Mar 15, 2010
I kept 'Zero Percentile' down after reading 40 pages to enjoy the trance and nostalgia that it gave me, trance of my own first novel. Starting 3 years ago on this unplanned voyage of writing a novel, I (immature and unexposed) played safe and romantic by picking up a Delhi based love story as my plot. With my limited knowledge of vocabulary, art of expression and usage of words to their true potential, I wrote about 150 pages in MS Word(I still remember that old Sahara laptop). Those standards of yesteryear are but a source of mockery now. Those plane expressions, underutilized idioms, pointless sarcasms, careless satires, disparaging euphemisms and short vocabulary were anything but tamed and timid. But today, when I have made a career out of writing and I'm by my standards a decently read man with viable knowledge of language and its usage as a tool... today, when my pen is, if not sword, at least a sickle of verbiage, I am too messed up in my grooming to pen out my aspirations. The madness has died and the magic could never grow. All dreams of boundless creativity are broken each morning by the alarm clock. The trance of imagination is broken by the assaults of deadlines. The ship has met it's fate even before its first journey. It will soon be sunk in the white-collar-whirlwind. The death has already happened in me much longer, but I realized it today after reading another budding author, who at least wrote. Zero Percentile will continue to be my most-haunting and disparaging novel for long. But I never-the-less-never-the-more need to start from page 41 tomorrow...
Mar 3, 2010
How so ever occupied I be or pretend to be, some fragments of past do visit me each day. Remembering my first year in that obscenely built lavish triangular dwelling, I recall the emotional voyage of absurdity, aloofness, confusion, numbness, friendship, politics, bacchanalianism, mockery, bigotry, accidents, nudity, extremity, incapability and atrophy. While yet, another side of me contemporarily recalls freshness, rejuvenation, attachment, charm, belongingness and insecurity. Till the speciality of pursuing higher education became a necessity: a socio-emotional dose, we were through with the confused half of our MBA.
Following the 3 month break in our redeeming Sabbath I, with some chosen and imposed friends moved to another accommodation. Now this one reminds me of laughter, potpourri, happy high, sad high, only high, high-high, neighbour nagging, pre dawn whacking, perverseness, madness, fear, frolic, frenzy, fame, sense, logic, untangling and relief. Correspondingly, the not so egoist alter ego remembers mirth, bliss, strife, derelicts, homecoming, extrapolation, vision, pacification, belief, humour, commitment and oneness.
Having said all this, I must mention that it is not merely the spasms of nostalgia or fits of chagrin that haunt us, it is the crowded and rowdy outside world that upsets us by not being as we shaped it inside. You might not like to pardon my frankness, but the vainness of MBA is more intense than its best reminiscence. Even if you see that the road to future is bright and sunny, prepare for a rain or sunburn, and for some of us, even for an eclipse.
Dec 18, 2009
What do you want to be? What do you want to see? How do you want to be heard? A confusing mix of prejudice, olfactory, aural and visual parodies and social kinaesthetic are the (seemingly) end products of our sensory and social protocols. The masses- despised and prioritised alike in the books of history- always lost their voice for the wake of a revolution. The elite- feigning and heathened by the masses got their larynx and word heard across ages, catalysing revolutions and catastrophes equally. Then there is a third voice, unheard and unseen, the voice of ventriloquists. In the want of maintaining the fulcrum of real balance, these voices left unnamed, mute. Paradoxically, it is these aural altars of sacrifices, commitments that deserve –from neo-natal to posthumous-ovations of human and inhuman. Fortunately for them and unfortunately for us, they could never get their undemanded, unasked and unexpected share of tribute. It is these voices that I vow and bow to. It is these voices that I want to get noticed. The silence that you live in, is the most intense and deafening enlightenment, in chasing which, you make most of the most atrophic resonances from your vocal chords. For the uncomprehending nobodies, it is the silence of an umbilical cord that balances the fulcrum of most divine creation. It is the serene silence of night, that holds the fulcrum between nocturnal sagas and sunlight humdrums. It is the silence of God, that balances the fulcrum of religion and survival. The silence of creation, used as ventriloquist’s tool, balances the quintessential apparatus till destruction.
What began with big bang, came to us with a protozoon and is taking us to apocalypse is but a mere puppetry of ventriloquists, sound and un-succumbing to their share-takers. The point at the core-heating and waiting to unleash- is the irony of these voices. Playing the roles that nobody told them to play, these voices have been pried upon since they began to speak. But as the world is approaching its cataclysm, its intelligence is burgeoning and its emotiveness is ballparking. So while we await our individual, societal, civilisation and conscientious end, it will be conducive to identify what kept us going so far: the ventriloquists. Heeding us, feeding us, nurturing us, creating us and destroying us; these voices have become strained. Therefore the usual silence they created with their sounds is getting eerier. Balancing the fulcrum, their throats- the working mnemonics for origin of universe, mankind, society, communication and culture- are getting drenched and parched. They are getting HOLLOWER. But poor forms of life that we are, instead of feeding and heeding them, we stuffed them with our inefficacies and lethargy. Instead of the healers that they wanted us to be, we became their fatal taxidermists. But as these throats are getting more and more stuffing, the silent eloquent balance they maintained is fading. The fulcrum is penchanting towards destruction: from morals to man to masses to mankind. While nothing can be done, (or worst: undone) it is agreeable to rationally and shamefully acknowledge the deceptive imagery-cum-motion-picture ... the ‘Maaya and Mithya’ that we created to masquerade us to doom. Let us analyse our individual apparatus and the balances and accept the brutal assaults that we made to sodomise the ventriloquist throats. Let us- till we are pulled from predicament of penultimate to the wholesomeness of the ultimate- be thankful, obliged and equally remorseful to the balancing chords of unspoken throats. Let us be remembered –with our genocides and thoughtlessness- for our boldness and confessions.
I ask again: What do you want to be? What do you want to see? How do you want to be heard?
Aug 9, 2009
While very few rising in love, ‘falling’ in love has rightly been phrased by either a visionary or a victim. What however is more depressing is the inability or blindness of those falling into a deep trough of emotional engagement that they start believing the opposite. It’s like running a pillar to post marathon with the belief of reaching the other side of the earth. Many forms of today’s love are harsh incompatibilities masqueraded by a vast cocoon of ignorance, embroidered with brittle threading of happiness, hope and optimism to hide the reality. But when the reality outgrows this cocoon, everything -brittle or vast- breaks into pieces which hurt.
These are the pieces of solitude, of desperation, of contempt, of memoirs, of aimlessness, of hatred and many other confused multifaceted emotional outbursts that have been best captured by poets and psychologists alike.
But there are some positivisms also included in the packaging of love. While some are directly beneficial to concerned parties, others bring benefits to the external world. Love means business to so many professions and services. Flowers, gifts, cards, travel and tourism, internet, telephony, telegrams and telegraphs, cameras, apparels, accessories, entertainment industry, food industry, ‘pharmaceuticals’ and much more. Even in its dismal state of being, love is a source of business to trades of counselling, psychometrics, medicos, druggists, Telephony, chocolates, electricity, television, breweries, spirits, tobacco and drugs.
So…. love is a necessary evil with huge demand in markets.
Mar 17, 2009
Mar 12, 2009
No its not pleasure I am moaning with, its pain. The humdrum obligations that led me to this temporary yet drenching catastrophe are not as important as the connotation attached to the word and concept that this word, pain, endures us. "A strongly unpleasant bodily sensation such as caused by illness of injury" is what
Pain is not just a carnal unpleasantness. It can not be always depicted or conveyed with flesh, blood, cries, agonies, tears, or death. There is more to pain than a body can endure; the mental pain. Than explaining the mental pain, I would exemplify it. It is when you can see someone crying with hunger or despair thousands of miles away but you know you can not do much to his comfort. It is when few mavericks carry out a spree of destruction and jeopardy to innocent and naïve people. It is when you see that rulers of a civilisation are too overwhelmed with avarice and selfishness to help those, who made them what they are, from suffering. The biggest pain however comes when you realise that the unaffected world is too selfish or occupied to see the pain of the affected half, when all persuasions to philanthropy succumb to the hardened hearts. When the biggest pain of unknown is inexistent while the slightest trouble to the beloveds can agitate what even revolutions failed to.
Ask yourself, are you able to see, let alone inflict this pain? Do such ophthalmic sights and cacophonic sounds nerve you? Do those umpteen epitaphs the citizens of this world face each day serve as a reminder to you? Or for you citizens only belong to countries, regions or worse, religions? The purpose of my words is not to stir you to action, as even epics can not dragoon you that far, but it is to stir your conscience and let you witness the pain and atrocities at a global plethora and realise how infinitesimally miniscule and inconsequential are those fears and pains that we bear. So next time you bruise your knee or strain your wrist, or are down with fever or loose a friend, or even love of your life… remember there are far bigger unheard stories that speak of elegies of pain a human mind can seldom imagine and a human body can never endure. That’s why my pain, courtesy an accident on a road connecting