back from India. It was a hectic, unfinished trip. I was in pain, ill, tired most of the time. During the rest of the time, I was upset I was all that. I was with my family, with my father, and mother, and my sisters. I am happy I went. I will write about the things I felt strongly about whenever I find time.

We went on a lovely trip in Northern India. The trip took us from New Delhi to Haridwar, Rishikesh, JoshiMath and Auli. I got to see a tiny glimpse of the unbelievably magnificent Himalayas. I saw heart-stopping gut wrenching, car wrecking dangerous roads, and brave people cruising them elegantly. What I remember most is some unbelievable glimpses into human nature.

We began with a very traumatic escape from the Hyena-looking, very desperate taxi drivers. It seems like such a ridiculous thing looking back, but even then, I wouldn't wish it upon anyone to reach Delhi Railway Station without your cousin to pick you up from the platform. I hated New Delhi Railway Station. There is not a more dirty under-maintained over-abused place in the world. Beginning from the police, everyone looked like crooks, who wake up in the morning and decide that they will cheat anyone who will take it. Their hovering around you, their following you silently from one dirty corner to another, tens of them surrounding you, when you are just figuring out what you want to do, it is scary. We were begging them, asking them, yelling at them to leave us alone and then running away from them. It affected our psyche so much, we fought amongst ourself for silly reasons after that. My sisters, probably they anticipated such a deluge, dealt with it better than I did. But, still, I bet it left a scar on all our minds. I am not kidding you. We ended up being cheated by a taxi-crook anyway.

I was so overcome with my disgust for this aspect of human behavior, that I failed to protect my family from its trauma and just withdrew in to a silent hateful bitterness. I was disappointed to see myself transform from a earthy i-can-take-it desi to a scared-clueless prey. Well, it is not like I don't know that the desperation of seeking a livelihood can make people break down all norms of privacy and dignity. I guess I was secretly wishing it would not be divulged to me in such a ghastly fashion. I am scared now that I have been away from India for too long.....

One Perfect Sight

On my way back from school today, I was walking up the hill to reach my apartment. My back was hurting due to my heavy backpack and I started walking slowly ..close to the play ground where kids of the community play. Just when I was passing it, one of the kids playing inside the fenced area, came running.. He had seen his mom park her car behind me. He yelled with the purest delight "mama! mama! mama!". He then talked excitedly about some thing in chinese.. she was answering him with equally loving voice. The boy was pulling the plastic bag she had in her hand to look what she brought for him. And the mom started talking with the grandma of the kid and so on..

But, what I wanted to record is, what I do not want to forget is, when the boy who was sufficiently occupied in playing, turned around and saw his mom, and came running, and was shouting "mama mama" and was eagerly banging the fence with his palms.. I just cannot write down how it felt. The happiness shined through his eyes.. the smile was so pure..and perfect..
This is by far, the happiest face I have seen.

Bad mood bitching

My back is hurting. All the driving is taking its toll I guess. So, I take this unique opportunity to bitch against people who take me for granted. I hope I am mistaken, and there are genuine reasons for people behaving like they do, but the bottom line is I am pissed by people who take me for granted. Be it my time, my acceptance of mediocre behaviour, my patience, my help and things like that.
Case 1:
I don't like waiting. Irrespective of what pathetic a use I put my time to (when I am not waiting), I don't want to spend it waiting. Today, at 12:30 in the noon, I waited for a student who made an appointment with me to discuss some homework assignment, and did not show up. Not only did he not show up, he did not apologize when I met him in the class later. The cheek really!
It makes me think.....Was he so self-obsessed that it did not occur to him at all? I am pretty self obsessed myself but, I try to control the damages of my self-obsession affect very few people. Okay one people. My husband. So, I wonder.. what was he thinking.. Did he really think that he did me a favor by asking for my help? Just because I grin more often than necessary in the class, does it mean I will lap up any offer of contact with my oh-so-precious students? Did he think that he can get away with it, since I am so distant that I will not be forthright in expressing my discontent?What is it?
Case 2:
Also, I do not like people who think that since, I am generally nice, I will be quiet to any unfairness. One of my acquaintances just made a decision on my behalf and refused to acknowledge that I was left holding the sack and that what was done was unfair. So much so that I had to nudge, then ask and then fight about it. Since I have an inertia against raising hell in confrontational situations, people think I can be herded to any damn cowshed. Is it that people think any unfairness is OK as long as some one does not pull the corpse into the sun?
What is it?
Case 3, 4, 5,,, STOP:
I also hate people who basically expect help without even making the slightest of efforts to do things themselves. Add to that, people who will just assume that you are going to listen to hours of how bad their life is because they have only a 35 K and fully loaded BMW 3 series is above their reach. Worst are the people who think they are being cute when they ask help.. oh let us not even go there... My head is going to explode and the fountain of plasma will burn through my couch... We don't want that when our backs are hurting and our butts weep at the mention of hard-backed chairs... do we?

Although, at more level headed times, I tell myself that I should give people the benefit of doubt. I cannot possibly be objective in judging people, since I cannot really get inside their heads and read their preoccupations. Also, most of the times, I cannot tell off people because,... I don't know.. May be I am a chicken, or perhaps, I think I should not jeopardize my relations due to petty incidents. But, at the same time, I also wonder, how is it that such things as courtesy, fairness, and responsibility to commitments, etc. do not occur to people by nature. I don't know!! I am angry! I am angry because people are screwing with me.. and I am angry at myself at being so angry!

where did it all go?

It is close to 1 AM. I am laying down on my stomach.. reading a paper while madhursangeet.com plays the sweet melody of "neend na mujhko aayein..".

I suddenly recall the cold nights that I used to spend on the terrace in our mysore home under the yellow light that dimly lit the terrace and pouring over my 10th (all the way to 2nd year Pre University) class notes. I remember the radio beginning my post dinner study at Chhayageet at 10 on vividh-bhaarati, to go to a national public radio kind of station that went on until 4 AM. I would wander among random morse-codes like things sometimes playing on short-wave. All kinds of news, classical music, western, chinese even turkish and russian music some times.. whatever the waves spilt on my shores were welcome in those lonely silent hours.

I would look at various neighbor's lights going on and off .. watch strangers' silhouettes going to bathrooms, getting a drink of water, smoking..and turning the lights off again. I remember some odd guy riding the bicycle on the street, I can hear the goorkha's eerie whistling and beating sticks at the stone-walk-in's of different front yards.. And mesmerizing tunes of Rafi... aasha bhonsle's sweet voice.. Hemant Kumar's melancholic calls.. and some times Karachi-radio's kawwalis.. I would immerse myself in their music.. digress.. but eventually, I would return to my notes looking yellow in the 60-watt bulb light in the dark night..
I miss the yellowish dark nights, I miss my terrace and my notes.. I miss me back then.
Where is all that gone?

I can drive between the two ends now!

Although it is delayed information, I am delighted to share with the reader, that I can drive the car now. I carry a TX driver's license with me.. and I am not afraid to use it. Here are the perks:

I can drive without going on unstable transient oscillations of the steering wheel at every lane-change, (they are quasi-stable nowadays).
I can drive without shooting over to the oncoming traffic at every right turn.
I can drive now without having my white-hot nerves burst out of my skin.
I can drive without needing a psychiatric evaluation at the end of every point-A-to-point-B.

I ride the motorbike to school everyday, and drive every weekend to Houston for my conjugal visits :-). As you may know.. I lead a double life in every way. In Austin, I am a semi-hippie motorcyclist, In Houston, I sit on the passenger seat checking my hair and makeup. In Austin, I wake up in the morning or early afternoons to gulp cereal and speed to school. In Houston, I make sure the previous night that the dosa-dough dish has a plate underneath it so that it does not spill over on the counter! In Austin, I don't eat or I eat ice-cold-the-only-veggie-option-left-from-last-year greek wraps. In Houston, I discover new exotic spices and recipes to please my husbands gastrointestinal tract. I am a jobless-lazy-superficially-intelligent grad student on weekdays. On weekends, I am a narcissistic-insecure-possessive-extremely-house-wife-y spouse of my caring husband. On the wheels of my cooper, I love both the ends of my spectrum!!

Old mails..

It scalds me from inside.. I am writhing on the floor..
I try to rub it off..The acid seeps in more..
If Macbeth saw my state, she would thank her good fortune..
Arabian perfumes can't hide the fleshy fumes..

Read old mails to relive, .. what my life has been..
Only this time, I know, what was really happening..
I don't have the coziness of what I believed..
All I have is how I had myself and the world deceived..

I don't have the warmth of self illusion and conscience fakes..
I don't have a chance in the world to undo my mistakes..
Not a single possibility of reinvesting my stakes..
There is no forgiveness, There are no second takes..

Your words leave no refuge.. I simply can't escape
Even now, poetry apart, your mails make me suffocate..
How I wish I had read your mails then, the way I read them today..
All I can do, is stare in hatred at my own dark silhouette..

Balaji and I

I was in LA 2 weeks ago. My in-laws, their family, Prince, and I were in a car going to Universal studios and my friend Nagendra called me (or I returned his call perhaps) and he told me, "Of course you know Balaji right? He is no more. He committed suicide".  I yelled at an appropriately 
shocked tone (I suppose) "WHAT ?". I think I kept saying "ayyo.. ayyo.. shit..., anyaaya" and other appropriate exclamations for about 10-15 minutes.

I called a friend of mine to get me the number of Vamshi (a friend of me and Balaji from NIE). She searched through my mail and gave me his 2003 number . I tried in vain. I called her again.. she, this time, realized her mistake and gave me the 2007 number..
 I called him.. Until then, I had not cried.. I cried a couple of drops..when i told him the news. 
Vamshi said, "Shit, why did he do that?". I could only speculate about what the reasons could be
from our chat conversations a month ago.

He asked me, "How are you holding up?". I said (I think, ), "I am OK. Nagen told me just now, and I am in the f***ing  Universal Studios, it is ridiculous".  He said, "Dont beat yourself up
about it. It is done, nothing can be done about it now". The day went on amidst special effects
of Universal Studios, among rantings about which house featured in which Desperate
Housewives' episode, fire, flood and earthquake effects. 
The blow was not bad. you know? I occasionally forgot about it.
I even laughed a bunch of times I think. 

In the evening, when the show was over, it came back again.. I called Nagen and we talked
about Balaji and why he could have done this, and that, how he might have felt, etc etc etc.
The typical (I suppose) postmortem (no pun intended) of a disaster. I said to him, 
"Nagen, it is such a shame, I feel so weird talking about him and his stuff with you.. 
what is even more embarassing is that such a close friend is gone, and I have not cried.. 
and it worries me that I am not affected by it as much as I thought I would be.
Not only that, I am even more ashamed that he is gone and all I can think about is,
how I am feeling, and how I am not feeling.. how self-centered does it get? ". 
He like a good friend, annointed my self-doubt saying it was natural to question yourself
and it is sometimes not possible to cry for friends whom you have lost touch with ..
but it is not self-centered.

The thoughts came in and went out occasionally.. I tried to remember how he laughed..
I got some other laugh.. it was not his.. I tried to remember things about him..
I was and I still think I am strangely distant from his going away. 

Once we came back from California.. one night, I sat and talked for hours about things Balaji did. when we were in college together.  He was an brilliant mind,
a confident person, excellent singer.. among many other things.
I sat on the floor, and sang that evening the song that he sang so perfectly,
still i did not feel much, but just a bit of sadness thinking that he is gone.

Yesterday, I had a dream.. it was actually a dream within a dream.
I dreamt that I was asleep and in my sleep, I dreamt that I was in Mysore.
I wanted to go to his house perhaps to offer my condolences to his parents.
when I went to his home, he was there.. I knew it was his spirits perhaps. he talked to me..
I dont remember for the world what he said to me. He made me go to the terrace of his house.
He patted to a corner on the parapet wall of the terrace, and asked me in his style, "kootko keerthi,". 
 I sat there balancing myself and feeling scared that I might fall. He talked a lot..
I dont remember anything.. but I do remember that he was peaceful.. may be even happy.
He pulled out from the attic a beaten up guitar. He started playing it ( I dont think he played any instrument other than occasional mridangam in his real life).
It was a strange guitar.. the moment he touched it, pleasant music started pouring out of it.
 He talked for a long while.. he showed me from where he had a view of  girls hostel..
we laughed.. I knew he was OK. He was not sad.. he was content.
I don't know what made me feel it, but I felt in my dream that everything was OK.
 I climbed down the stairs of his ancient looking house, ( I have never been to his house in reality)..
 and I came out without saying any condolences in his parents. 

It was already midnight in my dream-within-dream, and I was clutching my heart like I had something precious in my hands
 and I did not want to lose it and I was running among slums.. 
I saw some old-tired lady asking for help and another working-woman returning home refuse to help her.. and me making my way through clothes 
hanging on lines and walking briskly to make it to safety. 

Then I woke up from my dream-within-dream. I was still in the other dream mind you. Then suddenly, there was an avalanche of memories in my head. 
I remembered how he used to hold his first two fingers opposing his thumb 
and make scoops in air to prove an intricate point in his conversations. 
I remembered how the words at the end of his funny sentences would float over his nasal voice. 
Finally, at last, I remembered his laugh. 
I remembered how his brows would knit and there would be a vertical wrinkle on his forehead
 when he was  rejecting an idea for its stupidity. 
I remembered how he would add the name of the person he was addressing at the end of his sentence.
Some times, he would say "hangallamma" or something like that like a typical kannadiga.
I remembered how he had the most perfect set of teeth when he laughed.
And a straight nose capable of many emotions on its own.
How he rarely wore t-shirts, mostly stuck to shoes+half-sleeve-shirts+belt (Oh yeah,  he did have a dark-green plain round-neck t-shirt).
I remembered how he would blush when people called him Tommy and
teased him about a girl in the class.
How he would offer occassional loopholes for people to tease him. 
I cant recall all the things now, but in my dream, It was a deluge of memories. 
In my dream, I thought, OH SHIT.. I am going to be awake in a while and forget all this..
and I need to remember this .. this is his true memorial. I need to write it down. I remembered Balaji in all my honesty, and I missed him.

Then I woke up..

 

The story of a wave

No! It is not enough that the waves pass by the shore..
The open arms of my surf forever come back for more..
I don't want to see what the blue horizon has in store..
My realm seems to end, right here, at your door..

Deafening roar I may, But, I cant speak out a word..
The tempest in my mind.. has my speech slurred..
The sigh in every storm..is still echoing unheard..
The Life in waiting of death..the gap is all too blurred..

Perhaps this time, My Shore, the tide wont pull us apart..
Perhaps this time, My Earth, I won't trample your heart..
May be If I hold on to you..I can redo from the start..
I cling to your loose sands... while once again, I depart..

Is it wrong?

I was listening to Mehndi Hassan today.. while working on my term project.. I heard the verses
"mere zindagee ke maalik, mere dil pe haath rakhnaa.. , tere aaney ke khushee mein, meira dum nikal na jaayein! Mein nazar se pee rahaa hoon yeh samaa badal na jaayein..Na uthaao tum nigaahein, kaheen raath dhal na jaayein".. such beautiful words full of love..I agree it is not the soul-to-soul deep-emotional-bonding that he is talking about, the poet. He is talking about romance in typical urdu poetic style.. One can almost say it is cheesy.. But, that is not what I was thinking about.. I was thinking about what happens in peoples' mind when they are in love.. when they feel so strongly.. when the cheesy cliched words *feel* like the perfect things to say..I thought about how it felt to fall in love.. It is really intoxicating..It is probably the strongest emotion I have ever felt.. and believe me, I am capable of some strong emotions.. I wonder if others feel like this too.. when you settle down.. but you miss the unsettledness.. when you are blissfully satisfied.. but silently crave for ecstasy.. I wonder..

I want to go back... to the days of my first romance..
To the slow-breathing, heart-racing, trance..
Sweet caressing,with no-hands-touching dance..
when worlds were made or shattered with a fleeting glance..

I remember of times when I would float in the clouds
when your look, I imagined, undressed me in the crowds..
I remember how I sank in to the dark deep abyss
and when you went past me not knowing any of this..

When I searched for private messages in any common phrase..
When bumping in to you set my skin and thoughts ablaze..
When you and I, and I and you, were in our own secret maze..
Running, yet chasing, hiding yet seeking, oh! our never-ending race

Back when every rain made rainbows with colors in perfect blends..
Back when me and my ideal self were still good friends..
Back when world was full of purity, possibilities, and happy ends..
Dreams didn't compromise.. and expectations didn't make amends..

My days, nowadays are relentless what-ifs
My nights toss and turn in unanswerable whys
Is walking on a plain better than a fall off the cliffs,
When you have had that one blissful soar to the skies?

Well, I had lost, and I am even, what now, do I expect to gain?
Why do I want the roller coaster of pleasure and pain?
Is the wait beyond contentment, for exhilaration in vain?
Is it wrong to wish to fall in love again?

Gone!

My Toshiba Laptop and my Apple Powerbook are both gone..
Stolen from my apartment..
I hate it.. I have cried the whole of yesterday night..
I dont know what to do.. I have all my memories in it.. I have all kinds of pictures .. and documents in it.. I HATE to lose it..

I dont know what to do .. I am miserable and dont know how to get back.. There is no relief..

Another day in Project work.... another treasure hunt

Well... you know those times? when you are supposed to be doing something else? and you are doing something else? (like reading this stuff when you could come up with at-least 20 things that you would be better off doing?).. I had one of those times.. and I went on hunting for ghazals.. and I ran in to ..rather clicked in to (Gee, I wish there was a smart-ass word to rephrase that) this site for urdu lovers: http://www.aligarians.com . I loved the site and I am going to be visiting them often. Here is a gem of a ghazal I found there... written by Jigar Muradabadi, and here is a rendition by Begum Akhtar

In case you are too lazy to go to that site, here is the ghazal:

tabiiyat in dinoN be-gaana-e-Gham hotii jaatii hai
mere hisse ki goyaa har Khushii kam hotii jaatii hai

qayaamat kyaa! ye ai husn-e-do-aalam hotii jaatii hai
ke mehfil to vohii hai, dilkashi kam hotii jaati hai

vohii mai-Khaana-o-sahbaa, vohi saaghar, vohii shiishaa
magar aavaaz-e-nushaanosh maddham hotii jaatii hai

(mai-Khaana-o-sahbaa : tavern and the wine; saaghar : goblet; shiishaa : glass; nushaanosh : ?)

vohii hai shaahid-o-saaqii magar dil bujhtaa jaataa hai
vohii hai shammaa lekin raushnii kam hotii jaatii hai

(shaahid : witness; saaqii : cup-bearer)

vohii hai zindagii lekin “Jigar” yeh haal hai apnaa
ke jaise zindagii se zindagii kam hotii jaatii hai

Here is what I think this poem intends to say:

My spirits, is benumbed to sadness little by little, of late..
It feels like my share of every bliss is shrinking, little by little , of late.. .

Apocalypse? To me, this seems like the beauty of both worlds..
Although the crowd is the same, i feel the charm withering little by little, of late..

It is the same tavern, the wine and the very same glass..
But the murmur of splash seems muffled little by little, of late..

It is my same old cohort, serving me, but my heart suffocates..
It is the same old candle by the light seems to dull little by little, of late,

Life is still the same, but Jigar, My state has come to this..
that, the very life in my life seems to diminish little by little of late..

It is hard for me to even bring out a small fraction of the gradual and painful decline of the spirit of life that he is describing.. English simply fails me.. I wish that I was equipped with better faculty than translation to share the feelings I get when I read these verses..

Translation of an Anonymous Shaayar's Kalaam.

Sitting by yourself, alone, don't keep thinking..
These thoughts will take your life.. don't keep thinking..

A couple of moments of love is good for life..
about truths and lies... don't keep thinking..

It abandons you in the scorching sun..
Why so this shadow.. don't keep thinking..

Curbing your true self that wishes to be,
What is it you achieved, don't keep thinking..

One whose destiny is to take your life..
It will kill you any ways, don't keep thinking..

Another Gem by Ahmed Faraz

Phir isee raahguzar par shaayad
Hum kabhee mil sakein magar....shaayad

Jinke hum muntazir unko..
mil gayein aur humsafar shaayad..

ajnabeeyat ki dhund chhat jaayein
chamak utthein teiree nazar.. shaayad.


Jaan pehchaan se bhee kyaa hoga
fir bhee ae dost gaur kar shaayad..

Jo bhee bichardey woh kub miley hai Faraz,
Fir bhee tu intezaar kar .... shaayad..!!



A most touching and delicate rendition by Ghulam Ali .. which brings out the pain and the desperation of a dying hope .. A hope of redemption..of love.. of return to life..
This song brought out an unshed tear hidden in for a long time!

Thank God for Ghulam Ali and Faraz!

Some one has gotta stop this..

The kind of rubbish lyrics have been written in Hindi movies ... Do you ask me what else did I expect????
I know.. I understand that there is a LOT of stinking pile of crap on that lot...... but... such lovely music goes straight to the drain..
Songs with good music... how can dum- asses be allowed to sit there and fit crude and unpolished words in to harmony and rhythm.. when all they can think of is the cliched GIGOs over and over and over and over again! Oh GOD!! It is almost sad .. that I am not immune to the disgust that they create every time..EVERY TIME, EVERY FREAKIN TIME, my brain cells fry in their own heat..and become some what similar to a grey migas in a cheap mexican restaurant... I almost always end up thinking about how many beautiful things could have filled the void between music and lyrics..

Here are some of the songs that I SO BADLY ITCH TO make nicer lyrics for (in no particular order of hatred):

1. Sazaa-e-Kaala paani
2. Every song of Hum dil de chuke sanam (I HATE .. ABSOLUTELY DETEST THE way in which 5 syllable words are filled in to places where hardly 2 can go)
3. Rangeela (oh DONT even TRY to get me started on this)
4. Bombay (2-3 songs at the least)
5. I cant think any more... I am choking on my bile..

Where is the happiness?

Where is the bliss in life?

No sweet smiles.. No fascinating adventures.. No beautiful stories..
Just routine.. mundane.. daily misery..

Good people suffering.. my friends and family in pain..
Not of existence.. but of futility of existence..

Why can't mind be controlled to ABSOLUTELY LOVING what we have .. so that it never feels the lack of something? Is the bliss of having the same as of not having and not realizing?

How can I help? What can I do?

Why isn't there a shortcut to living life? Why isn't there a bridge ?at least for those who don't know how to swim through?

All I can do is .. pray for the good .. and hope that there is a God up there to listen..

el voz de llanero llama me!

Well you know, I am studying... and I am listening to music while I am studying..
And now a days I listen a lot to musica espanola (pronounced espanyola) ..
It is weird.. that when I listened to that language in music.. it brings back a flood of memories..

of infinite trips between ciudad Ojeda and Maracaibo.. that would never end.. I would listen to the music.. and feel drowsy.. until I was close enough to the Maracaibo bridge traffic jam.. and my driver took a toilet break right... until some vendor tried to interest me into his merchandise through my taxi window.. and then ..

Of the trips to Merida, canaima and other lovely places.. when the radio of some shop on the road side would narrate the story of his daily routines and supposedly funny (although indecipherable) tales..
I suddenly recalled the tunes that are very local to Venezuela.. the voices of llaneros.. (the llanos (pronounced yanos) are the savannah plains..llaneros, the men of the plains).. their voice was so simple.. their guitars were very small and colorful.. and they had nothing but that guitar of 4 strings.. and bongo drums.. and singing on and on.. not much variation to the tune.. but still.. it was nice to listen to an old man sing..
This brought back the memories of the bus trip from North Venezuela to its southern tip.. Our trip to trek to Roraima.. On the way, due to heightened security (since the drug mafia had killed the military heads daughter) we were subjected to a search and passport verification all along the way .. made to get down in the dead of the night every 2 hours or so.. We were tired dry by the trip .. and exhausted due to lack of sleep.. and it was cold to get down from the bus at 3 am.. and we were scared of the guardia... (the national guards equivalent).. because they are famous for taking law in to their own hands ever so often.. In this state of exhaustion, anger, annoyance, fear and drowsiness,,, the only sense of normalcy in the situation .. was .. the tune of the llanero..

And now that I am listening to their voices again...the drowsy coffee breaks.. the half-yellow-lit high-way side restaurants/cafes/memorabilia shops..and the dirty toilets sin papel, the venezolanos who were curiously throwing sideways glances.. and the aching sleepless bodies, along with... the thrill, the unexplainable sense of being the absolutely tied-loose (of any sense of security or turf knowledge) stranger in the place.. the fear..and yet the joy of being so close to unbelievable natural beauty..everything.. comes back to memory... and i feel that the best part of my life probably just went past me.. and here i am sitting in a coffee shop whose brown paper-cups.. has an old map of Venezuela on it!

what is in a dream?

I had a dream yesterday.. you and I.. we were together..
I was at your home.. walking around like it had been mine forever..
You had accepted me in your arms.. I dont know what that meant..
I was not in heaven.. I was not ecstatic.. I was just ... content..

Your friends were talking to me, like they knew who we were..
I felt like I belonged there more than I belonged any where..
There was the kindness in your eyes, that comes out of pure love..
Then, I woke up..thinking, I dont deserve what you can bestow..

What is in that dream that I dont forget it like the rest?
Why the craving to clutch the twigs in the tempest?
Is it the hope of a wish that is impossible?
Is it the wish of a hope that is just invincible?

I wake up and I see your memory afloat..
And my breath tightens a death grip on my throat..
It has been years that you are gone..
Why dont I want you to leave me alone?