tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64707592011-10-15T17:20:09.188+01:00Something of Myself"What will not happen will never happen, whatever effort one may put forth. And what will happen will not fail to happen, however much one may seek to prevent it. This is certain. The part of wisdom therefore is to stay quiet."Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.comBlogger2471100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-7720909715193632602009-10-02T14:03:00.002+01:002009-10-02T14:30:37.731+01:00I saw it coming. I knew you kept lying to me. I am to be blamed as much. I kept pretending as if I did not know anything. And you? You just thought we'll squash the moth at the fag end of the hour! How convenient?!This is something I DESPISE. You paint me roses and then go and fetch lilies. You say red all the while we are at the store and come back with green. Why can't people be honest about Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-92124620378882095982009-05-29T05:54:00.002+01:002009-05-29T07:52:55.030+01:00I.3And S- was being moved from one square to another as the two friends were soaking up the alcohol in unmeaningful conversations about life. S- had just arrived home and was about to go for a shower when her mother thus spoke:'Will you be having dinner or have you had already?''I will Ma. I'll take a shower and join you.''I have had dinner already. See you tomorrow. Good night.'That was a bit Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-76036131004577002952009-05-27T11:00:00.003+01:002009-05-27T12:54:57.324+01:00I.2She left with traces of Poison in the room. He closed the door and lit up a smoke, as he placed himself on the armchair by the window. He could feel the heap inside. A heap of fragments. Of unfulfilled longings. Of wishes he never could articulate. Chunks of anger which needed an outlet. He took a drag and made a few rings. Was it too late to reach out? As he wondered, the phone rang. S- was Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-87701030919871837192009-05-12T11:37:00.004+01:002009-05-27T12:54:15.213+01:00I.1She stood silently at the door. She was wearing a crisply ironed Saree. A coy expression on her face - eyes sparkling. '*****!' she exclaimed - she was simply so elated to be at his doorstep. They hugged each other. She smelled beautiful. What is it about human smell? Why is it so unique and everlasting? Why does it stick onto you after decades? The sweet, beautiful smell. 'Did I make you waitPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-34727742475913439272009-05-12T08:21:00.000+01:002009-05-12T08:21:05.419+01:00What do you do when you greatest fear comes alive? You duck? You refuse to see it? You face it?
What if things weren't this way? What if happy endings made way into our lives from the pages of fairy tales? What if the road to Rome went to Paris? What if the road less travelled led to nowhere? That makes sense, doesn't it? The road less traveled is because it does not lead anywhere. Dumbo!
Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-61558038002158593602009-03-21T13:57:00.002Z2009-03-21T14:06:47.408ZI want to be the editor of a women's fashion magazine. Don't ask me why 'cause I don't know myself. I want to go away to the Hill. It is the only place that stills me. Everything inside me calms down. I want to make a movie. On women - fallen women, angels, housewives, working women, corporate snooty, hip cat, mothers, lovers, betrayers - faceless, nameless, countless women. Their lives. Untold Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-5720993260597348482008-10-15T06:34:00.002+01:002008-10-15T07:52:46.221+01:00Dont expect any structure today. Dont expect seamlessness. Today is not the day. I read that time = a moment in which things happen. But how do we explain memory? If my memory is a thing of the past then how come it confronts me in the present and stands between the future and myself? I feel miserable today. A dear one is leaving the country. Going far far away. Leaving a void. Haven't felt this Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-80927841156261979542008-10-03T10:28:00.003+01:002008-10-03T10:50:53.211+01:00It was a Volvo bus. The ones that I had never seen before in my life. The night was cold and I was waiting at the bus stop with another 3-4 people to start my journey...The bus came on time. We boarded and I sat by the window seat (I always loved to, not anymore). I had a spanking new SONY walkman. Pure white with the logo in blue. The sound quality was amazing. I had only one cassette on me (a Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-27437517251892020932008-09-03T09:22:00.002+01:002008-09-03T09:40:08.895+01:00It's been quite a while since I had the time and/or frame of mind to pen down my thoughts. There have been many learnings during this time that I have been away from myself. Or may be, perhaps, I was getting closer - who knows? I have discovered a being called Ramana Maharishi and his words, teachings and most of all, his silence has taught me a number of things. Taught me to submit myself. Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-82952076536365952382008-08-01T12:16:00.002+01:002008-08-01T13:05:12.269+01:00if only i had a time machine. if only there was a time machine, of course, with a price tag. if only i could see what will become of me in the next 20 years (if there remains something of myself). how terrible to be in this state of uncertainty. to not know where we are headed. no premonitions even for the next 1 minute. anything could happen! this is the age of materialism. of terrorism. of Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-38537746077679658502008-07-16T15:58:00.002+01:002008-07-16T16:19:13.961+01:00She was a tiny child when she lost him. It took her some years to understand her loss. It was not easy. It never is - to negotiate - specially with the absence of a being. Moreover, as fate would have it, she did not have much time to understand either. She had to rise to the occasion. She did, with grace, murdering her desires with her own hand in the process. She lived alone. A life of a loner.Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-65558816899696242182008-07-16T09:02:00.002+01:002008-07-16T11:36:41.603+01:00ami jabo. tadatadi. kobe jani na kintu jabo. tumi pichone takiyo na. amake jetei hobe. shomoy hoye eseche. ami jabo.Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-73993806272845522472008-06-09T13:27:00.001+01:002008-06-09T13:27:31.484+01:00 My personalDNA ReportPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-30170483715658692792008-06-09T13:25:00.000+01:002008-06-09T13:26:11.448+01:00Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-82048219544919965742008-06-02T07:52:00.002+01:002008-06-02T09:01:30.698+01:00It was a matter of chance. He had seen her several times before this day but did not muster the courage to build up a conversation. One-liners or pick up lines was never his forte and he never wanted to 'pick' her up or 'pick' on her! But like all good things in life, this was also a matter of chance. So, amidst the sea of people he walked up to her with a drink and thus began - 'You look lovely Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-7293079281709236762008-05-06T12:52:00.002+01:002008-05-06T13:20:50.124+01:00The thought of giving up on this blog occured once in the last few months. But then today, after a while when I got back to this, and re-read some of the fragments of my life, I realized shutting it out would not help me. I tried switching over to a new one taking refuge in a pseudonym, but that idea died its own death. So, here I am, back to the wilderness of it all...with nothing to say! For Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-17293207185355684422008-02-21T09:10:00.002Z2008-02-21T09:23:08.448ZI saw a dead man today, on the highway. The man who killed him was no more than 20, wearing a blue jeans and a stain-free white shirt. There was a woman too, accompanying him, wearing a crisp yellow salwar kurta. The man was dead, on the road. Blood splattered all over. One of his limbs lay a couple of yards away from him. The image has been flashing in my mind all day long. I have barely been Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-15394700311582674852008-01-29T05:09:00.000Z2008-01-29T05:35:53.243ZThere was one striking similarity - almost equal. The perpetual effort to integrate. To include. It made me feel cold, with surprise at the sameness and a numbing reminder of my loss. Given today's multiculturalism and all those things, integration has somewhere lost its humane touch. It's really about everyday affairs - of friendship, marriage, broken marriages and all sorts of relationships. ToPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-12573228400957755202007-11-24T17:13:00.000Z2007-11-24T17:34:36.806ZThese are the things that you missed...and I just wanted to set the records straight, so that if you bumped into me some years down the line, we could just begin the conversation where we left. But then I thought if I put it over here, you'd be a bit miffed - ours was a special relationship and it will always be. So try as I may, I won't be able to unpack the stuff before all and sundry.Suffice Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-6362055564765292592007-11-09T13:56:00.000Z2007-11-09T14:14:02.599ZHe was no more than 14. The yellow tee he was wearing had the company's logo printed on it. Together with it, he was sporting a half-torn khaki. He was selling a business weekly at the traffic signal. He approached me as I waited for the lights to turn green and requested me to buy a copy. 'It's only 10 rupees babu', he pleaded. And when I told him that we get such mags free at our office, this Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-381807908609231612007-10-29T08:16:00.000Z2007-10-29T09:24:27.770ZLone man standing at the top, nowhere to go but straight down under! What a ride it has been for so long…crestfallen he rose again and again and again to combat unbroken rules, unspoken agreements, and unsaid arrangements. Challenge was his skill and risk-taking his forte. He hardly won, but he left with a pleasing smile that told his spectators that the fight was worth their salt (or money or Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-45466443526617112422007-10-07T18:51:00.000+01:002007-10-07T19:24:43.291+01:00It's been quite a while since I scratched on the wall. So methinks this be a good time to do so! Just got back from Mumbai - it's changed so much since the last time I visited. Back then, I despised it, for it was too big for me to find my place. This time, it was more welcoming. Almost a parallel. The motorways and the narrow streets (of course, it reminded me of high streets)...you can almost Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-30461025149427482982007-08-30T11:44:00.001+01:002007-08-30T11:48:30.363+01:00She sat on the chair. Tiny.Waiting for her mother to finish.She was having pizzas,A barter. 'Mamma promised to take me to the pool tonight. I can't wait.' Innocent.Untouched.Unaware. Not knowing how much Mamma goes through...How guilty she feels to keep her waiting on that seatWhere strangers play with her hairAnd sick adults look at her chest.Wonder if she will ever know how much her Mamma lovesPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-57368507926196190952007-08-29T05:44:00.000+01:002007-08-29T06:00:18.500+01:00It's been a long time since I lost my sleep. It happened last night. Smirnoff and coke did not help. Watching back to back Hrishikesh Mukherjee films did not help. Ran out of Gold Flake. Then...I tried to sleep. The thoughts kept coming back. The face kept haunting me. The years. And then the present uncertainty. Not knowing where life is heading...not being sure of which boat to jump on...the Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-84257084601682637852007-08-22T12:09:00.000+01:002007-08-22T12:18:49.767+01:00Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-33665095648974626882007-08-07T08:58:00.000+01:002007-08-07T09:40:26.875+01:00In my university days, I was often labelled as 'Mr Feminist'...I am not sure if I am one, but every now and then, I keep wondering about women and issues that affect them. I was at it again today....just a little while ago...while reading the newspaper.For women, all over the world, is there nothing else to aspire for except getting married and making babies? Is that the sole reason of their Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-38255115796032772262007-08-03T20:33:00.000+01:002007-08-03T20:44:31.843+01:00She thought him to be the ultimate 'man' that ever could be. A man who stood on principles, was driven by empathy and had the grace to submit when at fault...-----------------------She was the sweetest thing I had met. Naive. Untouched. But one evening, one slight touch, the absence of the touch sealed it all...-----------------------She was now on her death bed. Inching towards finality. He Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-15596229318779263242007-07-17T07:37:00.000+01:002007-07-17T07:48:34.077+01:00My conversation with an erudite 30+ person last night reminded me of Roland Barthes. I remember my introduction to Semiotics and hated it all the way through first year. Clearly, it made no sense to me and belied every reason for studying the same. I came back to it during my third year and loved it. It made complete sense. I had obviously nurtured my thirst for academia and therein the Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-45407128977147033942007-07-03T11:05:00.000+01:002007-07-03T13:16:27.416+01:00Not that I understand much about tagging but when the request comes from Misti (http://misti-hope.blogspot.com), I guess I have to oblige - so here we go: 8 random things about myself:1. I love mutton biriyani. Yeah, food is on my mind since I am not having much of it these days! :( Rahamania biriyani is made by the God's own chef. 2. Blue Polo is my favourite perfume. It has always worked with Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-89428056597629303512007-07-02T07:57:00.000+01:002007-07-02T08:21:40.613+01:00It was not as if it could not have been. It clearly could have. But then, life is often determined not by the choices we make, but the lack of it. At least that's what he was thinking as he was driving from Calcutta towards her place. He was to meet the parents today. After dating her for 11 years, surely it would be the most natural thing to do (given the Indian socio-cultural psyche)...But Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-27054418365890114092007-06-29T12:33:00.000+01:002007-06-29T12:47:17.526+01:00The glass was not empty yet.Happy hour was on. 1+1Ironical (1+1 does not always make 2).At times, 1+1 = 1. Or 3. I know,It's a mathematical fallacy.It was so dark, I could not make out what I was drinking. It was something.A burning sensation ran down my throat.Swirling it inside my mouth, I could feel close to the purpose.Our purpose is to remember and forget.Simultaneously. This is not verse, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-4796685099535513032007-06-17T08:25:00.000+01:002007-06-17T09:11:11.057+01:00He was never the brightest during his school times. In fact, many labelled him as a loser. I met him 7 years back - he was no different, except that thanks to a bank loan, he had got himself to the land of Her Royal Majesty. He was still struggling. Britishness was a thing that he aspired for, and being the odd fellow that he was, integration, or inclusion was not his cuppa. I met him yesterday. Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-85058706510730709762007-06-15T09:26:00.000+01:002007-06-15T09:31:51.025+01:00I remembered this extract today, I had written it for a friend when I gifted her a copy of the Native Son:Ship's at a distance have every man's wish on board. For some they come in with the tide. For others, they sail forever on the horizon, never out of sight, never landing until the Watcher turns his eyes away in resignation, his dreams mocked to death by Time. That is the life of men.Now, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-83210342878927032772007-06-13T12:11:00.000+01:002007-06-13T14:07:32.273+01:00The mind is an amazing place. Here now, in the middle of papers, write-ups, research, copy, edits, and now, among the lush greenery of the Devon countryside, the beaches of Goa; now searching for a sanctum, an old temple, a long-lost friend...It's amazing how much we travel everyday within a span of seconds. Yet our body clock never gives up. Work takes me inside the boardrooms of CEOs; cricket Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1621292785852479522007-06-09T17:23:00.000+01:002007-06-09T17:31:35.094+01:00Many Happy Returns of the Day.You knowI won't forget. Neither will I forgive.Pele ekhuno manush hote parlo na. Aaj o taar kaane tomar kotha baaje. Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-64020036192778349942007-06-08T13:41:00.000+01:002007-06-08T13:42:32.343+01:00A whiff of dust I can see nothing.I can smell the ruinsThe leftoversYou just leftLike thatAnd left meAlone.Nothing else to sayExcept that I wishYou were aroundLife would have piled on LifeI could show youThe differenceIn quality.Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-73269808090070199252007-06-08T07:24:00.000+01:002007-06-08T08:23:23.756+01:00What strikes me about Calcutta, New Delhi, and London is that each of these cities leave an indelible and everlasting mark on anyone that has lived in these places for some years. Yet, this mark is not a stamp - unfixed and changing, the impressions are, at best, personal. There is something about cities which moves me. In Calcutta, it's the warmth - food, places, people, taxis, trams, metros, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-68764639622899421522007-05-23T05:59:00.000+01:002007-05-23T07:58:34.248+01:00I will come back. I just do not know when. Half of the day is over. How much can I travel in the remaining half? The mind is tiring. Commitment lies in two unequal halves, on the mozaic floor. I picked up one half of it and asked - 'Where do you belong?' I got no answers. I turned. I cursed. There was still silence in the air. Uncertainty, Masks, Doubles,Fragments, Unequal halves, Fractions, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-78957711050982181252007-05-18T06:31:00.001+01:002007-05-18T06:34:02.148+01:00Memories are whores of our times.Desires, mere pimps, selling us for one cent each.Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-89242384375742716952007-05-15T11:29:00.000+01:002007-05-15T12:34:26.340+01:00I just want to go up to her and say, 'I still miss you.' I want to buy her favourite flowers; tell her that I read all her emails today and yet again realized that at times, it is not individuals who are responsible for parting ways, but circumstances and blindness that throws us in different directions. It was a thought that dawned on him tad late. She was gone, in a flash. He had lost her. She Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-77462249165868725282007-04-26T05:47:00.000+01:002007-04-26T06:24:15.820+01:00Dis-connected ThoughtsIt makes sense to hold back sometimes. I have always found an uneasy comfort in holding back; in masking the truth. This of course, does not mean that one lies, but, just that the truth is masked. A layer in front, layers beneath - we need onioned lives after all! Who knows how many years it will take to uncover each and every layer to get to the core of myself. Something ofPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-20044869477582712962007-04-16T11:58:00.000+01:002007-04-16T12:19:15.499+01:00She was looking beautiful. White saree with larger-than-life-size floral prints. Her goggles reminded me of a legendary Bengali actress. If this were a profile shot, you would have easily mistaken her for Zenaat Aman. She was sitting on the rooftop in Hauz Khas; holding on to a copy of Jane Eyre and from the photograph you could tell that she was actually clinging on to it. Something about Jane Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-69112889315829971662007-04-12T11:47:00.000+01:002007-04-12T12:06:07.737+01:00I am thinking of you today. Since morning, I have been smelling you. It's past midnight now, and I know you must be asleep but I wanted to tell you that I remembered you. I think I grieve you better these days. I do not break down. I do not falter. I do not miss steps. I do not skip beats. I just carry on, with an infinite longing tucked underneath the bottom-right valve. I feel a sudden Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-63048273925810244722007-04-09T11:49:00.000+01:002007-04-09T12:14:41.877+01:00She was what he had never been. That is almost always the most reductive way in which men and women, all over the world, on hindsight, seem to rationalise their liaisons. She was 18. He was only days away from being 30. She was 18. Naive. Elegantly naive. There was a spring in her step that is not-so-common to all 18 year olds. The singular quality that seem to distinguish her from all mortal Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-68477496014336328562007-03-23T10:09:00.000Z2007-03-23T10:10:13.370ZYou Are 68% Brutally HonestMost of the time, you tell it like it is. Even if it's hard for people to hear.Sometimes you hold back though, because you never want your honesty to be hurtful.How Brutally Honest Are You?You Are 40% OpenYou are open at times, but generally you don't let many people into your inner world.It's possible that you have a friend or two that knows you well.But to most peoplePelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-79067034900950034292007-03-22T17:20:00.000Z2007-03-22T17:36:01.182ZIt was pissing rain. Mahindra and Mahindra, in those days was a brand to reckon with. Imagine a jeep chugging along a motorway (highway?) - the Great Trunk Road. Three passengers. One driver. One little kid. Twelve years only. Expiry date unknown.It was on that day, as the car shoved through the snarling traffic that the boy was introduced to the culture of his own history. Music. Lyrics. Sony Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-22275855269386923822007-03-14T06:02:00.000Z2007-03-14T06:25:02.865ZUnfortunately for him and fortunately for Zara, DJ extended his hand, his thumbs at a perfect 60 degree angle, and slipped his fingers to shake hands with her. The girl was too small anyways, so there was no point blaming her for anything. 'I'll catch you later - you take care and give me a shout before the concert, you need some more practice', he mumbled, and walked down the narrow alley, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-23100346079748525042007-03-03T18:06:00.000Z2007-03-03T18:27:55.944ZHe was good at drums. The long, nimble fingers that he had got from his mother helped him a great deal while he was on stage. She had chanced to see him in a local concert just on the outskirts of Shillong. After the concert, unlike Hindi cinema, she had walked up to him with a proposal. She wanted him to teach her play drums. It was just that. Nothing more.He was happy to help. He was not a starPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-10839924083125971182007-02-28T10:47:00.000Z2007-02-28T11:53:15.800Z'Why do I find it so hard to motivate myself? Why do I always have to push harder? Why do I have to dig, dig, dig, dig deeper and find nothing?'He was thinking aloud as he was walking past the Exe river just by the Mill on the Exe. £1.50 a pint - that was the price for Carling lager those days. He used to head down for a long walk by the river and by the time he arrived at the Mill, he used to bePelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-19634257157540108422007-02-17T17:06:00.000Z2007-02-17T17:10:08.569ZI don't know why I decided to write a post. Perhaps from the unending need to vent my frustrations, or to voice my defeat? This is post number 201. How different things were even 100 posts earlier. It's like my world is neatly divided into two timelines. BD and AD. It's for you to unwrap them. To read the unsaid, decode the cryptic...201 remains a testimonial of a life not-so-badly spent, but Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-35288793603106862392007-02-14T10:37:00.000Z2007-02-14T10:39:23.627Z Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-57709626527520980192007-02-10T17:16:00.000Z2007-02-10T15:40:58.826ZThose Were the Best Days of My LifeHow would it be if I were not put inside the jaws of struggle? How would it be if she had more faith in me than I had in myself? How would it be if I had not left dead bodies behind, and walked over them to arrive where I am right now? How would it be if I were not to submit and surrender every single idea that I thought could change the face of things facing mePelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-56144734197854435472007-02-09T15:12:00.000Z2007-02-10T15:31:39.385ZIn my moments of deepest uncertainties, and gravest fears, these lines never EVER cease to provide me with the inspiration which every ordinary human being needs, now and then: of course, these could only have been written by the God of poetry - Alfred Lord Tennyson:Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fadesFor ever and for ever when I move.How dull Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-39196554677767018802007-02-07T17:18:00.000Z2007-02-07T17:46:10.963ZFather and SonI just began reading Man and Boy last night. It was Tony, my M.A. supervisor who had referred me to read this book, as he thought it encapsulated the stiffling, contemporary, split British individual, as good as a leaf from an Irvine Welsh or a Martin Amis. However, what gripped me from the first sentence of the novel was the relationship between a father and a son. The sheer joy Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-34709240317786656102007-02-02T05:48:00.000Z2007-02-02T06:00:21.622ZHave you ever felt the bile rise within you when you were fuming with anger and burning to vent it? That's what I am feeling right now. I am not the kind who can lick people's feet and massage their egos to accomplish a greater goal. They say it's in my stars, but calling a spade, a spade has always been my most instinctive response. Why should I flinch from telling the truth? Why should I bend Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-82921945636049448612007-01-15T12:35:00.000Z2007-01-15T12:59:14.455ZKnow ThyselfEver since my school days, I developed a fondness for the phrase - 'Know Thyself'. As with any other individual, I have been through the waves and the tides, the highs and the lows and I have forever made an effort to delve deep inside the inner being that sits, crouched, stunted by the hand of Fate. I have realized that I have grown up to become two distinct individuals in one. Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-10014362742303274592007-01-07T13:03:00.000Z2007-01-07T13:37:52.471ZUntitled (yet another time)Ever wondered how it would be if we would have a set date for our deaths? Assume you know when you and your beloved ones are going to die. January 05, 2000. July 18, 2010. 27 August 2007. Would it make it more bearable if death were not uninformed and sudden? I think it would make our lives beautiful. Why? Because we would then make that extra effort to make the most ofPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-34894289474500062452006-12-15T08:51:00.000Z2006-12-15T09:19:18.698ZIt began purely as a journal. It turns out to be a 'real' space (yeah, intended) where I can shout, cry, weep and be myself (almost). This is the 'real' me. This is what I feel. But this also means making room for others to interpret, misunderstand and misrepresent. But hell, who cares?! There were times when I felt a caustic need to shut it down. To hit shift and delete. But then, it wouldn't Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-3816734110574094802006-12-12T06:04:00.000Z2006-12-12T06:05:16.395ZLast night, as I was turning and twisting to fall asleep, I had this sudden feeling rising in me. I felt I was going to die too soon. Well, not tomorrow but soon. I felt there was not enough time to accomplish all that was left to accomplish. I felt I had to do so much in so little time. I felt I had to meet so many people that I wanted to meet. So many promises that have to be honoured. Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-5329377028977183612006-12-07T16:15:00.000Z2006-12-07T16:32:50.858ZBlack and WhiteThey used to frequent the pubs fairly regularly. She used to have vodka and orange juice, and he stuck to his 'Pint of Carlsberg.' They never conceived it as a 'date' but eventually seeing them, everyone would come up and compliment how wonderful a couple they made. Race sells after all! She was the quiet type. He - forever boisterous, thinking but loud. He couldn't help it, bongs Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-4001785286165009462006-11-25T16:46:00.000Z2006-11-25T17:21:09.227ZFor YouIt burns slowly. The throat is left dry after much of it. Memories and wishes spring alive. A growing sensation fills you - swiftly moves time and with it, you realise that nothing is as it was. Or even, nothing is as it seems! How much will it cost me to travel and explain to you how much I owe it to you? How many corpses do I have to stamp before I arrive in front of you? Don't blame it Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-15635899242111266042006-11-20T13:05:00.000Z2006-11-20T13:35:47.308ZThought PoolsTired to my bones, I try to recollect some of the thoughts that have been preying on my mind over the weekend. I wish I had a Microsoft Word jacked into my body, so that whenever the words leaked, it could have been aptly typed out and saved in one of my partitioned hard drives (yes, my memory is partitioned). I have lost so many words, so many sentences, so many phrases, so many Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-49038957305659793082006-11-08T08:42:00.000Z2006-11-08T08:51:16.437ZUntitledJuly 13, 1990She tip-toed her way inside the hall, wearing blue denims and white tee. She was tall at nearly 6 feet, her bosoms well-formed, her waist neatly toned; she had a neckline that would put Munroe to shame. She took the last row, third seat from the wall. Quietly she sat. He kept watching her in awe. Hormones spilling all over. It was a hot Indian afternoon.They ended up being Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-9960443682979760332006-11-06T07:08:00.000Z2006-11-06T07:20:21.883ZMy Thinking CapNot thinking much these days, hence running out of things to write about. I am considering giving my thinking cap a thorough wash, it's quite muddy, and stained - need a spanking new one, but can't afford to lose the old, it's like changing your parents for Christ's sake! It seems weird, but I oftentimes wonder, how this place would be, how individuals would be if they did not keepPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-51206954223300045402006-10-30T12:03:00.000Z2006-10-30T12:04:58.540ZWho are They?They make their decisions in the first 60 seconds of their first meeting with you.They always have a reason to go shopping.They always boost your mobile bill.They love being pampered all the time.They do not want to come out of their own worlds (if given a choice).They like people who take interest in their worlds.They hate to be cheated but are not terribly averse to the idea of Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-59614472324340188642006-10-29T07:03:00.000Z2006-10-29T07:21:47.713ZSome things can never be. That's just the way they are. But still, why do we try? Why do we make all the effort, push ourselves, stretch beyond our limits and hope that the drops will coalesce to relinquish our thirst? Why? Who is it that we are trying to make happy? If death is the ultimate permanence that we all are moving towards (unknowingly?) then what is it that you desire? Some things can Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-33156322285918243102006-10-27T09:19:00.000+01:002006-10-27T10:20:49.115+01:00NotesIt is not about what we want, it is about what choices we have. It is not about what desire means, but what desire does. It is not about what pain is, but how it is felt. It is not about what the truth is, but how it is veiled. It is not about what they say, but how they think. It is not about what you are, but what you are thought to be. It is not about saying sorry, but the thought behind Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-32639614285302443692006-10-22T12:35:00.000+01:002006-10-22T12:51:42.320+01:00Dear Baba,You know what, I just wrote this huge letter to you and the freaking computer crashed. I have lost it all. But anyways, here we go again! How are you doing? It's been so long since we exchanged letters. You and me, both lazy-arsed. I know it's not the writing but the actual reality of walking upto the post office that seems like a Herculean task. But I know you remember me, as much as IPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-54789502111501840732006-10-19T06:17:00.000+01:002006-10-19T08:02:01.426+01:00The Missing LinkSomeone told me I was always sad and wondered why my interests, my writing, my attraction towards life was based on pain and negative experiences. I smiled and replied to myself - because the greatest things are bought at the cost of great pain and because our deepest feelings are those that tell of saddest thought. Yeah, Keats. But on hindsight, it's probably just me who sees thePelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-79042484897064647132006-10-16T06:57:00.000+01:002006-10-16T07:16:39.153+01:00MementoI saw this print advert in the newspapers today. It was of a private bank and the copy read: "If hope is your plan for the future, then you need to come to us." Ha! I smiled to myself. I can't seem to remember a day now, ever since December 2004, when 'hope' was not my 'plan', when it was not the only thing that I have been banking on! ;) Times they are strange and people are becoming Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-35979101777297080902006-10-12T15:00:00.000+01:002006-10-12T15:16:58.828+01:00Incomplete Post"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times [...] it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, [...] - in short, the period was so far like the present Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-37984807303084924282006-10-08T18:04:00.000+01:002006-10-08T18:31:34.670+01:00What if? I owe this feeling to you. This fleeting moment that you hand me, I live in it; like a refugee. I wonder if you know. It's strange how a man can be a child in a moment's time. How you can appease and allay, at the same time, with amazing alacrity - like being a mother and a midwife, both at the same time. The strangest thing being the time in which you do it. Swiftly you move from this Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-12494770810627799572006-10-04T11:42:00.000+01:002006-10-04T11:48:22.788+01:00The Death of The AuthorHe feels like writing today. An incessant surge grips him – the monsters inside handcuff him to history and make him write. He is challenged today. For he does not know what exactly he wants to uncover, which part of himself does he want to put out on display, like the newly dressed mannequin at Harrods. Old self, new clothing. The past drips steadily onto him, drip, drip, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-88549879150028432712006-09-28T07:01:00.000+01:002006-09-28T07:34:19.453+01:00DurgotsabIt's that time of the year again - I am always so surprised by how swiftly flies time's wings - Durga Pujo is here again and the smell is in the air. Having grown up in a joint family for a good number of years, Pujo means much more to me than it is to many people who wear new clothes, exchange gifts and indulge in night-long 'deity-seeing.' Pujo to me, is that time of the year, when I Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-45804614460372008032006-09-25T09:49:00.000+01:002006-09-25T10:14:19.027+01:00Something of MyselfIt's coming back after ages.I am sensing a part of myself - near, very near, but not there yet. It'll be so nice to meet up with you. The old me. Reckless. Carefree. Sensitive. Daring. Go-getting!It feels cold - hair-raisingly cold. A certain numbness envelopes me. I surrender. All of myself. Yet another time. As if I was always ready, willing and able.Someone's outside. I can Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-92121538841360689712006-09-14T06:49:00.000+01:002006-09-14T07:05:02.720+01:00The Business of LifeYes, indeed, I do not understand the idea of 'love.' I understand only 'pain.' Hell, at least I possess that ability. Some people forget easily. Others have short-lived memories. Whichever way you see it, it's either half empty or half full. You cannot negate the half. The split makes it beautiful. The emptiness makes it a subject of discussion. An object of wonder. Did you Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-40224752627266546402006-09-06T07:27:00.001+01:002006-09-06T07:27:51.647+01:00GhostsHow do you keep ghosts away? Real ones, not the scary ones. Murdered ghosts. Creeping up from everywhere. Watching you. Looking over you, at you and through you.As a child I was never afraid of them. But now I am, as they re-appear and re-surface in my closet, bathroom, kitchen, socks, handkerchiefs, scarves, coffee cups, pens, pillows, desktop screen and even on the scroll button on the Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-29462376890759621042006-09-05T12:25:00.000+01:002006-09-05T12:34:17.961+01:00The precipice of memory. The grandeur of loss. I was reading this piece on BBC News on the memories of 9/11. This man nearly escaped death. This is what he has to say:"As a kid, you worried about the monsters under your bed, and you'd hear a noise and it would spook you a little bit and your mom or dad would come in and say 'everything's okay, don't worry'. You check with a flashlight under the Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-70146479324807448322006-08-28T05:59:00.000+01:002006-08-28T06:29:29.524+01:00UntitledMy horoscope for the day says, "Be open about your feelings and feel free to air them." Now, that would be a really scary proposition in a space such as this, which can potentially be read by pretty much anyone! But the strange thing is this: yesterday night I was thinking of writing (or is it dedicating?) a post on someone who has been my friend, philosopher and guide...someone who has Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1156313041863766462006-08-23T07:00:00.000+01:002006-08-23T19:35:27.476+01:00Hanif Kureishi, The Body"If anyone asked me, I said that consciousness was the thing I liked most about life. But who doesn't need a rest from it now and again?Lying beside Margot, chatting and sleeping, was exceptional every night. To be well married you have to have a penchant for the intricacies of intimacy and larval change: to be interested, for instance, in people dreaming together. If the Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1155638336471753402006-08-15T11:15:00.000+01:002006-08-22T19:25:59.876+01:00The God of All ThingsThe songs are still fresh in the memory. 15th August, each year, beer, mangsho and songs. Laughter and quarrels, making and un-making, belief and dis-belief, conversations, dialogues, monologues, reflection, bonding, the coming together of three not-so-different worlds. So different, so unique, yet in so many ways similar to every other nucleus that sticks together. One Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1153992704196608192006-07-27T10:16:00.000+01:002006-08-01T05:43:23.256+01:00Tagged by InspirationI am thinking about …Barclays, HSBC, ANZ, Bank of America, Nationwide, American Express, Visa, my car, alcohol and porn. I said...We will talk about this later, knowing well that we will NEVER. I want to...Go home and sleep. Today, tomorrow, day-after until Sunday eve. I wish...I could do something productive, add value to someone's life, make someone smile. I hear...Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1153821744096951982006-07-25T10:44:00.000+01:002006-07-26T03:29:00.660+01:00FragmentsWatched Yuh Hota To Kya Hota over the weekend. Interesting movie, but it reminded me of someone. It's strange how people come back to your lives and walk out with amazing alacrity. Empty embellishments? Whatever!* * *Splash, splash, splash! Memories, ah, memories. Someone very dear asked Othello from me. Brought back so many memories. Karen. Determined. Kind eyes. Warmth. And of course, Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1152530466374497202006-07-10T11:57:00.000+01:002006-08-21T09:41:07.453+01:00Molly BloomHow does betrayal taste? Can you define it? Is the experience explicable? There is a gallish feeling in my mouth. It's spreading all over. Like cancer. Slowly but surely. I am putting up a face. Twisting, turning, cursing and then realising that it's destiny. Of late, I have taken a lot of recourse in destiny. As if everything is pre-determined. We are, like the old bard said, mere Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1150980817737312722006-06-22T13:51:00.000+01:002006-06-22T13:53:37.756+01:00Word CloudApparently, this is a snapshot of the most frequently used words on my blog. Courtesy - Word Cloud. Intriguing. From a look-within perspective.Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1150795571297084842006-06-20T10:23:00.000+01:002006-06-20T10:26:11.330+01:00For Bongs and like minded"Through the jongole I am went, On shooting Tiger I am bent, Bustaard Tiger has eaten wife, No doubt I will avenge poor darling's life ! Too much quiet, snakes and leeches, But I not fear these sons of beeches, Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start, But noise is coming from damn fool's heart ! Taking care not to be fright, I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sightPelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1150362009719758942006-06-15T09:38:00.000+01:002006-06-15T19:20:58.710+01:00This too...The woods are lovely dark and deep...awfully dark and terribly deep. The path lies in front of me. It was always a matter of choice, wasn't it? Life is about choice, didn't they say? You are what you are because you choose to be this way. Simplistic? Reductive?What if life was not about the choices we make? What if life was about the lack of choices? What if...?It'd be pretty boring Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1149059538112901532006-05-31T08:10:00.000+01:002006-05-31T08:12:18.130+01:00Who are we? "Perhaps men of genius are the only true men. In all the history of the race there have been only a few thousand real men. And the rest of us--what are we? Teachable animals. Without the help of the real man, we should have found out almost nothing at all. Almost all the ideas with which we are familiar could never have occurred to minds like ours. Plant the seeds there and they will Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1148555875938674022006-05-25T11:56:00.000+01:002006-05-26T06:06:58.413+01:009:30-5:30These days I don't feel like writing anymore. Feel a lull. A permanent pause. I think it to be a pause because I forever think it's going to get over. Soon. But it doesn't. And the lull remains. Like the elaborate silence before the storm. Attended a firmwide meeting yesterday. One of the speakers used the word, "embedded." I loved it. It used to be one of my favourite words. But now Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1147683811961407962006-05-15T09:57:00.000+01:002006-05-22T12:08:13.846+01:00Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1143617181361888492006-03-29T08:24:00.000+01:002006-03-29T13:03:48.786+01:00Coup de GraceIt’s been really long since I put pen to paper (yeah, clichéd)…put my thoughts onto you. You my blank screen, that used to be a blank paper, on which came pouring the thoughts of many yester years and years to be. Of memories and desire. Stirring dull roots with deep pain. Yes, Eliot.It’s a weird juncture. This phase of mine. Caught. Enveloped.Enmeshed.Yes, just like George Eliot. Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1139383174617011792006-02-08T06:58:00.000Z2006-03-17T14:15:07.293ZPerformingIt's been quite sometime since I got myself to write something. Didn't have anything to say. Just ramblings (as ever) and getting-on-with-life kind of attitude. Until I read a tiny quotation on a website that spoke of Greenblatt-like Self-Fashioning and Identity. Spoke of how we perform everyday. Bringing down (as if it's a bad thing) emotions and 'feelings' to the level of 'performancePelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1137394851794333672006-01-16T06:34:00.000Z2006-01-17T18:33:52.493ZComfortably NumbA conversation sparked this off in my mind:How long can we avoid situations? Situations that are not pleasant. Situations that can ONLY be resolved by communication. Situations where both parties involved feel that sense of uncomfortability. Situations where you perhaps know that you got to face that person at some point of time. So why wait? Why not take the bull by its horns? Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1136808808015916232006-01-09T12:07:00.000Z2006-01-11T01:15:27.246ZAh, Shantaram...the magic goes on!Gregory David Roberts. Author of Shantaram. Convict. Fugitive. Smuggler. And now, an acclaimed writer. Was reading one of his interviews. Mind-zapping…Q. Going by the Arthur Road section of ‘Shantaram,’ I find it hard to credit that you’re still walking around as a functioning human being. How does a person recover from the trauma of being tortured?GDR: Art is a Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1136371738498938302006-01-04T10:47:00.000Z2006-01-16T12:37:23.116ZRuins of the dayThat’s what happened. You didn’t need me anymore. You had people around you. People who had ditched you earlier. People whom you hated. People whom I made you love. People whom you said you’d never forgive. I made you forgive them. And then?You just walked away.That’s what happened. You just reduced everything to money. You had it. I didn’t. So?You just walked away.That’s what Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1136354746202884572006-01-04T05:51:00.000Z2006-01-04T06:05:46.213ZThings I'd do if I win a $250,00,000 lottery1. Kill that Doctorate degree (in English) and then go for another Master's (preferably in Philosophy)2. Buy a BMW3. Set up a scholarship (in my dad's name) at a British University for Indian students who want to study English 4. Gift cash to the few who have always stood by me unconditionally5. Clear my loans (now, I am surprised that this comes so Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1135240972392437122005-12-22T07:21:00.000Z2005-12-22T08:42:53.150ZDickens!Find of the year: www.archive.org For all those who love reading. And I couldn't help downloading one of my favourite texts: Bleak House (Dickens). Here's the beginning...what can you say about a novel that begins with the word 'London'? And then see how he plays with the word 'fog.' Brilliant. Orgasmic. Excerpts from the first chapter: London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1134992054580741302005-12-19T10:04:00.000Z2005-12-19T11:37:04.846ZLooking within...With 2006 round the corner, here's a bit of introspection...or may be wild dreams?!Three things I would want to change about myself1. Height2. Temper3. SensitivityThree things I would do if I could1. Become a Doctor (PhD)2. Own the British Library3. Teach at OxfordThree things I wish I could give up1. Smoking2. Drinking3. DreamsThree things I hate about myself1. Believing people Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1134628928629828392005-12-15T06:39:00.000Z2005-12-15T06:45:04.220ZAnd then there was Jeanette WintersonReading her collection of essays - this one is on Poetry - the following just swept me off my feet:Poetry always bears witness, but it is witness of a different kind to the front page of The Times. Only by imagining our lives can we fully understand them, or re-make them. Recording them is not enough.This is not to say that we have no need of history, or Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6470759.post-1134624111723380542005-12-15T05:03:00.000Z2005-12-15T05:21:51.753ZUntravelled world & Colliding thoughtsRead a thoughtful interview at Guardian early this morn, when my mind was dazed and all confused. It's about an author called Philip Roth - seemingly popular. I want to read him now. Definitely. Excerpts:Jews appear everywhere in Roth's books, but this one seems to be Roth's great Jewish history. "Jewish?" he says. "It's my most American book. It's about Pelehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05709690150151972326noreply@blogger.com0