Another year went past. But a very defining and colorful year it was.
I found my painter girl, whom I had always searched for. More importantly, she loved me back.
It was a difficult year in terms of choices that I had to make. I quit Brainvisa, the best organisation I ever worked in. I had a calling to quit it is the best explanation possible.
It was a difficult year because I worked six months for the worst organisation ever, Sify.
It was a difficult year in terms of people I had to leave. I never looked back...
It was a year of guilt for many a night I felt guilty... and sad. Why do some have to suffer for others?
The year redefined my vision about my religion. Vedic chants and mantras made a deep impact. I made somebody my guru for the first time in life. I met Ananta Krishnan at Thiruvannamalai, and he has given me great insights and moments of truth ever since.
I think, secretly, he knows everything I know about my self and my life. And even my secrets!
More important than my guru and my gods is my goddess. My goddess has been misunderstood and abused ever since she took birth on earth. None realised that she was a god-child.
She shall be guarded well, henceforth. I will be her warrior of light.
I came to Dubai mid-2005 (though I think 2006 will see me gone soon). I regret coming here, but I now look at this as a great lesson in life. It made me value people who I missed.
All said and done, I had a hand in helping somebody's life becoming meaningful. More sublime and more purposeful. That somebody is me. That somebody is her.
I see my dreams and visions possible now. My goddess gives me the strength and courage to make things possible.
2005 will be remembered as the Year of the Koochie. And so will all years henceforth be remembered as.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Monday, December 26, 2005
The love you dream of
Aakash loved Zena. They had nothing in common. They met only twice. She was a mother of a two-year-old son. She was married and divorced in Moscow.
Aakash was a writer brimming with stories to tell, which none wanted to hear. So he wrote his stories in a little black book.
He had met her first at a nightclub. He was with a friend of his. She was with a friend of hers. Soon, they started talking. Then, they started seeing each other.
He used to open pages of his black book and she would take out her translator. And it may take hours for her to understand a story he read out to her.
It was a matter of languages: English and Russian. They picked up sign language in the process.
Aakash never asked Zena to sleep with him. She never wanted him to sleep with her. They bonded in a way I cannot explain. She listened to his stories. She loved art. She appreciated beauty and poetry. She cried on his shoulders sometimes too for unspeakable sorrows, he guessed.
Zena a 32-year-old prostitute... She slept with a different client every night.
Aakash never understood her need for living her way of life, but he respected Zena. Because she set a price for her body, for her time, and for her effort.
And she could not be seduced by anybody.
She did not use her body or sex as an attention-grabber. No man could charm her into bed with his wily ways. He has to pay. You want sex, you pay for it...
(Many were willing to pay for it. None realised that their money was milk for the two-year-old back home.)
No man could force her into having sex when she did not want it. Moreover, she chose whom she slept with. Unlike most women whom he hated. Men who hated Zena and her kinds flocked to the easy women because they needed more excitement. More risk. More talk. They needed to boost their egos.
And because it was free. All they had to do was pay attention...
A short story of a movie concept in mind... wrote it so that I won't forget it like many forgotten others!
Aakash was a writer brimming with stories to tell, which none wanted to hear. So he wrote his stories in a little black book.
He had met her first at a nightclub. He was with a friend of his. She was with a friend of hers. Soon, they started talking. Then, they started seeing each other.
He used to open pages of his black book and she would take out her translator. And it may take hours for her to understand a story he read out to her.
It was a matter of languages: English and Russian. They picked up sign language in the process.
Aakash never asked Zena to sleep with him. She never wanted him to sleep with her. They bonded in a way I cannot explain. She listened to his stories. She loved art. She appreciated beauty and poetry. She cried on his shoulders sometimes too for unspeakable sorrows, he guessed.
Zena a 32-year-old prostitute... She slept with a different client every night.
Aakash never understood her need for living her way of life, but he respected Zena. Because she set a price for her body, for her time, and for her effort.
And she could not be seduced by anybody.
She did not use her body or sex as an attention-grabber. No man could charm her into bed with his wily ways. He has to pay. You want sex, you pay for it...
(Many were willing to pay for it. None realised that their money was milk for the two-year-old back home.)
No man could force her into having sex when she did not want it. Moreover, she chose whom she slept with. Unlike most women whom he hated. Men who hated Zena and her kinds flocked to the easy women because they needed more excitement. More risk. More talk. They needed to boost their egos.
And because it was free. All they had to do was pay attention...
A short story of a movie concept in mind... wrote it so that I won't forget it like many forgotten others!
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Amma died
Said some damn relative over the phone. He banged the phone down. He shouted, “She is no more, Trishna. Amma is no more…” Trishna was in the kitchen that day (for a change).
“Don’t worry, I am there for you. It’s only us now. I’ll take care of you,” said Trishna. “No… how could I be so blind?” said Aakash charging into the kitchen.
Next day morning…
Aakash was still asleep. He was tired. Exhausted. Death of a loved one is not easy to face. The alarm rang. It announced the beginning of another day.
He dragged himself from his bed to the bathroom. On the way, he stared at the ceiling. “Cobwebs in the corners, I need to clean this place tomorrow. I have to.”
Under the strong light of the single bulb in his bathroom, he shaved. “Hmmm… razor sharp stubble, I have got!”
A spider was spinning a new web at the corner where he had kept his soap. Whack!
“Got you, damn spider! Don’t you ever build your fucking web there…”
He turned on the shower tap. Hot water ran down his cold spine from the shower… he was feeling cold. But its only March, he thought. He closed his eyes.
He never had the guts to face flowing water. He came out drying himself; slipped into his favorite white shirt and blue jeans.
Combing his hair, he thought… “just short of being labeled a stud! But, amma said that I am the most handsome man she ever knew! And don’t worry, amma, I won’t tell dad.”
He checked keys, wallet, change, food coupons for dinner…. Well, all taken. “Let’s go. They can’t do it without me. I have to be on time.”
Went down the flight of stairs, and took a rickshaw straight to his amma’s house. He thought, “It’s been five years after I left home. I’ll be seeing her after such a long time. Wonder how she’ll look today?”
He reached his house. Lots of people were attending the function. All his uncles had flown down from abroad. His maternal uncle had specially come down from Kerala.
He walked in. Smiled at a few acquaintances. In the living room, sat his father and younger brother weeping. They were huddled together. In front of them was an earthen lamp lit. And beside it, his amma was lying as if in deep sleep.
“Amma,” he shouted. “See, I have come. I have come to meet you. Look at me. At least shout at me. Hit me. But talk…” Aakash just sat down next to his father. Nobody said a word.
The pandit came to him and whispered, “Son, we have to start the cremation. You are the elder son. Come with me. The time has come to say goodbye to her.”
Aakash stood. And did everything as told by his elders. This was the only time he never rebelled, never questioned a thing.
He had kept his promise. “Amma, rest in peace.” And he lit the pyre. He saw his amma burn.
He stood still. Till the fire had died down on the pyre. Till his heart caught fire.
He rushed back to his rented room. Undressed himself. Now, he stood naked in front of the mirror. He looked at his reflection. There were no tears. Was life so fast? He did not feel a thing. Was five years of separation so much that it broke the umbilical bond?
“I am free. For the first time, I feel free. No more worries. No more amma to take care of. Now, I can start my own life.”
He turned the shower tap. He remembered, “Amma always used to say you must always take a bath after you come from a funeral or cremation… you should put your clothes to wash…”
She was so loud. He always used to ask her to shut up. “Amma, just shut up, I want to watch a movie here.”
“Yeah, amma, I love her more than I love you. And so I am leaving home.” Those were the last words he had spoken to her. Then, he left home forever, and married Trishna… the love of his life.
The only condition Trishna had laid down was that after marriage she won’t stay with her in-laws. “Well, now at least that is taken care of forever… amma died a slow death because I left home without even a second thought,” thought Aakash.
There was no water in the tap. He burst. His tears welled up, and flowed. There was no amma anymore.
“Amma, just once, I want to tell you… I loved you more than anybody else. She is no more. She won’t come between us anymore. It’s all over finally. No more fights and hidden sighs anymore, amma… I did it. I did what I should have done a long time ago.”
He looked at the ceiling; his mother’s portrait was still smiling at him. The corner of his bathroom mirror where that spider was building a web still held an old photo of him in his mother’s arms.
He looked at the bed. On the bed, Trishna was lying in a pool of blood…
A mood piece dedicated to Sunill R Nair.
“Don’t worry, I am there for you. It’s only us now. I’ll take care of you,” said Trishna. “No… how could I be so blind?” said Aakash charging into the kitchen.
Next day morning…
Aakash was still asleep. He was tired. Exhausted. Death of a loved one is not easy to face. The alarm rang. It announced the beginning of another day.
He dragged himself from his bed to the bathroom. On the way, he stared at the ceiling. “Cobwebs in the corners, I need to clean this place tomorrow. I have to.”
Under the strong light of the single bulb in his bathroom, he shaved. “Hmmm… razor sharp stubble, I have got!”
A spider was spinning a new web at the corner where he had kept his soap. Whack!
“Got you, damn spider! Don’t you ever build your fucking web there…”
He turned on the shower tap. Hot water ran down his cold spine from the shower… he was feeling cold. But its only March, he thought. He closed his eyes.
He never had the guts to face flowing water. He came out drying himself; slipped into his favorite white shirt and blue jeans.
Combing his hair, he thought… “just short of being labeled a stud! But, amma said that I am the most handsome man she ever knew! And don’t worry, amma, I won’t tell dad.”
He checked keys, wallet, change, food coupons for dinner…. Well, all taken. “Let’s go. They can’t do it without me. I have to be on time.”
Went down the flight of stairs, and took a rickshaw straight to his amma’s house. He thought, “It’s been five years after I left home. I’ll be seeing her after such a long time. Wonder how she’ll look today?”
He reached his house. Lots of people were attending the function. All his uncles had flown down from abroad. His maternal uncle had specially come down from Kerala.
He walked in. Smiled at a few acquaintances. In the living room, sat his father and younger brother weeping. They were huddled together. In front of them was an earthen lamp lit. And beside it, his amma was lying as if in deep sleep.
“Amma,” he shouted. “See, I have come. I have come to meet you. Look at me. At least shout at me. Hit me. But talk…” Aakash just sat down next to his father. Nobody said a word.
The pandit came to him and whispered, “Son, we have to start the cremation. You are the elder son. Come with me. The time has come to say goodbye to her.”
Aakash stood. And did everything as told by his elders. This was the only time he never rebelled, never questioned a thing.
He had kept his promise. “Amma, rest in peace.” And he lit the pyre. He saw his amma burn.
He stood still. Till the fire had died down on the pyre. Till his heart caught fire.
He rushed back to his rented room. Undressed himself. Now, he stood naked in front of the mirror. He looked at his reflection. There were no tears. Was life so fast? He did not feel a thing. Was five years of separation so much that it broke the umbilical bond?
“I am free. For the first time, I feel free. No more worries. No more amma to take care of. Now, I can start my own life.”
He turned the shower tap. He remembered, “Amma always used to say you must always take a bath after you come from a funeral or cremation… you should put your clothes to wash…”
She was so loud. He always used to ask her to shut up. “Amma, just shut up, I want to watch a movie here.”
“Yeah, amma, I love her more than I love you. And so I am leaving home.” Those were the last words he had spoken to her. Then, he left home forever, and married Trishna… the love of his life.
The only condition Trishna had laid down was that after marriage she won’t stay with her in-laws. “Well, now at least that is taken care of forever… amma died a slow death because I left home without even a second thought,” thought Aakash.
There was no water in the tap. He burst. His tears welled up, and flowed. There was no amma anymore.
“Amma, just once, I want to tell you… I loved you more than anybody else. She is no more. She won’t come between us anymore. It’s all over finally. No more fights and hidden sighs anymore, amma… I did it. I did what I should have done a long time ago.”
He looked at the ceiling; his mother’s portrait was still smiling at him. The corner of his bathroom mirror where that spider was building a web still held an old photo of him in his mother’s arms.
He looked at the bed. On the bed, Trishna was lying in a pool of blood…
A mood piece dedicated to Sunill R Nair.
A kind of life
Well, it’s a kind of life that you lead in lonesome cities… LA, New York, Mumbai, Dubai…
You walk alone… and suddenly the street lights play behind you… you turn around only to realize that it is only your shadow.
You roam in malls and supermarkets looking at or picking up what others left behind.
You act penny wise and pound foolish.
You work and not an hour goes by without you reminiscing your good moments with her.
You sit hours in your small room wondering what to do, and before you know it, night has fallen. Another day has gone by.
You wake up and before you realize, you are coming back from work.
You wake up, go to work, work, eat lunch, get back from work, eat dinner, walk a little… sleep… days pass. Each day as if a mirror of the previous one.
You write:
“The corporate world’s a wheel, and all men (and women) mere cogs in the wheel.”
You start hallucinating. You start getting ideas. They disappear where they came from. Some days you eat so well, on other days, you hardly eat anything.
You fall sick to realize that nobody around will even ask whether you need water.
You are rich and then, suddenly you find yourself poor. With no money even to buy bread.
You walk to work. You walk back from work. You wonder when the work that you had set out for will be ready for you?
You walk alone… and suddenly the street lights play behind you… you turn around only to realize that it is only your shadow.
You roam in malls and supermarkets looking at or picking up what others left behind.
You act penny wise and pound foolish.
You work and not an hour goes by without you reminiscing your good moments with her.
You sit hours in your small room wondering what to do, and before you know it, night has fallen. Another day has gone by.
You wake up and before you realize, you are coming back from work.
You wake up, go to work, work, eat lunch, get back from work, eat dinner, walk a little… sleep… days pass. Each day as if a mirror of the previous one.
You write:
“The corporate world’s a wheel, and all men (and women) mere cogs in the wheel.”
You start hallucinating. You start getting ideas. They disappear where they came from. Some days you eat so well, on other days, you hardly eat anything.
You fall sick to realize that nobody around will even ask whether you need water.
You are rich and then, suddenly you find yourself poor. With no money even to buy bread.
You walk to work. You walk back from work. You wonder when the work that you had set out for will be ready for you?
The truths about love
Love is crazy because you leave people who would die for you for people who can live without you. Because you cannot live without them.
Love is unfair. Because one always expects more than the other.
Love is unbalanced. Because one always loves more than the other.
Love can be measured. Because you can count your heart beat.
Love is not blind. Because love always chooses the path of fire; the toughest road; the wildest journey.
Love is risky. Because you are not sure whether you will get what you love, and in the process you may lose all that you have.
Love is difficult. Because you have to forgive the other’s past deeds.
Love is jazz. Because you have to constantly improvise.
Love is blues. Because one is always sadder than the other.
Love is medicine. Because it gives hope. And hope is the only cure for our wretched lives.
Love can move mountains. Because nothing else can give you faith.
Love is the only answer. Because then you don’t need to say my god is better than yours.
Love is the only way. Because you don’t need to see your path. You make it.
Love is omnipresent. Because not all love the same way.
Love is a bridge. Because it joins your life with your self.
Love is like art. Because it imitates life.
Love is longing. Because there is always one wish which may never be fulfilled: you may not be the one she loves the most.
Love is being optimistic. Because I wrote ‘may’. She may one fine day.
Love is unfair. Because one always expects more than the other.
Love is unbalanced. Because one always loves more than the other.
Love can be measured. Because you can count your heart beat.
Love is not blind. Because love always chooses the path of fire; the toughest road; the wildest journey.
Love is risky. Because you are not sure whether you will get what you love, and in the process you may lose all that you have.
Love is difficult. Because you have to forgive the other’s past deeds.
Love is jazz. Because you have to constantly improvise.
Love is blues. Because one is always sadder than the other.
Love is medicine. Because it gives hope. And hope is the only cure for our wretched lives.
Love can move mountains. Because nothing else can give you faith.
Love is the only answer. Because then you don’t need to say my god is better than yours.
Love is the only way. Because you don’t need to see your path. You make it.
Love is omnipresent. Because not all love the same way.
Love is a bridge. Because it joins your life with your self.
Love is like art. Because it imitates life.
Love is longing. Because there is always one wish which may never be fulfilled: you may not be the one she loves the most.
Love is being optimistic. Because I wrote ‘may’. She may one fine day.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
I met God
Yesternight, at about 9pm, a dream came true.
I met a hero. A real-life hero. Someone who writes like me. Most people say I write like him. I have no regrets about that.
I met Paulo Coelho. Yes, you read it right!
The man, the moment. Very down to earth. Very simple. Very out of the world.
I don’t have words to express myself. The feeling was something very close to what I felt when I realized Koochie was my painter girl.
Koochie says she never worshipped humans. She thinks that God is very, very distinct from anything remotely connected to humans.
I think otherwise. God manifests himself (or herself; doesn’t matter. It’s God anyways.) in human forms too.
How else can we have so many warriors of light on earth, right Paulo?
I bought The Zahir, and The Manual of the Warrior of Light.
I talked to him. He talked to me. I gifted him Under A Quicksilver Moon. He looked at it and accepted it.
“Abhilash Warrier, hmmm… Warrior of Light, eh!” he exclaimed. I nodded. “Keep writing,” with a twinkle in his eyes. A spark I observed. I nodded once again.
“It’s been my honour,” and I left.
I met a form of God that I worship. I feel blessed now.
I met a hero. A real-life hero. Someone who writes like me. Most people say I write like him. I have no regrets about that.
I met Paulo Coelho. Yes, you read it right!
The man, the moment. Very down to earth. Very simple. Very out of the world.
I don’t have words to express myself. The feeling was something very close to what I felt when I realized Koochie was my painter girl.
Koochie says she never worshipped humans. She thinks that God is very, very distinct from anything remotely connected to humans.
I think otherwise. God manifests himself (or herself; doesn’t matter. It’s God anyways.) in human forms too.
How else can we have so many warriors of light on earth, right Paulo?
I bought The Zahir, and The Manual of the Warrior of Light.
I talked to him. He talked to me. I gifted him Under A Quicksilver Moon. He looked at it and accepted it.
“Abhilash Warrier, hmmm… Warrior of Light, eh!” he exclaimed. I nodded. “Keep writing,” with a twinkle in his eyes. A spark I observed. I nodded once again.
“It’s been my honour,” and I left.
I met a form of God that I worship. I feel blessed now.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Hmmm...
Now, that was new for title, eh? Trust me to it. I will always come up with new ways.
I am all sick in the head, did not sleep last night. Headache, heartache… and now, the doc says two more days of pills in my diet. God, bad health… whoever a thing called health… and only humans seem to have problem with it. All our medicines and vaccines don’t seem to make much of a difference…
I have not seen many dogs or cats born with deformities the way we are? Or am I wrong?
Anyways, was seriously thinking about my purpose in life. I always take myself a bit seriously. A “very good friend” says so! She wants me to call her that… a very good friend! Indeed!
Am sleepy or what here… forgive my writing… "a sleepy head can do not much thinking." Old jungle saying!
She also tells me that my poetry is a path… may not be the end for me. Food for thought. Real good food I have had in years.
So I list things I will end up doing in the next 10 years:
Café… will not write anything more. Don’t want a rich entrepreneur reading and starting it before I do!
Movies… hmmm… farhan akhtar, need to talk to you for a few minutes!
Spirituality… psychiatry… behavior science…
Where do I belong? What am I destined for? I don’t want to end up like countless others who never gave these questions a thought. Who never stood and stared.
I take this time off to think… I need to stand before her eyes. I need to prove that her belief in me, in what I have inside me… is really there.
I know she loved me then because she saw something even she did not realize then or even now. But I know it. Gut feeling. Instinct. Whatever.
I know she saw an inner light inside me the way I saw hers. Maybe she can’t or won’t express it… but we meeting and getting together on this expedition called life itself is a miracle.
She called me today morn… and made a good morning of a sick yesternight… we talked. Once again, just like the old times… hours… over the phone…
I miss you. Oh goddess!! U make me breathe again… every time love pours from those caring lips… sweet nectar…
Oh my mother goddess, are you waiting for me now? Here, I come unto you. Into your womb once again.
I am all sick in the head, did not sleep last night. Headache, heartache… and now, the doc says two more days of pills in my diet. God, bad health… whoever a thing called health… and only humans seem to have problem with it. All our medicines and vaccines don’t seem to make much of a difference…
I have not seen many dogs or cats born with deformities the way we are? Or am I wrong?
Anyways, was seriously thinking about my purpose in life. I always take myself a bit seriously. A “very good friend” says so! She wants me to call her that… a very good friend! Indeed!
Am sleepy or what here… forgive my writing… "a sleepy head can do not much thinking." Old jungle saying!
She also tells me that my poetry is a path… may not be the end for me. Food for thought. Real good food I have had in years.
So I list things I will end up doing in the next 10 years:
Café… will not write anything more. Don’t want a rich entrepreneur reading and starting it before I do!
Movies… hmmm… farhan akhtar, need to talk to you for a few minutes!
Spirituality… psychiatry… behavior science…
Where do I belong? What am I destined for? I don’t want to end up like countless others who never gave these questions a thought. Who never stood and stared.
I take this time off to think… I need to stand before her eyes. I need to prove that her belief in me, in what I have inside me… is really there.
I know she loved me then because she saw something even she did not realize then or even now. But I know it. Gut feeling. Instinct. Whatever.
I know she saw an inner light inside me the way I saw hers. Maybe she can’t or won’t express it… but we meeting and getting together on this expedition called life itself is a miracle.
She called me today morn… and made a good morning of a sick yesternight… we talked. Once again, just like the old times… hours… over the phone…
I miss you. Oh goddess!! U make me breathe again… every time love pours from those caring lips… sweet nectar…
Oh my mother goddess, are you waiting for me now? Here, I come unto you. Into your womb once again.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Taxi talk
Taxi drivers are the same everywhere. They all have something in common; it does not matter whether they drive in Dubai or Mumbai.
They are very concerned about the world at large. World issues and current affairs rule their lives and thoughts most of the time.
They are worried about the hurricanes in the U.S. to the cricket team’s performances. They talk about oil prices and wars in the same breath.
They talk politics and local scandals. They may gossip, but mostly tell personal truths and opinions.
I love talking to them. Sometimes, we end up talking about God and religion. Or about the Law of Karma. General trends in religion.
They are one set of people who are not afraid to shoot from the lips. They are a breed apart. Anyways, as a taxi driver I met, said, “Katrina and Rita came, swayed, and went.”
And for the first time in my life, the names don’t evoke a sense of beauty in me.
They are very concerned about the world at large. World issues and current affairs rule their lives and thoughts most of the time.
They are worried about the hurricanes in the U.S. to the cricket team’s performances. They talk about oil prices and wars in the same breath.
They talk politics and local scandals. They may gossip, but mostly tell personal truths and opinions.
I love talking to them. Sometimes, we end up talking about God and religion. Or about the Law of Karma. General trends in religion.
They are one set of people who are not afraid to shoot from the lips. They are a breed apart. Anyways, as a taxi driver I met, said, “Katrina and Rita came, swayed, and went.”
And for the first time in my life, the names don’t evoke a sense of beauty in me.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Poetry, it is...
What is poetry?
.
.
.
I don’t know. But, I know, I write poetry. What is poetry for me may not be poetry for you (and vice versa too) because it is the freest art on earth.
Ever-changing. Touching. Classic. Forever yours. Eternal. Inspirational. Wild. Ahead of times. Advanced. Go on. Don’t stop. Awesome. Wow! Window to the soul. Psychic.
It has no form. Certainly, no rhyme, no meter, no style can contain poetry.
I cannot point and say this is poetry. My fingertips crave to touch poetry that flows along with the ink from my pen on to a piece of paper. But I can’t. I can’t even erase it.
It is the untouchable. Sometimes, the unthinkable too.
Poetry is. Always will be. It never was.
If you spin a tale, make every word sound the way it should, it is poetry.
If that word belongs nowhere else but in that verse, it is poetry.
If you cause chaos, it is poetry.
If you produce stillness, it is poetry.
Anything moves… it is poetry.
Every word, if it bleeds, if it cries, it is poetry.
If you hear someone crying far away upon reading it, it is poetry.
If it rouses antique, buried emotions, it is poetry.
If you feel good, relieved, or sad after you write, it is poetry.
If it buries a life story, it is poetry.
If it talks aloud in solitude and silence, it is poetry.
If you turn a page, it is poetry.
If, in the autumn years of your life, you write, it is poetry.
If there is more truth in it than creativity, it is poetry.
If your words have lived their life while you wrote them, it is poetry.
If you wake up in the middle of the night and write, it is poetry.
If what u write inspires, it is poetry.
If what you have written is enough to cover a grave, it is poetry.
If strangers smile at you, while people close to you walk away, it is poetry.
If a ship appears like a lighthouse, it is poetry.
If your words arouse the firefly in a woman, it is poetry.
If your brother follows your footsteps, it is poetry.
If many misunderstand your poetry, it is poetry.
If you listen to Bob Dylan even once, it is poetry.
Blinding lights? Or, are my words so bright?
Am I here? Where are you?
Do we see each other?
Are we staring into each other’s tall shadows?
Don’t close my eyes. Look into mine.
.
.
.
I don’t know. But, I know, I write poetry. What is poetry for me may not be poetry for you (and vice versa too) because it is the freest art on earth.
Ever-changing. Touching. Classic. Forever yours. Eternal. Inspirational. Wild. Ahead of times. Advanced. Go on. Don’t stop. Awesome. Wow! Window to the soul. Psychic.
It has no form. Certainly, no rhyme, no meter, no style can contain poetry.
I cannot point and say this is poetry. My fingertips crave to touch poetry that flows along with the ink from my pen on to a piece of paper. But I can’t. I can’t even erase it.
It is the untouchable. Sometimes, the unthinkable too.
Poetry is. Always will be. It never was.
If you spin a tale, make every word sound the way it should, it is poetry.
If that word belongs nowhere else but in that verse, it is poetry.
If you cause chaos, it is poetry.
If you produce stillness, it is poetry.
Anything moves… it is poetry.
Every word, if it bleeds, if it cries, it is poetry.
If you hear someone crying far away upon reading it, it is poetry.
If it rouses antique, buried emotions, it is poetry.
If you feel good, relieved, or sad after you write, it is poetry.
If it buries a life story, it is poetry.
If it talks aloud in solitude and silence, it is poetry.
If you turn a page, it is poetry.
If, in the autumn years of your life, you write, it is poetry.
If there is more truth in it than creativity, it is poetry.
If your words have lived their life while you wrote them, it is poetry.
If you wake up in the middle of the night and write, it is poetry.
If what u write inspires, it is poetry.
If what you have written is enough to cover a grave, it is poetry.
If strangers smile at you, while people close to you walk away, it is poetry.
If a ship appears like a lighthouse, it is poetry.
If your words arouse the firefly in a woman, it is poetry.
If your brother follows your footsteps, it is poetry.
If many misunderstand your poetry, it is poetry.
If you listen to Bob Dylan even once, it is poetry.
Blinding lights? Or, are my words so bright?
Am I here? Where are you?
Do we see each other?
Are we staring into each other’s tall shadows?
Don’t close my eyes. Look into mine.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
A page of life at a café…
I love this café. It even has a small Internet café attached to it. It is situated at the corner of Corniche Road, Ajman, overlooking the beach.
There is something about coffee, and a beach put together… my mind wandered to a similar crevice somewhere in a now, hardened, rock called memory.
A handsome guy manned the counter while two waitresses, an Oriental and a Russian, waited at the tables.
I was unwell for over the last three days. I missed work.
Ill and exhausted with a small tearing headache, I found myself at the café.
This is the only healthy food that you can find in this part of the world. Remote and isolated, Ajman often reminds me of a POW camp… a deserted, war-torn village trying to come to terms with the New World.
Seated near the door with my back facing the sea, I ordered a veg burger. The waitress smiled at me gladly. She had few friends, I can see.
I observed the cute, small, short girl who made the burger. She first fried the French Fries. Then, she waited till they got the perfect brown that we all always try for, but seldom achieve.
My first thought was she should be in school. Not cooking in a goddamn, around-the-corner café to make a living.
She readied the burger, dressed it up well, and gave it to the waitress. The oriental waitress served it to me on a clean plate while the guy and the Russian waitress chatted with each other.
There was this uncomfortable silence in the café. The only sound was Arabic lounge (?) music that played in the background.
I was relishing the burger and suddenly my eyes caught the cute girl smiling at me. This was my second visit to the café, and maybe in this part of the world, a second visit in two days was enough to set familiarity in.
I did not dare ask her name. So I’ll call her Cutie.
Cutie must be in her very early teens. But, she looks old and mature. Life has taught her, her share of lessons.
Cutie did not look like she belonged to any particular nationality. Not that I could make out. She had that innocence about her that we adults can only search for.
There was something about Cutie. Cutie looked lonely. Too young to be working.
She looked at me and then looked out at the sea. Perhaps, she was waiting for her prince charming to come and save her. Or, she was looking at the stranger of a ship docked out at sea.
Perhaps, Cutie was a small leaf floating in a river in a fairytale of some faraway land. Or, she is a goddess testing how kind men are in this world.
Her eyes spoke a lot. A lot of dreams had fallen from them yet those eyes held back all the tears.
As I had my last bite, I exclaimed to her, “You make nice burger!” She smiled at me.
I don’t know whether she knew English. It does not matter.
We glanced at each other. And in that glance, passed a thousand unsaid words of prayer, understanding, and faith. Cutie had found a friend.
I don’t know whether she knew it. Anyways, it does not matter.
There is something about coffee, and a beach put together… my mind wandered to a similar crevice somewhere in a now, hardened, rock called memory.
A handsome guy manned the counter while two waitresses, an Oriental and a Russian, waited at the tables.
I was unwell for over the last three days. I missed work.
Ill and exhausted with a small tearing headache, I found myself at the café.
This is the only healthy food that you can find in this part of the world. Remote and isolated, Ajman often reminds me of a POW camp… a deserted, war-torn village trying to come to terms with the New World.
Seated near the door with my back facing the sea, I ordered a veg burger. The waitress smiled at me gladly. She had few friends, I can see.
I observed the cute, small, short girl who made the burger. She first fried the French Fries. Then, she waited till they got the perfect brown that we all always try for, but seldom achieve.
My first thought was she should be in school. Not cooking in a goddamn, around-the-corner café to make a living.
She readied the burger, dressed it up well, and gave it to the waitress. The oriental waitress served it to me on a clean plate while the guy and the Russian waitress chatted with each other.
There was this uncomfortable silence in the café. The only sound was Arabic lounge (?) music that played in the background.
I was relishing the burger and suddenly my eyes caught the cute girl smiling at me. This was my second visit to the café, and maybe in this part of the world, a second visit in two days was enough to set familiarity in.
I did not dare ask her name. So I’ll call her Cutie.
Cutie must be in her very early teens. But, she looks old and mature. Life has taught her, her share of lessons.
Cutie did not look like she belonged to any particular nationality. Not that I could make out. She had that innocence about her that we adults can only search for.
There was something about Cutie. Cutie looked lonely. Too young to be working.
She looked at me and then looked out at the sea. Perhaps, she was waiting for her prince charming to come and save her. Or, she was looking at the stranger of a ship docked out at sea.
Perhaps, Cutie was a small leaf floating in a river in a fairytale of some faraway land. Or, she is a goddess testing how kind men are in this world.
Her eyes spoke a lot. A lot of dreams had fallen from them yet those eyes held back all the tears.
As I had my last bite, I exclaimed to her, “You make nice burger!” She smiled at me.
I don’t know whether she knew English. It does not matter.
We glanced at each other. And in that glance, passed a thousand unsaid words of prayer, understanding, and faith. Cutie had found a friend.
I don’t know whether she knew it. Anyways, it does not matter.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
So, I finally own a laptop!
First of all, apologies to all regular readers. I have been very busy at work lately.
A few days ago, I think Saturday, September 10, 2005, was a first in many ways!
It was the day I bought my first laptop!
The same day I bought and wore my first suit.
I really don’t know how to thank you, Aquin. You seem to coincidentally play a very important part while I keep ticking off my materialistic wishlist… why just last year Parvati had given me a ride in her Volkswagen Beetle, remember? And now, this laptop too came through a reference of yours!
Ahem… sometimes God just fulfills your dreams so fast and so unexpectedly that you take time to realize that the dream has come true. So I finally bought my own laptop. I still can’t believe it sometimes.
Another big dream of mine is fulfilled in Dubai. Saturday was also the day I did my first formal presentation!
It feels good. I feel like I am moving up the ladder. I am learning not to beg, but to hold attention of the audience. I need to work on my presentation and public speaking skills!
Dr Maen has taken the perfect role of a father figure/ teacher/ leader that I never had. I look up to him. He is also filling Br Keane’s shoes pretty well… polishing the dust off me. Making me suave and sophisticated.
Hmmm… if only you were here, Koochie. I miss you so much.
A few days ago, I think Saturday, September 10, 2005, was a first in many ways!
It was the day I bought my first laptop!
The same day I bought and wore my first suit.
I really don’t know how to thank you, Aquin. You seem to coincidentally play a very important part while I keep ticking off my materialistic wishlist… why just last year Parvati had given me a ride in her Volkswagen Beetle, remember? And now, this laptop too came through a reference of yours!
Ahem… sometimes God just fulfills your dreams so fast and so unexpectedly that you take time to realize that the dream has come true. So I finally bought my own laptop. I still can’t believe it sometimes.
Another big dream of mine is fulfilled in Dubai. Saturday was also the day I did my first formal presentation!
It feels good. I feel like I am moving up the ladder. I am learning not to beg, but to hold attention of the audience. I need to work on my presentation and public speaking skills!
Dr Maen has taken the perfect role of a father figure/ teacher/ leader that I never had. I look up to him. He is also filling Br Keane’s shoes pretty well… polishing the dust off me. Making me suave and sophisticated.
Hmmm… if only you were here, Koochie. I miss you so much.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
What is my Dharma?
If the dharma of fire is to burn
And, that of water is to flow…
Then, as such, what is mine?
And, that of water is to flow…
Then, as such, what is mine?
Dubai blues
Froggy eyes, deep voices.
Few visions.
My bed is bare,
I shiver every morn.
The food is bland,
I eat the same shit everyday.
The place is cold,
And I feel old.
I have no blanket,
And the ac is cold and bitter.
I have no more than 30Dhs
But I don’t care.
What is there?
Without you here, baby?
I am there…
One more night…
One more weekend…
One more course…
Few visions.
My bed is bare,
I shiver every morn.
The food is bland,
I eat the same shit everyday.
The place is cold,
And I feel old.
I have no blanket,
And the ac is cold and bitter.
I have no more than 30Dhs
But I don’t care.
What is there?
Without you here, baby?
I am there…
One more night…
One more weekend…
One more course…
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Been to a flesh-market?
Yesternight, I had been to such a place. The Imperial Suites Hotel. Actually, the place is a pub. But works like a pick-up joint.
Eight pm. Entry fee: Dhs.50. Two complimentary drinks. So far so good.
You enter listening to heavy music by a live band on stage. Great. You settle down to have some drinks with your roomies. And then, one by one in came sex workers/ prostitutes/ hookers/ randis. Any nationality you want. Any size, any colour.
You can choose to call them by whatever name you want. I shall call them women.
And they come to you and ask you whether you want to play with them! I said a big no. And continued my drink.
However, my roomie’s friend, Christie, was a sad guy. He was a marketing manager for some air-conditioning company. Part-time, this guy also supplied call girls to clients… and the fucker knew all the women who came in there. He was married. Had kids too. And so was Somu, my roomie.
All the men treated these women as if they were commodities to be used and thrown. The women had outgrown any sense of shame or fear. I don’t think they even remember love or, for that matter, even lust.
This was an experience. So many fairytales they would have had to tell. Of all the faraway countries that they came from: Uzbekistan, Russia, Morocco, Egypt, Korea, Japan…
Bargaining and hustled laughters continued way into the night. Often, you will see the same woman going with a guy and an hour later going back with another guy…
Oh my god!
What is wrong with men?
Is love so hard to find?
Does sex mean lust?
Is lust to be satisfied in an instant with a stranger?
Is sex so cheap that you can buy it?
From any woman?
Anywhere, irrespective of a wife and kids back home who love and respect you so dearly?
What has this world come to?
They were women. Supposed to evolve and become a mother someday. A mother, you see, a mother. Something men can never be: naturally.
And they were for sale. For sale! Damn it!
To the highest bidder. They stood like mannequins, and no buyer respected them.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
The Greatest Collection begins...
Ebert, I have started.
Yes, the wish to collect all the greatest movies in your 100 Greatest List has begun. Some may not be in the list, but surely are *** or **** rated movies in your reviews!
Sin City and Million Dollar Baby came together in a combo pack of 5 movies! The remaining three in the pack are not even worth mentioning.
Today, I bought Dead Poets Society (Ebert gives this only two stars @#%$#$#$#$), one of my all-time favourites, and Amistad, Steven Spielberg’s debut movie with DreamWorks. Not a bad start for a cinema lover…
So in the land of oil, wine, and women, I buy movies. See, I told you I am a nice guy. ;-)
PS: Hey, I just happened to notice that this one is the 51st post to the blog. Am doing good...
Yes, the wish to collect all the greatest movies in your 100 Greatest List has begun. Some may not be in the list, but surely are *** or **** rated movies in your reviews!
Sin City and Million Dollar Baby came together in a combo pack of 5 movies! The remaining three in the pack are not even worth mentioning.
Today, I bought Dead Poets Society (Ebert gives this only two stars @#%$#$#$#$), one of my all-time favourites, and Amistad, Steven Spielberg’s debut movie with DreamWorks. Not a bad start for a cinema lover…
So in the land of oil, wine, and women, I buy movies. See, I told you I am a nice guy. ;-)
PS: Hey, I just happened to notice that this one is the 51st post to the blog. Am doing good...
Saturday, July 30, 2005
The Gelf post!
I have changed after I have joined my new organization in Dubai. Previously, for six whole months, I used to drag myself to work.
And now, I am very enthused to come to work. To see smiling faces, to people who know what their role in the company is, to friendly and understanding HR people.
Today was actually a half day for me, yet am not home! Hmmm… that is a pleasant surprise!
I will not hesitate to add the “D” after HR in this organization. D for Development.
You may thinking why am I suddenly writing a lot about work and atmosphere at work.
Maybe it is relief.
Maybe it is true-found happiness.
Much awaited paradise at work where new ideas are accepted; new IDs are adopted into the organisation family.
Man, this organization has everything I can ask for:
Genuine vision and mission statements like TIS
Ethical values, openness, and transparency like TIS and Brainvisa
Freedom (of speech, text, ideas, and expression) like Brainvisa
Senior management help in every way like Brainvisa (I have nothing more to ask for; we can order any book, tool, subscription we want to work better.)
Realistic, open-door policy (even to an entrepreneurial, educated, charismatic, millionaire Arab’s busy cabin!)
I found the respect, acknowledgement, and values that I were searching for in an organization ever since I started working way back in February 2000.
Hmmm… It has been five years. It has been an experience. And I have led a very experimental worklife. Have met all kinds of people and all kinds of organizations. Some made me feel wow! And one organization even made me puke! The levels they fell… Cheee!!!
Anyways, I believe the Law of Karma works. What goes, comes around. I know I haven’t wronged. I will always stand for truth, courage, openness, frankness, and democracy at work. Even at the cost of jobs, security, or money.
Because only when I grow spiritually, does my organization grow.
Today, after a long, long time, I feel like dedicating my life and soul to an organization. Just the way I had done for compassbox.com. And I will. They deserve it. This organization is the best I have seen so far.
“Way to go, Abhi! Way to go. In spite of all the thorns some idiots planted in your way even after you reached Dubai, you’ve done well. You’ve maintained your composure. You did not compromise your values and truths and standards for money and security. No blackmail, no threats, no hostage situation will work.”
And you, yes you, if you have read till here without feeling ashamed, read this: you can keep the money. My hard-earned money. You will never understand some values. I pity you.”
And now, I am very enthused to come to work. To see smiling faces, to people who know what their role in the company is, to friendly and understanding HR people.
Today was actually a half day for me, yet am not home! Hmmm… that is a pleasant surprise!
I will not hesitate to add the “D” after HR in this organization. D for Development.
You may thinking why am I suddenly writing a lot about work and atmosphere at work.
Maybe it is relief.
Maybe it is true-found happiness.
Much awaited paradise at work where new ideas are accepted; new IDs are adopted into the organisation family.
Man, this organization has everything I can ask for:
Genuine vision and mission statements like TIS
Ethical values, openness, and transparency like TIS and Brainvisa
Freedom (of speech, text, ideas, and expression) like Brainvisa
Senior management help in every way like Brainvisa (I have nothing more to ask for; we can order any book, tool, subscription we want to work better.)
Realistic, open-door policy (even to an entrepreneurial, educated, charismatic, millionaire Arab’s busy cabin!)
I found the respect, acknowledgement, and values that I were searching for in an organization ever since I started working way back in February 2000.
Hmmm… It has been five years. It has been an experience. And I have led a very experimental worklife. Have met all kinds of people and all kinds of organizations. Some made me feel wow! And one organization even made me puke! The levels they fell… Cheee!!!
Anyways, I believe the Law of Karma works. What goes, comes around. I know I haven’t wronged. I will always stand for truth, courage, openness, frankness, and democracy at work. Even at the cost of jobs, security, or money.
Because only when I grow spiritually, does my organization grow.
Today, after a long, long time, I feel like dedicating my life and soul to an organization. Just the way I had done for compassbox.com. And I will. They deserve it. This organization is the best I have seen so far.
“Way to go, Abhi! Way to go. In spite of all the thorns some idiots planted in your way even after you reached Dubai, you’ve done well. You’ve maintained your composure. You did not compromise your values and truths and standards for money and security. No blackmail, no threats, no hostage situation will work.”
And you, yes you, if you have read till here without feeling ashamed, read this: you can keep the money. My hard-earned money. You will never understand some values. I pity you.”
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Another Malayalee in Gelf!
It’s been a week since I landed here. But to start with my bags did not arrive with me! Thai Airways just did not load my bags.
A friend went to Chennai airport and did the needful. And my bags (containing all the documents that prove that I am an educated man) landed here on last Saturday.
Phew! Meanwhile, here, my company had arranged for accommodation at Flat 201, Al Attar Shopping Mall, Near Karama Centre, Al Karama.
This is a spacious 3-bedroom kitchen flat. Shared by 15 people. Yes, you read it right: 15 people.
This kind of accommodation is called “Bedspace” here. And this costs Dhs. 750 per month. Not bad actually. You have TVs in every room, a cupboard and a bed for yourself, a common washing machine, and a common fridge.
Every morning, life begins with queues outside the two lavish bathrooms. There are bathtubs, but I hardly get the time or luxury to just sink in it. You don’t need geysers here. Just open the tap anytime night or day and you get running hot water! So I have a steam bath everyday.
In a way, it is dormitory/ hostel and chawl lifestyle!
Al Attar is famous for two things:
Filipinos… and there are loads of them.
Cockroaches… legacy left behind by various nationalities!
The cockroaches here are small, slow, and lazy. But not the Filipinos. They are fair, short, loud, and mostly ugly. They eat anything, from rats to dogs to the like. I mean what more can a man eat!
The bed opposite mine is shared by a human cockroach. We all call him garbage. That man is most unclean man I have ever seen (He tucks his shirt inside his underwear!) Yuck! He eats, dries his clothes, sits, sleeps on that one bed…! Yurgh!
Most Filipinos are into prostitution here. Or if not, they are working as counter staff, salesgirls in the innumerable supermarkets and shops.
Most men here talk only sex or women. I guess, the first time they see Russians, Moroccans, Lebanese, etc., it must be something. And yes, some women are really, really hot… as my friend Sachin says, “Dudh se nahati hain kya?”
The organization I work at here is awesome. Simply awesome. They
really, really know how to treat employees.
care.
help.
believe.
don’t lie.
don’t threaten or blackmail or harass you.
This blog is a toast to my new life (and all my dreams, hopes, and aspirations associated with it).
So people, one more Malayalee has landed in the Gelf. In this desert. To make money. Save money. Finish off his house loan. Settle in life.
To go back to India. My love. My life.
A friend went to Chennai airport and did the needful. And my bags (containing all the documents that prove that I am an educated man) landed here on last Saturday.
Phew! Meanwhile, here, my company had arranged for accommodation at Flat 201, Al Attar Shopping Mall, Near Karama Centre, Al Karama.
This is a spacious 3-bedroom kitchen flat. Shared by 15 people. Yes, you read it right: 15 people.
This kind of accommodation is called “Bedspace” here. And this costs Dhs. 750 per month. Not bad actually. You have TVs in every room, a cupboard and a bed for yourself, a common washing machine, and a common fridge.
Every morning, life begins with queues outside the two lavish bathrooms. There are bathtubs, but I hardly get the time or luxury to just sink in it. You don’t need geysers here. Just open the tap anytime night or day and you get running hot water! So I have a steam bath everyday.
In a way, it is dormitory/ hostel and chawl lifestyle!
Al Attar is famous for two things:
Filipinos… and there are loads of them.
Cockroaches… legacy left behind by various nationalities!
The cockroaches here are small, slow, and lazy. But not the Filipinos. They are fair, short, loud, and mostly ugly. They eat anything, from rats to dogs to the like. I mean what more can a man eat!
The bed opposite mine is shared by a human cockroach. We all call him garbage. That man is most unclean man I have ever seen (He tucks his shirt inside his underwear!) Yuck! He eats, dries his clothes, sits, sleeps on that one bed…! Yurgh!
Most Filipinos are into prostitution here. Or if not, they are working as counter staff, salesgirls in the innumerable supermarkets and shops.
Most men here talk only sex or women. I guess, the first time they see Russians, Moroccans, Lebanese, etc., it must be something. And yes, some women are really, really hot… as my friend Sachin says, “Dudh se nahati hain kya?”
The organization I work at here is awesome. Simply awesome. They
really, really know how to treat employees.
care.
help.
believe.
don’t lie.
don’t threaten or blackmail or harass you.
This blog is a toast to my new life (and all my dreams, hopes, and aspirations associated with it).
So people, one more Malayalee has landed in the Gelf. In this desert. To make money. Save money. Finish off his house loan. Settle in life.
To go back to India. My love. My life.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
They are all heroes...
- The son who looks after his blind mother.
- The prostitute who fights for her freedom from the pimp.
- The unpublished writer trying to write the masterpiece.
- The unknown soldier standing guard at Siachen.
- The temp employee who quits the job.
- The boss who fired a worker.
- The man who stopped the motor of the world.
- Paulo Coelho when he wrote the Alchemist.
- Ayn Rand after she escaped from the
- The taxi driver who returns a wallet left behind by a customer.
They all feel they are heroes through heroism, courage, chance, coincidence, love, and even self-pity.
All feel so, except, Sheldon B Kopp and me. We believe that we are just two struggling human beings. But, we vouch for the fact: Love is all there is!
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Love, and words like freedom
Freedom, he said and marched.
A skinny, old fakir,
Followed by a peaceful mob,
Broke the rule
For a pinch of salt.
Dream, I have a dream…
Millions listened to the King.
Black or white.
With passion, an airplane flew
For 16 seconds.
But the flight
Turned the century.
With hope, a young girl wrote
The most memorable diary
Of our times.
Hatred. For six million Jews.
“Are we waiting for another Gandhi?”
Ask the survivors of the Holocaust.
Love, I wrote your name
On the window pane
On a cold, wintry night.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Tears on a flame
When you feel down,
Or lonely,
Look around you.
You’ll see me
In your shadow,
In your teardrop,
In your rear-view mirror.
You’ll see me
In your yantra,
In your vilvam.
When you cry,
I burn.
When you smile,
I cry.
If you know why,
Tell me now
For I rather cry
Than burn.
You can touch my teardrops
But not my flames.
The flame of the love that
Consumes you and me.
You on me
Just like tears on a flame.
The five books I’ll take to heaven
Well, Ranga, taking five books to heaven is tough. Both, literally and figuratively.
But since you have assigned this task, and it a nice mind exercise on a jobless day, I might as well do it!
Before I choose the five books, I’ll take to heaven, I’ll tell that I have chosen these five books purely on the basis of emotion. How well they touched me. not on the basis of the author’s reputation, style of writing, or any other external polls or popular choice.
Also, in this list, there are no first among equals. That would be asking whether I value my right eye more than my left eye.
- We, The Living
Though, not the best book by Ayn Rand as per my own confession, this book is on my list purely because I fell in love with Kira. She has always been the closest I came to romancing a character. And she just added imagery to my painter girl vision. And I loved her death. And her smile to all that could have been possible.
Also, this was as autobiographical a work Ayn Rand ever wrote. And, she is a motherfucker of a writer. No writer has ever made my adrenalin rush and blood boil as she did.
- If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him
This has been the single-most important book in my life. In a way, it changed the way I looked at Zen, life, and Hinduism. Sheldon B Kopp through this book narrates nine tales in a way that it shakes you.
This psychotherapist has helped me heal my wounds and worries through this book. I’ll forever be indebted to him. He doesn’t need to write another book.
- Lust For Life
Vincent van Gogh. Irving Stone captures his life in this beautiful novel. Painstaking effort has paid of well. I don’t understand van Gogh even now. I don’t understand what Impressionism is still. I don’t appreciate a style of painting more than another. But this book made me bond with a creative spirit like none other. I relate to van Gogh’s aspirations and pain only because I read Lust for Life. And he’s been an inspiration ever since. And that I think makes Irving Stone happy and satisfied. His job has been well done.
- Conversations with God I, II, and III
Neale Donald Walsch has written what no man ever wrote before. Conversations with God. That title hits. Suggested to me by one of
- One
Richard Bach weaves this beautiful story of possibilities and paths his life would have undertaken if he hadn’t taken the decisions he did. Man, flashback redefined. This book shows how you can make an idea into a book.
Few of his other books came close to the list and so did Paulo Coelho’s books such as The Alchemist, Eleven Minutes, By the River Piedra, I Sat Down and Wept, (it would be blasphemy if I did not mention these close runners-up). But the point is by the time, I read Paulo Coelho and later works of Richard Bach, the ideas and concepts were all familiar. I too thought on similar lines; sometimes even wrote on similar lines. So the magic did not astound as much as it would have had I read them earlier in life.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Understanding my mother
When we talked yesterday, I realized from what you said that my mother will be the only person on earth who will live up to my tantrums.
She is the only person who will still do everything to keep me happy. For better or for worse. Even though I may not be the best person at the time of my stupid, invalid, stubborn, out-of-my-head tantrums.
She is the only person who will cry with me when I cry. She will be the only person to stand by me even though she won’t understand a thing I say.
What makes this bond so strong? Her hug. Her kiss. No matter how ugly I look. No matter how many of her dreams have I broken, and thrown away to the wind. Whether she has a right to dream for me is another matter altogether.
A mother-child relationship is one of the purest relationships ever designed. It is unconditional. Unconditional as in it is purely a selfless extension of self.
I know my mother is not the best mother on earth though she does come close. She is not at all perfect. She, in fact, is not even the kind of woman I would like to marry. But she has few qualities that make her stand apart.
She could have, if she wanted, changed the world. But she has managed to change me. Mould me in some ways into what I am now. She never insisted that I should be religious or visit temples. She gave me that freedom of choice with regard to food, religion, and dress at an age when most parents will shove down their beliefs on their kids.
I did my Jr. KG and Sr. KG in
And my schooling has been an inspiration. I got the best all-round education in this country. And met Br John Anthony Keane who induced my love for poetry and literature. “I would love reading The Solitary Reaper than watching
My mother had starved so that I can eat well enough. There were times when she ate only rice so that I can have the sambar and uperri. I have walked miles to call a doctor to get my mother cured. I still will.
Amma, I love you. I miss you when I am lonely, cold, and a chut of a man. I know I have not been the best son…
But just hug me once again. Because this son of yours has chosen the unbeaten path: the path of the love that consumes.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Content writer!
I am trying to be content with my self and my life.
Because the variety and number of dreams that I have is so fucking staggering... that I could only fulfill them, if I was a Vijay Mallya or Gautam Singhania.
All I am trying to do, right now, is understand what all I want in life. It is a crossroad that I am on. The turn I take decides where I land up. Problem is the river cannot flow back unless the next cycle comes up. The road cannot be retraced. I have to walk ahead.
When I look at my heroes, I feel small. I have somewhere come to realize that I don't have the talent that my heroes had. I am being disillusioned with my dreams of being a great writer. I am just a good writer, and there are enough good writers in the world. Just check out the number of people who blog... who write good poetry. I am not unique. Like Pablo Neruda, like Bob Dylan, like Rumi...
I think I have to focus my energies to one direction and stop thinking that I am one multi-faceted genius... I am no Leonardo, no Einstein... no Keats. I am just a jack of all trades, master of none. In other words, a better version of my father.
I am just another ordinary human being. I can't inspire people; I can't be a leader either. I just have to live the life of a mediocre human being. Nothing wrong with that.
Just that I'll continue to keep writing. And I'll see where I end up. Just that I won't be shattered anymore.
So right now, I'll try to save up enough money to start my own cafe... my Renaissance cafe where painters, poets, artists and craftsmen will meet, brainstorm, and exhibit work. That looks feasible. That looks possible. Just have to hope that another abhilash somewhere does not think of the same concept and start it before I do!!! After I fucking finish my house loan. And other responsibilities.
I hope that I do work as a teacher somewhere sometime. I wish I do work as a waiter in a Barista cafe sometime... I wish I can backpack across the world sometime... I wish... all my dreams come true.
But they may not.
And therefore, all I wish is that I live through this life with as much grace and courage as possible. Simple life. Not spectacular. Nothing grand.
What will happen if I stop writing?
I have been thinking about this for a long time. I got into literature and writing way back in school. In college, the love for literature increased. I nurtured it. Read a lot. Thought I too can write. Thus, started my journey into writing.
It’s been a good ten years since I first picked a pen to pen something original. It’s been a fantastic journey. It’s made me what I am now. I loved. I got hurt. It took its toll. I observed people; thought I had answers to most of the problems of the world. Went through motions of being snobbish, being intellectual. Thought I knew it all.
Then, I saw my heroes. They were light years ahead of me. They were humble. Writing came effortlessly to them. It’s like Mohanlal was born to act; Bob Dylan was born to write poetry. It’s a different matter altogether that he sung them too.
It’s been ten years. Reading all my favorite “inspirational” books has made me realize one thing: the hard truth I never wanted to face. I don’t have it in me to be one among my heroes. I don’t have the genius or the talent to write that one line which will set hearts on fire or send an entire crowd into frenzy.
That line may come anytime or it may never come at all. I will join the thousands of wannabe writers who wrote well. Like thousands of musicians who end up playing in orchestras across the world for they were never able to compose a tune that will melt your hearts. Like all the wannabe cricketers who never made it big because they were just good players. Not geniuses; not great; not talented enough.
I am at crossroads in life once again. Do I continue to write for the love of writing? Do I write dreaming that someday someone will publish what I write? Do I write anything that comes my way? Children’s books?
What about my incomplete first novel? What about the remaining concepts that I have? What about the concepts I have for movies? What about my dream about working in a Barista café at least for six months? What about my dream of being a behavior scientist? What about me owning and running my own Renaissance café? What about all that I think is inside me?
After 25 years of romanticism, idealism, and love, I have come to realize that I am just a good guy. Good at writing. Good at dreaming. Good with ideas. But being good is not good enough.
I don’t have the willpower to fight my laziness. Lack of effort is surely there.
If I stop writing, no sky will fall, no river will stop, no love will cry. Because nobody loves a jack of all trades, master of none. If I stop writing, I’ll never be published.
Which I anyways don’t see happening again. No, I wouldn’t want to be published as a children’s book author. And see that nobody reads them. I don’t want to go through that pain again.
Besides, they are not who I want to write for.
So what will happen if I stopped writing?
Monday, June 06, 2005
The most important decision I made…
The most important decision I made… I asked this question to many people. They had pretty good answers.
- Watching
- Watching Godfather.
- Reading Kafka.
- Going back to my native place.
- Quitting my first job.
- Leaving my first boyfriend.
- My first kiss decided my life.
- My first intercourse.
- My visit to the Pyramids,
- My first train journey for my first interview.
- Believing in God.
- Saving a boy’s life while he was drowning.
- Losing my faith.
- Losing my virginity.
- Reading Karl Marx.
- My first enlightenment.
- Coming to
- Getting into Buddhism.
- Taking care of my grandparents.
- Reading Ayn Rand.
- Getting a dog for myself.
- A walk in the rain.
- Playing for my country for the first time.
- Playing cricket.
- Marrying the man I loved.
- Saying no to my boss.
- Watching Schindler’s List.
- Saying yes to my boss.
- Reading poetry.
- The university I got into.
- Getting out of my goddamn village.
- My first divorce.
- My second divorce.
- Telling my boss what I thought about him.
- Fighting for the environment.
- My first exhibition.
- Proposing love to her.
- The first signature campaign I conducted.
- Joining the army.
- Writing poetry.
- Escaping from the
- The school I joined.
- Every time I vote.
- Selling my first painting.
- My first walk though I don’t remember it.
- My national anthem.
- My last confession.
- My first visit to a temple.
- Deciding to live as a writer; my marriage, both decisions very early in life.
- My confession to my best friend.
- At 90, a man said, “the woman who I married.”
You know you are in Chennai when…
- You see Kollam drawn in front of all Brahmin households.
- You see sad, tilting, green buses making way to their destinations.
- You see more Enfield Bullets on the road.
- You go to the only multiplex in town to watch a movie.
- You feel hot and humid at the same time like never before.
- You know that there is only a single arterial road in the entire city.
- You see people worship moviestars.
- You don’t have access to Star Movies and HBO.
- You see more wine shops than you have ever seen before in life.
- You see wine shops near temples and temples near wine shops.
- You see wine shops, which have grills protecting the shopkeeper and the liquor from its customers.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I...
Awake with your name on my lips.
Sleep with you in my dreams.
See you in a different light with every costume you wear.
See you in flowers blossoming in blue, moonlit nights.
Pray to you when you wear a sari
Pray to myself when you wear only a sari.
Feel only you when I make love.
Feel only you when I am proud.
Write for you.
Write for truth.
Worship you even as you worship Him.
Bow to you as the arrow bends before taking flight.
Take your name to live.
Take your name to smile.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
If only today was tomorrow...
I’ll never let go.
I’ll be making coffee for you.
I’ll be trekking up the hill one last time.
I’ll bring home a kitten for you.
I’ll be dancing with you.
I’ll be making love like never before.
I’ll be hugging you so tight…
I’ll be the richest man on earth.
I’ll be the poet of the millennium.
I’ll be alive.
I’ll be god.
I’ll be a saint.
I’ll be the man they loved to hate.
I’ll be saying I love you, grandpa!
I’ll be saying sorry to the girl I hurt the most.
I’ll be a hummingbird.
I’ll be a firefly.
I’ll be the prince charming in a fairytale.
I’ll be the next Bob Dylan. The next Big B.
I’ll be the man who raised his voice.
I’ll be another Gandhi.
I’ll be what I never was.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
It's only words
I have led a life.
Been there and done that.
Loved you all so much...
That I never was loved back!
When I felt lonely, when I was alone...
I looked around
Nobody home.
Except:
Me, paper, pen, and words.
I bleed, I make love, I cry.
I hide.
And soon the ink blots the paper.
It is not fair. Never has been.
Life is a feeling. And I am there.
A stream, and my boat is a word.
Love.
I hope...
I will...
Oh words! Come to me...
To say what I feel.
Now and forever.
You still don't get it.
You never will.
ani, your poetry has inspired me to pen this poem... so am dedicating it to you!
What a day!
Yesterday, I was on leave. Cold, headache, bodyache, and I felt fever setting in. So, I took leave…
Besides, my only lovely bro was coming to town from Bangalore for his Visa appointment at the US Consulate. I thought he’ll feel good about me taking a day off for him.
Besides, the 2627 course had still not come in from Microsoft. So all in all, yesterday was a great day to lie on my back and sneeze as much I could.
By the way, my bro got through and he’ll be flying to the US on May 20! All the best, Ani!
Today, the cold still shows no signs of going away. In fact, it has increased in intensity. My nostrils are red and eyes are watering.
Today, I reached office in a very temperamental situation (Haneef, that eight-letter word was a tribute to you)!
Loads of work has landed on my workstation. And I am in no mood to even peer into it. So work stops there.
Then, I receive an e-mail from a great friend, Jeba. He is embarrassed that he lost the only manuscript I had of my first novel. This means that the current manuscript I have has only the first three chapters! The next three chapters I had written, I guess, have disappeared.
Wow!
Someone in future will discover those pages in his/ her attic, and rediscover the masterpiece written by Abhilash! He/ she will sell it to Christie’s. And, Christie’s will auction it for millions!
I immediately wrote back to Jeba:
Holy crow!
Jeba, I had only that one hard copy. I have the first three chapters but don't have the last three chapters I had written.
Looks like my novel is also coming up the hard way... anyways, if ever you find it, please do let me know.
Tell Veena to keep an eye for some word docs which look like trash to her!! hahahah!!!
It's fine, man. Not holding it against you. Don't be embarassed. It's my fault. I should have kept multiple copies.
love always and all the ways,
abhi
Then, I get another e-mail from Sachin. He requires money and I have to repay him 3k…
I also have to repay 15K to Bhupesh. Sorry Bhupesh, I defaulted badly on the repayment. And to top it all, my roomie is yet to give me 15k!
As soon as he gives me 15K, I’ll repay Bhupesh and Sachin too. My head is bursting…
Mentally, I am ready to start work only on Monday. Manic Monday. Or just another day.
Meanwhile, with running nose and watering eyes, I say to myself, “This too shall pass.”
Dated: 8.4.2005.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
This is a poem I had written to Ani, my brother, on his 22nd birthday... he's grown up and I am proud of him.
I had forgotten all about this poem... till yesterday when Sis, the love of his life, reminded me of the poem in her e-mail to me...
And, I had to get the poem from her to post it here. So Ani, here you go again... i will recite the same poem on every birthday of yours:
**************************************
We have come a long, long way, brother.
You and I.
From the times that you held my hand
And we went to play.
To school through those fields...
Remember Mugran?
I still remember you bowling like Qadir
And then like Small.
All those smart, witty one-liners of yours.
That sitting on the stairs at Jiten saying,
"I'll leave home only in the morning!"
You were there when I was in love for the first of times.
I was there when you rushed from the rick and hugged Reshma!
I was there when you fell in love again and again.
You were there always when I led the way.
Then, you led the way.
I was there when you took your first step (don't remember it though!).
I was there when you loved Vijeta
(While I looked at her ass, her lovely shapely ass).
I was there when you had lunch with Raji.
And when she turned to me and said,
“I feel conscious because of your eyes" you were there.
We were together when you did us proud;
While I humiliated our parents.
When we went double-seat to as far as the cycle would take us.
I was there when you loved cricket more than anything else.
I was there when you fractured your finger.
When I took that impossible catch... you were there!
I still remember our nights together
At Gopinaaaaathan's... and Chakram's houses!!
Drinking 1.5 ltr Pepsi each...
And loving it!
Watching blue movies and shagging one after the other!!!
Hahahaha!!
Walking to Omena chechi's home to sleep with her (literally)!
Getting bored at Vile Parle
Watching Mani drink milk!!!
(Man, how much we wished for her to drink that bloody glass of milk!!!)
I still cherish you talking tough to the sunkey Vice Princey!!
Remember you reading Ayn Rand for the first time.
From then to now...
You with Sis...
You. Everywhere.
Every moment, I lived with you.
I know you and I understand you as I try.
Because you always did the same.
You were my only advocate. My Man Friday.
I love to be with Ani, the warrior, the hero, the self-talker,
The actor, the brother, the great teacher, the musician,
The cine-lover, the movie reviewer, the listener,
The greatest of lovers...
And now... more than ever before,
Ani, the poet… growing… and more...
I don't pray for us to be together.
But this much I ask for:
”May you always have Sis by your side.”
For I know what she means to you.
It's been my pleasure, Sir.
And an honor worth living and dying for.
It is an honor to be your brother.
And an honor to have been there and done that.
With you always by my side.
*********************************************
Love you always and all the ways,
abhi
I had forgotten all about this poem... till yesterday when Sis, the love of his life, reminded me of the poem in her e-mail to me...
And, I had to get the poem from her to post it here. So Ani, here you go again... i will recite the same poem on every birthday of yours:
**************************************
We have come a long, long way, brother.
You and I.
From the times that you held my hand
And we went to play.
To school through those fields...
Remember Mugran?
I still remember you bowling like Qadir
And then like Small.
All those smart, witty one-liners of yours.
That sitting on the stairs at Jiten saying,
"I'll leave home only in the morning!"
You were there when I was in love for the first of times.
I was there when you rushed from the rick and hugged Reshma!
I was there when you fell in love again and again.
You were there always when I led the way.
Then, you led the way.
I was there when you took your first step (don't remember it though!).
I was there when you loved Vijeta
(While I looked at her ass, her lovely shapely ass).
I was there when you had lunch with Raji.
And when she turned to me and said,
“I feel conscious because of your eyes" you were there.
We were together when you did us proud;
While I humiliated our parents.
When we went double-seat to as far as the cycle would take us.
I was there when you loved cricket more than anything else.
I was there when you fractured your finger.
When I took that impossible catch... you were there!
I still remember our nights together
At Gopinaaaaathan's... and Chakram's houses!!
Drinking 1.5 ltr Pepsi each...
And loving it!
Watching blue movies and shagging one after the other!!!
Hahahaha!!
Walking to Omena chechi's home to sleep with her (literally)!
Getting bored at Vile Parle
Watching Mani drink milk!!!
(Man, how much we wished for her to drink that bloody glass of milk!!!)
I still cherish you talking tough to the sunkey Vice Princey!!
Remember you reading Ayn Rand for the first time.
From then to now...
You with Sis...
You. Everywhere.
Every moment, I lived with you.
I know you and I understand you as I try.
Because you always did the same.
You were my only advocate. My Man Friday.
I love to be with Ani, the warrior, the hero, the self-talker,
The actor, the brother, the great teacher, the musician,
The cine-lover, the movie reviewer, the listener,
The greatest of lovers...
And now... more than ever before,
Ani, the poet… growing… and more...
I don't pray for us to be together.
But this much I ask for:
”May you always have Sis by your side.”
For I know what she means to you.
It's been my pleasure, Sir.
And an honor worth living and dying for.
It is an honor to be your brother.
And an honor to have been there and done that.
With you always by my side.
*********************************************
Love you always and all the ways,
abhi
The God-child arriveth...
Today too, on the third consecutive day, Chennai is facing heavy rains. The people here love it every bit. Seems like it has never rained here in April. The roads are choc-a-bloc with traffic… the traffic lights are off. And the traffic policemen are out in their traditional yellow raincoats directing traffic through waterlogged roads…
The scene, this morning, reminded me of Mumbai during the monsoons. Mumbai took a lot before water logged on the roads; Chennai floods with even moderate rains.
Yesternight, I realized what Sheldon B Kopp was saying in If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him, when he wrote, “There are no great people. I am just another struggling human being.”
I see you, Koochie pie. I see me. I realized yesternight while you were talking to me what I had understood earlier. I see Ray Charles. I see how our childhoods impact who we are and what we choose to become.
We are the way we respond to life. Each of us have a different childhood even when we are born into the same household, have the same set of friends, go to the same school, and have the same people as cousins.
How lack of attention and parental neglect affect us. How too much of attention make us weak. How life challenges few blessed ones among us to come up the hard way. How we then cope with life ahead. Because the way we respond to stimuli determines who we are.
I tell you about Vidyuth. We name the unnamed joy we bring into ourselves. You love it. For you’ve been secretly dreaming. And I caught you yesternight. I love it.
For nine months, you will be the queen, if you already don’t feel like one! Vidyuth will be the prince. And I’ll be your genie!
I’ll not let your feet touch the ground. You’ll float. I’ll carry you around. I’ll massage your feet. I’ll feed you every night and day. I’ll clean the house and wash the clothes and cook too!
Koochie pie, nine months will be like a deep breath.
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