Skewed Universe

cold

2012-02-12T03:25:00.001+05:30

don't you think we are soulmates?
swimming in the fish bowl
year after year like Floyd said?

made to live our solitary lives
apart, craving each other's warmth
like single reptiles writhing in winter, cold?

fully knowing we'll kill the other together.

Souls

2011-05-26T19:31:00.007+05:30

Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene 2

ANTONY (In front of a crowd supporting Brutus)

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men--
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
.
.
.
But yesterday the word of Caesar might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there.
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
.
.
.
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:
I fear I wrong the honourable men
Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it.

CITIZENS

They were traitors: honourable men!
They were villains, murderers: the will! read the will.
.

.

____________________

The Fountainhead, Part II, Chapter 12

DOMINIQUE FRANCON (in a court, speaking in Roark's defence of the Stoddard Temple)

Howard Roark built a temple to the human spirit. He saw man as strong, proud, clean, wise and fearless. He saw man as a heroic being. And he built a temple to that. A temple is a place where man is to experience exaltation. He thought that exaltation comes from the consciousness of being guiltless, of seeing the truth and achieving it, of living up to one's highest possibility, of knowing no shame and having no cause for shame, of being able to stand naked in full sunlight. He thought that exaltation means joy and that joy is man's birthright. He thought that a place built as a setting for man is a sacred place. That is what Howard Roark thought of man and exaltation. But Ellsworth Toohey said that this temple was a monument to a profound hatred of humanity. Ellsworth Toohey said that the essence of exaltation was to scared out of wits, to fall down and to grovel. Ellsworth Toohey said that man's highest act was to realize his own worthlessness and to beg forgiveness. Ellsworth Toohey said it was depraved not to take for granted that man is something which needs to be forgiven. Ellsworth Toohey saw that this building was of man and of the earth - and Ellsworth Toohey said that this building had its belly in the mud. To glorify man, said Ellsworth Toohey was to glorify the gross pleasure of the flesh, for the realm of the spirit is beyond the grasp of man. Ellsworth Toohey is a lover of mankind.
.
.
.
I do not condemn Ellsworth Toohey. I condemn Howard Roark. A building, they say, must be a part of its site. In what kind of world did Roark build his temple? For what kind of men?
.
.
Ellsworth Toohey is right, that is a sacrilege, though not in the sense he meant. I think Mr. Toohey knows that, however. When you see a man casting pearls without getting even a pork chop in return - it's not against the swine that you feel indignation. It is against the man who valued his pearls so little that he was willing to fling them into the muck...
.

.

____________________

Off-topic: I don't know why the hell I didn't read The Fountainhead earlier. Those of you who haven't yet, go, read!

Exit

2010-10-23T23:34:00.006+05:30

Ah, you went, finally. You escaped!
From this island of noise, of void;
this rosy mire of suffocation;
this promise, of what has never been;
this expectation, of what will never be;
this conscious, of what we never wanted but what always is.

And I saw the aftermath:
Creatures here, their desperate clutchings of thin air.
Like the rhythmic thrashing of a drowning body.
Or vortices rushing to meet a you-sized vacuum
that you so unwillingly forsook, acceptingly but.

And I saw that aftermath:
People there, hear you the rapture and the clap?
Like the vigorous chirping of a new-born bird.
Or tangerine breezes with wisps of fresh flavour
that you so choicelessly embraced, knowingly but.

Yes, I know the aftermath...
As I search for you here and find my own image instead.
Feel you laugh there and mutter things that remain unsaid.

PS: Then again, you may not see this at all. Considering how internet savvy (or not) you are, I may have to show it you when such an occasion does arise.

Requiem

2010-08-12T23:40:00.006+05:30

You left, without a word,
Without a nod, without a wave.
You left me, wretched.

I stared after you, limbs numb,
Eyes empty, heart heavy,
As you left, me, wretched.

Oh, the world, it went on.
On and on.

Oppressively high was the Sun, he was.
Cruelly cold were the Winds, they were.
Ever slower Time ticked on,
Agonizing seemed mere existence...

I had to weather them, all,
Without you, yes.

I sweated the heat, I smarted the cold,
I spurned the clocks. In a small shrivelled shell,
I existed, alone.

Now I discard them all, the bounds.
Now I relieve it all, my love,
I leave you, now.

Once

2010-06-02T13:46:00.011+05:30

It's got nothing to do with the way Sun shines on that guy's face through the grass; nothing to do with the way he stands there on that fort wall, dressed suavely, with his girlfriend. It's got nothing to do with the lady's short, curly hair and my attraction towards short, curly haired girls in general; nothing to do with how charming she looks or how breezy she seems, dragging that old woman into the water. It's got nothing at all to do with the couple cheering in the cricket stadium; nothing to do the with the lovely lonely boat at sea.

But there's something fulfilling about the way the waves kiss her feet and glide back into the ocean; something reassuring about the conviction he exudes through his words; something supremely exotic about the way she utters this word and something gripping about this very concept itself: Speedliving.

'What would you rather wait for?
A video to download or your girl?

I know nothing can wait.
But the good news is, nothing has to.

Someone said, "You can't have a cake and eat it too!"
That someone, was wrong.

Life doesn't have to be about making choices.
That's not living.
Get everything you want.
Do everything. All at once.
It's called Speedliving!'

PS: No, this is not an advertising stint for TATA whatever. No, he hasn't used the product nor does he endorse (or promise to) it in any form whatsoever. And therefore yeah, he is not being paid to write this shite, so rest in peace, you!

PS: This is unlike all his previous posts and seems frivolous in hindsight. Expect more of such random scribbles.

PiLLey

2009-09-18T21:45:00.011+05:30

Her eyes..
The cliched fishes sink
beneath a golden sheath;
Those black lashes swim
through fresh ripples
In harmony's waters,
searching for similes..

Beneath the golden sheath,
Glide little angels with silver wings
bringing dreams of colour:
Of hazes, light and dark;
Of scents, near and far;
Of notes, low and high;
Of smiles, of kisses and of love
To another cute cupid, lost
Beneath that very golden sheath..

PS: A tiny kid, sitting a row away, in today's concert inspired Smruthi to do some on-the-spot poetry. I just completed the verse she started.
Dedicated to the very very cute angel who fell asleep on her mother's shoulder during the concert. Unfortunately, I don't know her name. PiLLey should suffice for now. :)

Red

2009-07-19T03:04:00.021+05:30

The hit staggered her and the red was everywhere. Someone tried to staunch her wound with bare hands. I stood next to her and watched, numb. "I'm burning.. I'm burning!", was all she could get out of her mouth, and I couldn't move an inch. As she slowly collapsed, and her eyes rolled to one side, with blood flowing out of her nose and mouth, screams of "Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid! Stay with me! Stay with.." filled my head. And all I managed to do was scream; scream a red scream.

I feel light, as I have always felt before a kill. The excited and confident lightness. This mission has been unique in all ways. A special request from Number 10, Downing Street has its own appeal, after all.

Now guised as a black Basij militia man, I have chosen this dilapidated residence after much careful calculation. The elevation and the view are perfect; and the fallbacks, of course. Those two loafers are, by the way, still staring intently after me, as I vanished through the hedges of this forlorn building. It means one thing: I now have a couple of guys ready to corroborate the story of a Basij shooter, that will be circulated later. Ah, sweet.

Ascending the long, winding staircase and creeping into the concealed cabinet, I cannot but admire my own capabilities. I was the best at KIMS game and the Stalker training at the School, always.

On reaching the attic, my hands have started assembling the rifle mechanically as I take a peep outside. Protestors are swarming the Kargar Avenue. Cries of "Marg Bar Diktator!" are loud and clear, and pleasant. Taking the rifle scope I scourge the avenue, far away, for a suitable candidate. "I want you to give them a face.", the Prime Minister had told me. "A face of youth, a face of courage. A face of freedom, a face of liberty. A face to fuel the fire that is brewing up..". A handsome lady alights from her Peugeot 206 to join the crowd of protestors, catching my eye. "I want the country ablaze, soon, with a face for the reformist opposition. I want to see the Velayat-e Faqih burn!". The lady is just right: young, energetic, bold, with a face that I am soon going to turn into a rallying point for all the revolutionaries. You are going to be famous, girl, very famous; even immortal, if everything falls into place as planned. Thank me for that. I can't help smiling to myself as I turn to aim directly at her chest.

From the moment I was born, I knew that I would do something significant in life. Considering my build, my cousins told me that I can take anyone down with a single shot. 12.7mm, they called me. Some others used only my surname, .50-caliber.

Now, the match-grade-me is loaded in the free-floating barrel of a match-grade Q-14, with its wood hollowed out, a fiberglass-seated receiver, tweaked trigger mechanisms and optics.

I know of their plan. Of my role. In creating an unrest, an uprising and an anti-authoritarian ripple in these parts. God, I'm excited! Now, He is setting the various parameters to counter various natural factors: wind speed, wind direction, light source, temperature, barometric pressure, and so on, keeping the range in mind, which may be close to 700m. With some feathery touches to the BDC, He smiles that cold smile, to himself, apparently satisfied. He pats me, my Master, and says, "Let's paint it red, now..".

As he brushes the power ring, and adjusts the reticule, I feel an adrenaline rush. Images from the future flash across my mind: her torn-apart body, the blood soaked pavement, people screaming in a frenzy, her numb husband, mass, wild protests and tweets that follow, violence and bloodshed and more deaths; every scene painted with Red..

And now, the mil-dots are centred around her chest. I know that I am going to tear those tender muscles apart and burst her heart, murdering her. For the greater good.

He pulls the trigger. I set upon my parabolic journey..

There Will Be Blood.

PS: The post is fictional he thinks, the ignorant bastard.

PS: My tribute to the rumours that were/ are abound about this killing in Iran, and certain circumstances thereof.

Voices

2009-04-05T18:13:00.010+05:30

"Is this luggage yours?", I enquired in my drained voice and received an equally weary positive nod. After some shuffling and dumping my overly heavy baggage, I crashed into my seat, exhausted. The local-train route to Chennai Central was clearly not the best option. Dragging my cartload at noon till Tidel Park station was not a good choice too. Sweaty, hungry, tired and in a window-seat, I dozed off for an hour only to be woken up by classmate Siddharth. He was two compartments away and called on me to enquire if I had any novel/magazine with me. After consoling him with a Rushdie, I settled down with the latest Tehelka. He stopped for a while, rolled his eyes and left with a you-have-a-cool-chick-I-have-a-grandpa expression on his face. Surprised that I was, trying not to look too obvious and as if casually scanning the surroundings, I stole a glance at my neighbour. Flowing hair, gentle face, hinting at north-east Indian origin and of fair complexion, simply dressed. Nothing very uncommon.

Half an hour later, sipping Masala Chai, an article on the old MPDA Amendment was making an interesting read. Tap-tap! Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around only to realize that it was my neighbour. "Yes?", politely. In return, she showed me her mobile phone. Yes, Nokia 1100. Er.. bulb.. bulb.. As I looked closer at the screen though, I saw that the message window was open and the text read, "Can I please sit by the window for a few minutes?". My eyes skipped to her face, absorbed a pleasant smile, and back. Why is she showing me this? Couldn't she have just asked me? What a dumb way to.. Then, the realization dawned. She was dumb. Literally. "Uh-oh! Sure, sure.. No problem!". We switched seats. "Thanks a lot :)", her mobile told me. "You're welcome..", I mumbled, mouthed.

Comprehension, in total, was sinking in, slowly, and I started seeing images. If I could not talk the way I do now; No cracking those p(h)un-ny jokes. No flashy, sarcastic comments. No bathroom-singing. None of those stupid, irrelevant-yet-engaging arguments with friends. No retorts to regret about later.. No telling out my name if asked for! No speaking to Mom/Sis over phone! No cheering-shouting across the ground while playing. No whispering to a neighbour in class. Neighbour.. I looked at her again. More images, more thoughts clouded my mind.

"Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana..", a bold, young voice shook me from my dark reverie. It was a little boy, and his sister with a pair of cymbals. I looked into his pitiful eyes and the underlying appeal. His brass voice, the carefree singing held me. "..Ab yahaan se kahaan jaaye..", his voice cried. All I had with me to give away then, other than money, was a packet of Hide'n'Seek. The reaction I received from him is etched in my memory. His tiny face immediately blossomed, his eyes lit up and he gave me a huuuge smile which I've ever since preserved in my pocket. What would I not give to see that expression again! "PEr enna?", somebody enquired. "Prasanna". "Schoolukku pordhullaya?". "Inniki school ille", he gave a broad smile. "Tujhe dekha toh yeh..", they trolled on. His voice faded out ever so slowly, the void filled again by that quiet neighbour.

The contrast was what struck me. The song and the quiet. His voice and her lack of it. Her world of absolute silence and all the bustle in his, in ours..

"Can we switch back again?", her mobile nudged me sometime later. "Sure! If you don't want the window seat anymore..", but this time I replied with my mobile. That drew a faint smile on her lips and she thanked me again. Slowly, we started to chat. People around us stared as we texted away, killing time. I learnt, and was surprised in the process, that she was doing her B.Com in Chennai; that she was a Buddhist, from the very beautiful land of Arunachal Pradesh, has three normal siblings, and that she aspired to be an airhostess! She gave me a lot of food for thought, my neighbour.

We both got down at Bangalore City and she was received by a friend. Even as the loudspeakers kept announcing the arrival of my train, I was again buried in a barrage of voices and images. My mother's words and some of my friends'. Those conferences, campaigns, rallies and summits I read about in newspapers. I wondered. How histories had been made, are being made; by speeches, by the voices delivering those lines. From Cicero to Caesar, Washington to Lincoln to Hitler to Churchill to Kennedy, Gandhi to Nehru, Luther King to Mbeki to Feynman; all had a voice that stood out. A voice that argued and amassed; stirred and inspired; led and motivated; explained and reasoned; touched and soothed millions and millions. A force, a voice.

I watched on as my silent neighbour vanished into the crowd, conversing animatedly with her friend in a rapid sign language..

"I need a voice now..", Pentagram started trickling down somewhere in my mind.

Echoes..

2008-12-17T18:46:00.027+05:30

Hush! Here they come, Ho!
Of borders and vices, barrels and smoke;
With fingers that claw into blood and death,
Ruins of purple, of angst and of yoke.

Shy we of our slain? their valour in vain?
Palled by political feign; supreme, shall Terror reign?

Lo! The castle falls, behold!
Of eastern tides and western brothers, bulls and bears.
Dollars vested, woes buried, futures bought;
Now? melted, undone; while Hope, through despair, glares..

The poor, turning greyer; untold miseries in store?
Culture in chaos, lives enclosed; History's encore?

Blinded by darkness, no escape in sight...
Cornered. Pressed; hither must we lie?
No! Forever, remember:
Fences were made, for those who can't fly.

PS: My apologies. For the mess I got myself into in the previous semester; for the time I took to realize, recover from it; for all the related circumstances thereof: the blame, all of it, I take entirely upon myself. This will not happen in future.

PS: The feel was partly inspired by:
"When you have come to the edge of all the light you have
And step into the darkness of the unknown
Believe that one of the two will happen to you
Either you'll find something solid to stand on
Or you'll be taught how to fly!"- Richard Bach
This was the status message of a CS friend of mine (she is, I am positive, oblivious of this blog or the author :P) and somehow appealed to me greatly.

PS: And yeah, though late, this poem is a tribute of sorts to the two recent, mammoth events of the year.

Ripple..

2008-07-15T09:22:00.020+05:30

A wrinkled old man, dressed in khaki, carrying himself as if he owns the place and a cocky young fellow, dressed like a typical college student (by typical I mean, most unfortunately, faded boot-cut jeans with awkward folds near the thigh, a not-properly-buttoned full armed shirt revealing an out-of-sort 'ornament' around the neck, a bag on the back hanging below the waist) are having a quiet discussion in a corner. A sensitive onlooker drops an ear:
(shaking his grey head vigorously) "...anyaaya kaNappa idu...aadru nODtini".
(gripping the old man's shoulder) "Work out mADkobohudu biDi sar. neev adanna svalpa nODi, (in a tone of reassurance) bEredu naanu noDkotini...".
(pointing to the really long queue) "nooraaru jana kaaytha idaare. kashTa aagthade kaNayya...".
(smiling in a dissident fashion) "Sar... deal aaythu anni... naanu naaLe ide timige bartini... Ready iTkoLi sar...".
(cocked eyebrows, barely above a whisper) "advance anta enaadru idya athva ella naaLeno?".
The boy slips something down the old man's hand and an air of understanding seeps in. A nod, an almost-hug, a wave of hand and the boy walks out the entrance giving derogatory looks towards the queue. The old peon gets to his business. This particular onlooker moves on, one among the hundreds waiting patiently in the aforementioned queue...

The queue in discussion ends in a bespectacled officer, well dressed, cross-checking the documents submitted by the people in the queue and gracing his precious signature only in a few cases. Beside him, bent low and constantly whispering something into his ears, is a boy who is in his early twenties. Evading many 'middlemen' this particular onlooker waits patiently for his turn, pondering over the conversation he has just overheard.

Half an hour and there is just a single person separating him and the officer! Enthusiastic, he has a peek at what is being done. Examination of the documents is taking place. The originals are being shown too. As the officer cross-checks with the originals, a frown appears across his forehead, " yEnappa idu? applicationalli ond hesaru passportalli bEre hesaride! ". The boy beside him bends over and whispers, " sar, nammavre sar ivru...idondu maaDkoDi sar...". "koTTavraa?"(hints at mint)... "koTTavre sar...". "oLLe ikaTTige sikkstya kaNayya neenu", comes the reply but without another thought the papers are certified and sent through! The onlooker looks on, speechless for a moment... "Sir, heg certify maaDdri adanna? ivru koTTa originals yaavdu sarigirlilla...". "inta saaviraaru casegalu aagatte illi dinaanu", the onlooker is jarred by the boy beside the officer. The officer quips in, " nin kelsakke kelsa iTko. koDilli noDONa nin applicationnu...". After fruitlessly searching for loopholes in the application he jibes, " yEnayya idu? papersna staple maadbeku anno common sense ilva ninge? HOgu...". The application is literally thrown back. The onlooker notices a stapler on the table and reaches out for it. It is grabbed back by the little imp who smirks, " sarigilla ri... berekaDe nOdi...". Our onlooker walks off, steaming...

Looking back just once, he observes the same stapler being used for another person, observes other innocent people waiting in the queue, observes many other tiny-treaties being made, observes bills being passed about freely, observes how skewed the system really is... He resolves to come back and get his job done by the same officer...

PS: Our universe is skewed. The tiny system considered here is the RTO Office, Rajajnagar, Bangalore. As an afterthought, I would like to add that 'our onlooker' succeeded in his endeavour after two more attempts.

Finally !

2008-04-27T02:36:00.018+05:30

Hello! After considerable amount of thought, a good amount of inspiration from many blogs, ample amount of coaxing on the part of my friends (especially the 'A Paranoid Android') and a more-than-necessary period of bulbing, I have finally decided to start blogging!

PS: The author's end semester exams are going on and junta are implored herein not to expect the first meaningful post until the 2nd of May.