Something of Myself
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Brick in the Wall
Is the imagery of the fog a bleak one? That's what is one my mind right now - a dense, all-encompassing blanket of fog. And of course, with fog comes London.
Haven't been to London for quite sometime now and the last visit wasn't really a visit - it was to stand by a friend who had lost someone very precious.
This time around I want to go to Brick Lane and Ladbroke Grove and Railton Road and all other such places where communities thrive with a wonderful and painful mixture of colour and class. I want to feel history - go to Mangrove Nine, Metro Four, Brockwell Park Three...everywhere, all parts that have carefully retained and sheltered little bits and pieces of history. I do not want to go to Picaddily Circus or Trafalgar Square or Leicester Square or Oxford Street or Regent Street - they have a different charm, the charm of actually getting to see millions and millions of people. I am not in that frame of mind right now. I want to walk out on a winter night, wearing my black overcoat, its collar risen to beat the winds and I want to take a dictaphone with me and walk the streets of London, carefully avoiding any eye-contact with all. It is as if "walking" on the streets of London is almost a symbolic image of my freedom and my one-ness (if you will) with the country and the culture of the city.
Instead, I am in this small town in Devon; sitting in this prison cell, staring at the laptop screen and wondering if I can ever do what I want to do. It's about freedom and it's about choice.
The freedom to choose. The freedom to call someone your own. The freedom to don the garb of a Londoner and see London through the eyes of Dickens or a Smith or a Johnson or a Blake. The freedom to say - ah, this is the bit that I want, this is the person whom I want to talk to, this is the food I want to eat...almost banal choices you see, nothing extravagant, nothing posh, nothing extraordinary but just an ordinary way of looking at things and making them permanent by etching them in the innermost regions of my mind.
This is a weird feeling - for the first time ever I want to be alone. All my life I hated being alone, but today, I just want to go out there and be alone as if I was born just moments ago. I don't want any language, any mode of communication, any systemof signs to convey emotions, any social mediums by which I will be considered "human" and thus part of the flock.
But these are wanderings, wild thoughts, products of a troubled soul. After all how can I forget - "All in all you're just another brick in the wall." :)
Is the imagery of the fog a bleak one? That's what is one my mind right now - a dense, all-encompassing blanket of fog. And of course, with fog comes London.
Haven't been to London for quite sometime now and the last visit wasn't really a visit - it was to stand by a friend who had lost someone very precious.
This time around I want to go to Brick Lane and Ladbroke Grove and Railton Road and all other such places where communities thrive with a wonderful and painful mixture of colour and class. I want to feel history - go to Mangrove Nine, Metro Four, Brockwell Park Three...everywhere, all parts that have carefully retained and sheltered little bits and pieces of history. I do not want to go to Picaddily Circus or Trafalgar Square or Leicester Square or Oxford Street or Regent Street - they have a different charm, the charm of actually getting to see millions and millions of people. I am not in that frame of mind right now. I want to walk out on a winter night, wearing my black overcoat, its collar risen to beat the winds and I want to take a dictaphone with me and walk the streets of London, carefully avoiding any eye-contact with all. It is as if "walking" on the streets of London is almost a symbolic image of my freedom and my one-ness (if you will) with the country and the culture of the city.
Instead, I am in this small town in Devon; sitting in this prison cell, staring at the laptop screen and wondering if I can ever do what I want to do. It's about freedom and it's about choice.
The freedom to choose. The freedom to call someone your own. The freedom to don the garb of a Londoner and see London through the eyes of Dickens or a Smith or a Johnson or a Blake. The freedom to say - ah, this is the bit that I want, this is the person whom I want to talk to, this is the food I want to eat...almost banal choices you see, nothing extravagant, nothing posh, nothing extraordinary but just an ordinary way of looking at things and making them permanent by etching them in the innermost regions of my mind.
This is a weird feeling - for the first time ever I want to be alone. All my life I hated being alone, but today, I just want to go out there and be alone as if I was born just moments ago. I don't want any language, any mode of communication, any systemof signs to convey emotions, any social mediums by which I will be considered "human" and thus part of the flock.
But these are wanderings, wild thoughts, products of a troubled soul. After all how can I forget - "All in all you're just another brick in the wall." :)
Monday, November 22, 2004
Teaching Blues
Tired, unwell and scared. I hate falling short of my expectations and not putting in 200%. The teaching date is coming up - slowly but surely... It will be an unique experience - the pressure (and pleasure) of taking an undergraduate seminar for the first time ever in my life. Wow, never imagined it would be this quick.
And there is something more to this...something which I dare not say in a public medium like a blog...for there is that thing which can just kill everything...For the time being, let's call it "prejudice." :)
Never mind, like always, I am going to put my best foot forward, not sleep the night before, go to the loo at least 10 times half an hour before the seminar, and then...walk in, settle down...Joi Baba Bholanath!!
P.S. Dear God, just give me that little push, slight touch and a delicate pull - I'll make it. Please.
Tired, unwell and scared. I hate falling short of my expectations and not putting in 200%. The teaching date is coming up - slowly but surely... It will be an unique experience - the pressure (and pleasure) of taking an undergraduate seminar for the first time ever in my life. Wow, never imagined it would be this quick.
And there is something more to this...something which I dare not say in a public medium like a blog...for there is that thing which can just kill everything...For the time being, let's call it "prejudice." :)
Never mind, like always, I am going to put my best foot forward, not sleep the night before, go to the loo at least 10 times half an hour before the seminar, and then...walk in, settle down...Joi Baba Bholanath!!
P.S. Dear God, just give me that little push, slight touch and a delicate pull - I'll make it. Please.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
London Diary (Vijay Dutt; Hindustan Times, 2004) -
"I had forgotten just after a mere 10 days stay in Delhi that when winter starts creeping in, London is bleak and dark. When I landed here at about noon, I felt it was late evening. There was no Sun and the nip in the air was decidedly uncomfortable. The story is the same every winter. It causes anguish among the lonely people, old and young alike. GPs call it seasonal depression syndrome (SDS), an ailment for which there is obviously no cure." [...]
Tell me about it!!!
"I had forgotten just after a mere 10 days stay in Delhi that when winter starts creeping in, London is bleak and dark. When I landed here at about noon, I felt it was late evening. There was no Sun and the nip in the air was decidedly uncomfortable. The story is the same every winter. It causes anguish among the lonely people, old and young alike. GPs call it seasonal depression syndrome (SDS), an ailment for which there is obviously no cure." [...]
Tell me about it!!!
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Fragments of an email.
The following is a part of an email conversation which I thought was worthy enough to put up in my blog - on the issue of contemporary British identity and the language needed to express the same:
Reading James Procter; brilliant stuff on history of Black-British identity and the concept of diaspora and the "identity of becoming"(that's Stuart Hall)....enjoying it to the hilt. Sometimes I feel that whatever I got to say has already been said in some way or the other. This of course sounds frustrating but makes it all the more challenging because i know that there is something that is still to betapped. just dont know what! [...]
I wonder (to come back to my research area) what kind of a language one needs to adopt to express Black-British identity? African-American identity? Hyphenated identities? Just as much as it is politically incorrect to say "nigger" its the same if one said "whitey". But which one stings more? We then go back to history, dont we? And then we ask - well, who wrote this bloody history? Victors? Aah, now its time to re-write it then?! From whose point? Sorry i am just getting carried away! [...]
Identity of becoming...sorry i should have explained. I meant an identity of becoming another identity...like a West Indian - he arrives in London for the first time ever; looks for a "circus" when he hears of a place called "picadilly circus." The way the entire displacement shakes the very roots of his selfhood; with time he settles down, has a job and a family. And then he starts assimilating himself to what he thinks is Britishness. In other words he negotiates his identity, his history with the place he is in. How does one dothat? Is it enforced or do we do it naturally? Do we need tointegrate? How successful can that integration be? That's what i meant- the process of becoming what you are not (and perhaps what you never imagined you could be). Or perhaps the process of becoming another person... i dont know! [...]
The following is a part of an email conversation which I thought was worthy enough to put up in my blog - on the issue of contemporary British identity and the language needed to express the same:
Reading James Procter; brilliant stuff on history of Black-British identity and the concept of diaspora and the "identity of becoming"(that's Stuart Hall)....enjoying it to the hilt. Sometimes I feel that whatever I got to say has already been said in some way or the other. This of course sounds frustrating but makes it all the more challenging because i know that there is something that is still to betapped. just dont know what! [...]
I wonder (to come back to my research area) what kind of a language one needs to adopt to express Black-British identity? African-American identity? Hyphenated identities? Just as much as it is politically incorrect to say "nigger" its the same if one said "whitey". But which one stings more? We then go back to history, dont we? And then we ask - well, who wrote this bloody history? Victors? Aah, now its time to re-write it then?! From whose point? Sorry i am just getting carried away! [...]
Identity of becoming...sorry i should have explained. I meant an identity of becoming another identity...like a West Indian - he arrives in London for the first time ever; looks for a "circus" when he hears of a place called "picadilly circus." The way the entire displacement shakes the very roots of his selfhood; with time he settles down, has a job and a family. And then he starts assimilating himself to what he thinks is Britishness. In other words he negotiates his identity, his history with the place he is in. How does one dothat? Is it enforced or do we do it naturally? Do we need tointegrate? How successful can that integration be? That's what i meant- the process of becoming what you are not (and perhaps what you never imagined you could be). Or perhaps the process of becoming another person... i dont know! [...]
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Anger Management.
Anger. Yes, that's the word. Furiously fuming - that's what I am right now. It's a weird thing, this anger. You can't let it out cause you know that anger turns you blind so you might end up doing a lot of silly things which you normally wouldn't have done. And myself, I always try very hard to control my anger because I know if I let it out, the object of my anger is going to perish and in turn I might be burned too.
Silly things make us angry sometimes. Small but consequential things, things that make your life that much difficult. And then, there are the big ones - like someone betrays us, puts you down, stabs you at the back, lies to you....There are two kinds of people in my life - a) who hurt me and I don't mind cause they are dear to me b) who hurt me and I want to fuck them bad, like you take an inch from me, and I will take a mile. Yes, that's how it is - a mile for an inch. Sounds aggressive, doesn't it? Well honey, if you don't be like this, I am afraid this world's going to turn out to be a very nasty place to live in. In fact, come to think of it, it wouldn't let you survive. You got to fight for each and every inch of your space.
"No, we won't let you in"
"Yes you will motherfucker."
I remember what Karen told me once. She said - "Pele, anger is a very complex thing to handle. It's even harder to write about and the first step towards dealing with it is to acknowledge its complexity." Alright, Karen, I've done that. Now what?
Should I go and take it out? Should I just keep it to myself? It depends on who made you angry, innit? Like for e.g. if it were my dad, I would think a hundred times before even saying a word because to hurt him is the last thing on my mind. But if it were some cocky, fat, impolite English wanker - well, I would perhaps beat the shit out of him or may be just put a lightning up his arse. So much for being a twat!
Never mind, I am not going to do that. There are ways to live and I think myself to be civilised. However, patience has its own limits and to try the patience of a patient man, well, you better not be the person - that's all I have to say!
Anger. Yes, that's the word. Furiously fuming - that's what I am right now. It's a weird thing, this anger. You can't let it out cause you know that anger turns you blind so you might end up doing a lot of silly things which you normally wouldn't have done. And myself, I always try very hard to control my anger because I know if I let it out, the object of my anger is going to perish and in turn I might be burned too.
Silly things make us angry sometimes. Small but consequential things, things that make your life that much difficult. And then, there are the big ones - like someone betrays us, puts you down, stabs you at the back, lies to you....There are two kinds of people in my life - a) who hurt me and I don't mind cause they are dear to me b) who hurt me and I want to fuck them bad, like you take an inch from me, and I will take a mile. Yes, that's how it is - a mile for an inch. Sounds aggressive, doesn't it? Well honey, if you don't be like this, I am afraid this world's going to turn out to be a very nasty place to live in. In fact, come to think of it, it wouldn't let you survive. You got to fight for each and every inch of your space.
"No, we won't let you in"
"Yes you will motherfucker."
I remember what Karen told me once. She said - "Pele, anger is a very complex thing to handle. It's even harder to write about and the first step towards dealing with it is to acknowledge its complexity." Alright, Karen, I've done that. Now what?
Should I go and take it out? Should I just keep it to myself? It depends on who made you angry, innit? Like for e.g. if it were my dad, I would think a hundred times before even saying a word because to hurt him is the last thing on my mind. But if it were some cocky, fat, impolite English wanker - well, I would perhaps beat the shit out of him or may be just put a lightning up his arse. So much for being a twat!
Never mind, I am not going to do that. There are ways to live and I think myself to be civilised. However, patience has its own limits and to try the patience of a patient man, well, you better not be the person - that's all I have to say!
Quote Unquote.
Amazing quote - loved it - want to read the whole thing now:
"What had happened was that the formal pattern of black-and-white, mistress-and-servant, had been broken by the personal relation; and when a white man in Africa by accident looks into the eyes of a native and sees the human being (which it is his chief preoccupation to avoid), his sense of guilt, which he denies, fumes up in resentment and he brings down the whip."
(Doris Lessing's The Grass is Singing)
Amazing quote - loved it - want to read the whole thing now:
"What had happened was that the formal pattern of black-and-white, mistress-and-servant, had been broken by the personal relation; and when a white man in Africa by accident looks into the eyes of a native and sees the human being (which it is his chief preoccupation to avoid), his sense of guilt, which he denies, fumes up in resentment and he brings down the whip."
(Doris Lessing's The Grass is Singing)
Monday, November 15, 2004
The Unforgiven (Metallica)
New blood joins this earth
and quickly he's subdued
through constant pain disgrace
the young boy learns their rules
with time the child draws in
this whipping boy done wrong
deprived of all his thoughts
the young man struggles on and on he's known
a vow unto his own
that never from this day
his will they'll take away
what I've felt
what I've known
never shined through in what I've shown
never be
never see
won't see what might have been
what I've felt
what I've known
never shined through in what I've shown
never free
never me
so I dub thee unforgiven
they dedicate their lives
to running all of his
he tries to please them all
this bitter man he is
throughout his life the same
he's battled constantly
this fight he cannot win
a tired man they see no longer cares
the old man then prepares
to die regretfully
that old man here is me [...]
New blood joins this earth
and quickly he's subdued
through constant pain disgrace
the young boy learns their rules
with time the child draws in
this whipping boy done wrong
deprived of all his thoughts
the young man struggles on and on he's known
a vow unto his own
that never from this day
his will they'll take away
what I've felt
what I've known
never shined through in what I've shown
never be
never see
won't see what might have been
what I've felt
what I've known
never shined through in what I've shown
never free
never me
so I dub thee unforgiven
they dedicate their lives
to running all of his
he tries to please them all
this bitter man he is
throughout his life the same
he's battled constantly
this fight he cannot win
a tired man they see no longer cares
the old man then prepares
to die regretfully
that old man here is me [...]
Weekend Review
Had a good weekend - went over to Percy's. We were on about our time together at Exeter - the nocturnal walks in eerie places, the shifts at Domino's, my personality revamp, his lab, Unreal Tournament, his room - Kendal's Dark and the sweet sound of Lata and Kishore and Rafi and Mukesh...It's a strange thing, this memory. Imagine what life would be if we were perpetually living in the present without any traces of our past? I think there was a film made on similar lines, titled Memento?!
Shani got all my stuff today. My room's in a mess. Books, clothes, shoes, crockery, cartons and that huge huge bag that Ma got from Singapore. Yuck! I am going to throw it away right after I finish this! Feels good to be back home (provided I accept this room of mine as "home"). Don't know why but I always feel good when I come back to my den, it's like, yes, this is my bed, my desk, my laptop, my little space in this wild, wild world. And then suddenly, out of the blue, I feel empty - as if something is missing...inexplicable.
Meeting Tony day after - let's see what happens. Missed my lecture today - just forgot about it; felt like kicking myself over and over again. I guess I was too pre-occupied with the Sinfield stuff that I am reading now or may be it was the whole visa thing frying my brains.
Spoke with Z last nite - it was great. Her laughter still rings in my head, the words etched in my mind...Wrote a really cheesy email...felt embarrassed after writing it. Its a bit weird perhaps because I cannot sense the reality of it all. She makes me think that this life is worth the shot. Well, I hope it is 'cause I am gonna have a go anyways! ;)
P.S. Why do we tend to associate nature with feminine beauty? Is there a link? I mean we say things like "her hair, cascade-like, brushing against my face" etc, why? Odbhoot na? :)
Had a good weekend - went over to Percy's. We were on about our time together at Exeter - the nocturnal walks in eerie places, the shifts at Domino's, my personality revamp, his lab, Unreal Tournament, his room - Kendal's Dark and the sweet sound of Lata and Kishore and Rafi and Mukesh...It's a strange thing, this memory. Imagine what life would be if we were perpetually living in the present without any traces of our past? I think there was a film made on similar lines, titled Memento?!
Shani got all my stuff today. My room's in a mess. Books, clothes, shoes, crockery, cartons and that huge huge bag that Ma got from Singapore. Yuck! I am going to throw it away right after I finish this! Feels good to be back home (provided I accept this room of mine as "home"). Don't know why but I always feel good when I come back to my den, it's like, yes, this is my bed, my desk, my laptop, my little space in this wild, wild world. And then suddenly, out of the blue, I feel empty - as if something is missing...inexplicable.
Meeting Tony day after - let's see what happens. Missed my lecture today - just forgot about it; felt like kicking myself over and over again. I guess I was too pre-occupied with the Sinfield stuff that I am reading now or may be it was the whole visa thing frying my brains.
Spoke with Z last nite - it was great. Her laughter still rings in my head, the words etched in my mind...Wrote a really cheesy email...felt embarrassed after writing it. Its a bit weird perhaps because I cannot sense the reality of it all. She makes me think that this life is worth the shot. Well, I hope it is 'cause I am gonna have a go anyways! ;)
P.S. Why do we tend to associate nature with feminine beauty? Is there a link? I mean we say things like "her hair, cascade-like, brushing against my face" etc, why? Odbhoot na? :)
Thursday, November 11, 2004
THE BLOG IS UP AND RUNNING AGAIN! YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Never knew this blog meant THIS much to me. :) Dad is right, sometimes we don't appreciate the values of existence - absence brings you closer to reality...Ahem...whatever! ;)
Never knew this blog meant THIS much to me. :) Dad is right, sometimes we don't appreciate the values of existence - absence brings you closer to reality...Ahem...whatever! ;)
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
What would life be without....
1. Internet (and of course computers)
2. Music
3. Sex
4. Books
5. Alcohol
6. IPod
7. Brands
8. Watches
9. Aeroplanes / Trains
10. Vaseline lip gel
11. Post-sticks
12. Deos
13. Condoms
14. Rahmania's Biriyani (the original one at Park Street, not fucking Lake Market)
15. Tea
16. Cheese
17. Chocolates
18. Nokia Mobile phones
19. PC games
20. Amitabh Bachchan movies
and moving on to the intangible...
8. Pain
9. Love
10. Tears
11. Smile
12. The indefinable feeling of feeling alive...
And what would life be without me? ;)
Ah well, "masroof zamana mere liye kyun waqt aapna barbaad kaare?" :)
1. Internet (and of course computers)
2. Music
3. Sex
4. Books
5. Alcohol
6. IPod
7. Brands
8. Watches
9. Aeroplanes / Trains
10. Vaseline lip gel
11. Post-sticks
12. Deos
13. Condoms
14. Rahmania's Biriyani (the original one at Park Street, not fucking Lake Market)
15. Tea
16. Cheese
17. Chocolates
18. Nokia Mobile phones
19. PC games
20. Amitabh Bachchan movies
and moving on to the intangible...
8. Pain
9. Love
10. Tears
11. Smile
12. The indefinable feeling of feeling alive...
And what would life be without me? ;)
Ah well, "masroof zamana mere liye kyun waqt aapna barbaad kaare?" :)
Monday, November 08, 2004
Limbo.
Reading this really fucked up 20th century French critic, Roland Barthes. He is so able and willing to fuck your head up that he doesn't realise that his fancy jargons doesn't help anybody! I mean Mr. Barthes, do you know that you are an idiot?? Tch, and imagine this - I have to teach this Barthesian text to a group of undergrads! Wow!!! Scary.
Nothing much happening out here. Met Shani today for coffee during brunch time. She is tensed about her house thingy. I hope it gets sorted. She is one of the few friends I have out here, so naturally I want her to be well....
Perhaps going to London for Deepavali....not sure....Will do it if I really want it. Thought of escaping to Swindon for sometime but Percy's got some work to do. Hmph!
Never mind, Krishan Kumar's The Making of English National Identity, Barthes' Mythologies and Sinfield's Literature, Politics and Culture in Postwar Britain should keep me occupied. On a different note, really want to read Irvin Welsh's Trainspotting. Read an excerpt - loved it. Sad that I don't have the cash to grab a copy but it will happen in due time....all in good time baby, all in good time.
Spoke with Z early in the morning. She was a bit upset about certain things. Tried to calm her down. I think it helped; at least I hope it did. I don't like it when she is upset and crying and all that. I want her to be happy - like in a state of perpetual happiness...long-lasting.
Wonder why we want some people to just be happy, selflessly?
Song in my head right now: "Sokhi bhabona kahare bole, sokhi jatona kahare bole?" Roughly translated (sorry Mr. Tagore) - "What is thinking? What is pain?"
Hmm...food for thought. Ah, this bloody cleaner and her noisy fucking vaccum cleaner....shut up you bitch!
Reading this really fucked up 20th century French critic, Roland Barthes. He is so able and willing to fuck your head up that he doesn't realise that his fancy jargons doesn't help anybody! I mean Mr. Barthes, do you know that you are an idiot?? Tch, and imagine this - I have to teach this Barthesian text to a group of undergrads! Wow!!! Scary.
Nothing much happening out here. Met Shani today for coffee during brunch time. She is tensed about her house thingy. I hope it gets sorted. She is one of the few friends I have out here, so naturally I want her to be well....
Perhaps going to London for Deepavali....not sure....Will do it if I really want it. Thought of escaping to Swindon for sometime but Percy's got some work to do. Hmph!
Never mind, Krishan Kumar's The Making of English National Identity, Barthes' Mythologies and Sinfield's Literature, Politics and Culture in Postwar Britain should keep me occupied. On a different note, really want to read Irvin Welsh's Trainspotting. Read an excerpt - loved it. Sad that I don't have the cash to grab a copy but it will happen in due time....all in good time baby, all in good time.
Spoke with Z early in the morning. She was a bit upset about certain things. Tried to calm her down. I think it helped; at least I hope it did. I don't like it when she is upset and crying and all that. I want her to be happy - like in a state of perpetual happiness...long-lasting.
Wonder why we want some people to just be happy, selflessly?
Song in my head right now: "Sokhi bhabona kahare bole, sokhi jatona kahare bole?" Roughly translated (sorry Mr. Tagore) - "What is thinking? What is pain?"
Hmm...food for thought. Ah, this bloody cleaner and her noisy fucking vaccum cleaner....shut up you bitch!
Friday, November 05, 2004
Because Life's like that
It's a battlefield. Lonely and tiresome.
Corpses all around me,
There is death in the air.
The fields that were green
Are charred with smoke.
The streets that were teeming
Are engulfed in deathly silence.
The bells do not chime anymore for
There is death in the air.
There are roses no more.
There is death in the air,
With me in the middle of it.
Alone. Fearful. Weary and shocked.
The houses are all empty.
The smoke is pitch black.
Hatred has assumed a different meaning.
And there
I see the limb of a dead soldier
And it makes me feel
There is death in the air.
Blood, nausea and filth all around.
I hold on to my gun dearly
But I fail to realise
That there is no one to be killed.
The battle is over,
Or so it seems,
Because
There is death in the air.
I can hear the cries of their beloved
Moaning in sorrow.
Their hearts ripped apart by the fate of this war -
This never-ending, inexorable war.
I can see the deformed faces of my mates,
Comrades with whom I fought -
A passion we shared, a passion to kill 'cause
There is death in the air.
The tears have given way to blindness,
They have been robbed of their laughter,
There are parties no more.
The infant kid longs for his father,
The mother for his child,
The lover calls out his name, in vain.
She does not know
There is death in the air.
I wonder what this life is.
This death in the air.
It's a battlefield. Lonely and tiresome.
Corpses all around me,
There is death in the air.
The fields that were green
Are charred with smoke.
The streets that were teeming
Are engulfed in deathly silence.
The bells do not chime anymore for
There is death in the air.
There are roses no more.
There is death in the air,
With me in the middle of it.
Alone. Fearful. Weary and shocked.
The houses are all empty.
The smoke is pitch black.
Hatred has assumed a different meaning.
And there
I see the limb of a dead soldier
And it makes me feel
There is death in the air.
Blood, nausea and filth all around.
I hold on to my gun dearly
But I fail to realise
That there is no one to be killed.
The battle is over,
Or so it seems,
Because
There is death in the air.
I can hear the cries of their beloved
Moaning in sorrow.
Their hearts ripped apart by the fate of this war -
This never-ending, inexorable war.
I can see the deformed faces of my mates,
Comrades with whom I fought -
A passion we shared, a passion to kill 'cause
There is death in the air.
The tears have given way to blindness,
They have been robbed of their laughter,
There are parties no more.
The infant kid longs for his father,
The mother for his child,
The lover calls out his name, in vain.
She does not know
There is death in the air.
I wonder what this life is.
This death in the air.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other-Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war.
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in a silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
(W Shakespeare, Richard II, 2:1)
Monday, November 01, 2004
Loss, Life, Lust and Dreams.
What do you do when you are driving your car at around 120 miles per hour, on the M4, and suddenly it begins to jerk and simply stops? Do you throw it at the scrapyard or do you try to fix it? Or do you get someone to fix it?
Life's like that. We drive, we pull the brakes, we accelerate and then suddenly out of the blue the engine gives up. Some get rid of the car, get a new one and others try to fix it. I wonder which group I belong to.
Loss is central to life, or so I think. We lose so many things - time, money, people, socks, papers, bills...can you think of anything that you will not end up loosing or haven't lost? I think loss is crucial to our existence. Yet, why then that we fear loss? What is it about loss that breeds a sense of insecurity in us?
Why do we feel insecure? Is it because we are attached to it? Or is it because we like life to be organised and start freaking out when one of the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle goes missing? I don't have many answers right now. I have come to a stage in life where I start apprehending the losses. Perhaps that's why I am writing this post. Sometimes, it's a gut feeling you see, one just knows that I am going to loose this or that. At other times, you have no clue, you look back and it is there no more. Is everything elusive in our little lives? Is ANYTHING permanent?
The nature of blogs disallows us to write that which is personal. After all you never know who is going to read it. Does it really matter? Pray, if I were to write about the affairs I have had in my life and my mum ends up reading it, would it matter? I guess not but still we want to hold on to these bits of our existence which we can call our own, our very personal. But at some point of time we end up sharing them too, don't we?
There is a burning desire in me for a lasting companionship. Something that will see through the test of time, something that will transcend the boundaries of time, something that will define itself beyond the litmus test of life. I don't know if that's possible - life's a compromise they say but I know this: You live and you learn. We meet people, we love them, hate them, we invest our time, money, efforts...everything that we have in the hope that it is going to last. Why can't we be like Anand (Hrishikesh Mukherjee) and live life by the moment?
It takes guts to do that. I don't have that courage. I lust for peace, comfort and permanence knowing fully well that even this life of mine is going to die an untimely death. But somehow that dream is there - the lady with the pink saree, neatly pleated, cascade-like hair and of course the cup of tea. She stands by the bedside and I tell her about my day. She listens patiently and then says what she has to. Her presence makes it a beautiful dream. A dream which I want to dream over and over again.
Reality makes dreams temporal - the act of dreaming seems endless. When you dream, when you see what you desire in a sub-conscious state of mind, time has no meaning. In life, with flesh and blood time seems to be a killer. Loss is inevitable.
I am a dreamer - wouldn't want to live life otherwise. And I am going to live my dreams - of course, within the framework of time 'cause too much is at stake. This life, this dream and this me - forever pining for what is not...a tender touch, a sweet smell and a morbid sense of the ungettable.
What do you do when you are driving your car at around 120 miles per hour, on the M4, and suddenly it begins to jerk and simply stops? Do you throw it at the scrapyard or do you try to fix it? Or do you get someone to fix it?
Life's like that. We drive, we pull the brakes, we accelerate and then suddenly out of the blue the engine gives up. Some get rid of the car, get a new one and others try to fix it. I wonder which group I belong to.
Loss is central to life, or so I think. We lose so many things - time, money, people, socks, papers, bills...can you think of anything that you will not end up loosing or haven't lost? I think loss is crucial to our existence. Yet, why then that we fear loss? What is it about loss that breeds a sense of insecurity in us?
Why do we feel insecure? Is it because we are attached to it? Or is it because we like life to be organised and start freaking out when one of the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle goes missing? I don't have many answers right now. I have come to a stage in life where I start apprehending the losses. Perhaps that's why I am writing this post. Sometimes, it's a gut feeling you see, one just knows that I am going to loose this or that. At other times, you have no clue, you look back and it is there no more. Is everything elusive in our little lives? Is ANYTHING permanent?
The nature of blogs disallows us to write that which is personal. After all you never know who is going to read it. Does it really matter? Pray, if I were to write about the affairs I have had in my life and my mum ends up reading it, would it matter? I guess not but still we want to hold on to these bits of our existence which we can call our own, our very personal. But at some point of time we end up sharing them too, don't we?
There is a burning desire in me for a lasting companionship. Something that will see through the test of time, something that will transcend the boundaries of time, something that will define itself beyond the litmus test of life. I don't know if that's possible - life's a compromise they say but I know this: You live and you learn. We meet people, we love them, hate them, we invest our time, money, efforts...everything that we have in the hope that it is going to last. Why can't we be like Anand (Hrishikesh Mukherjee) and live life by the moment?
It takes guts to do that. I don't have that courage. I lust for peace, comfort and permanence knowing fully well that even this life of mine is going to die an untimely death. But somehow that dream is there - the lady with the pink saree, neatly pleated, cascade-like hair and of course the cup of tea. She stands by the bedside and I tell her about my day. She listens patiently and then says what she has to. Her presence makes it a beautiful dream. A dream which I want to dream over and over again.
Reality makes dreams temporal - the act of dreaming seems endless. When you dream, when you see what you desire in a sub-conscious state of mind, time has no meaning. In life, with flesh and blood time seems to be a killer. Loss is inevitable.
I am a dreamer - wouldn't want to live life otherwise. And I am going to live my dreams - of course, within the framework of time 'cause too much is at stake. This life, this dream and this me - forever pining for what is not...a tender touch, a sweet smell and a morbid sense of the ungettable.
