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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)