A man, A mind, and nothing else

Breakaway.

2011-09-29T00:14:00.004+05:30

So I've studied a little, and have miles to go before I sleep. Yet, I feel the yearning to write. As always I do, when I ought to be studying. It's a strangely vicious cycle.

"Tied up and twisted the way I like to be -
For you, for me;
Come crash into me."

- Dave Mathews Band, Crash Into Me.

Rage Against the Machine.

2011-09-01T22:11:00.003+05:30

We depend so utterly upon the machines in our life - how would be manage life without cellphones, laptops, the internet, or any of the other ubiquitous technologies that define life in our current age? But this post isn't about that - it's about something that's much grander, and far more important.

This post is about my skills in chess - more specifically, how I'm managing against my computer. So I've only ever played chess against my brother, other than a (very) few random matches here and there - occasions where I mostly had my ass handed to me, because when you only play chess against one person - you refuse to think that people can pull moves that he can't.

The game has always fascinated me, but I don't possess the patience to look two moves ahead, let alone the 15 or so required to be a truly good player. But I've been trying really hard to make some headway against the Chess thoughtfully provided in Windows 7. After running through levels 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 - I finally have a win-loss ratio on level 6 of 3:1. I'm quite kicked about this, even though it seems minor as I write about it now.

A painful combination of projects, work on various things, deadlines whooshing by and loads of stress has a regular response from me - indulging in music, my competitive spirit on trifles, and chatting with all and sundry. And clearly, writing Blog posts.

But this comes from a time where I was atleast trying - and it's damned fucking good to be back there. And yeah, it kicks ass to be able to beat the bastard computer at chess. Take that, programming. I'm not going to be predictable, I'm not going to be anticipated. I am human, and I'm going to do things my way.

The Times of India has lowered quality, says committee

2011-01-16T17:19:00.000+05:30

Just 4-6 articles sans spelling mistakes a week, rising instances of sensationalism,alleged sex and drinking amongst journalists, and indifference to journalists sucking up to the Radias in the world seems to suggest a serious decline in the standards of journalism.

This is the dismal state of affairs at the Times of India, one of India's premier news and media agencies, as painted by the many commenters that assessed the 168 year old group .

Observing that ToI has moved away from the phase of 'journalism and honesty' to 'sensationalism and yellow journalism', the commenters noted the drastic dilution injournalistic standards. "I think its time we filed a complaint with the Press Council of India. Its time these journos are taken to task. Fancy, printing such lies about a law school!", said commenter Darth Vader, on the ToI website, perhaps when noticing that certain portions added as comments to a Times of India article on the National Law School of India University, Bangalore, were unattributed to any specific person or document.

The committee of students from the National Law School reviewing this media agency were quick to point out that the reporter in question was unable to even discern whether the body appointed to review the functioning of NLSIU was a committee or a commission, both of which are decidedly different entities.

The committee of students are posting their report and opinions of the agency in real time, pointing out that this is in direct contrast to the ToI publicising a report that was made about two years ago. They also feel that exclusive access be damned, they want people to know that the reporters at ToI are in the crossfires for not figuring out how to report properly and making such absurd statements as there being only 4-6 hours of classes a week - something which the students often feel they'd very much like to have. Or stating that teachers never turn up, which they often do (again, often against the wishes of the students).

The report states that ToI reporters are often ignorant of and most indifferent to the concept of 'context' and knowing how to read dates and know when it would be of relevance, when it comes to news reports submitted by staff reporters. Also, clearly editors don't love their job or are just plain terrible at them. Further, appointment of 4 year olds (of lowered intellectual ability and no journalistic experience) to handle reporting (journalists) and absence of a formal way to get them to check their facts before going to press has drawn flak.

PS: - 1. Based on the ToI article here - http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/bangalore/Law-School-has-lowered-quality-says-CJI-committee/articleshow/7289201.cms

2. For excellent reasons to IGNORE the above article, see the amazing Legal Poet - http://www.legallyindia.com/toi-report-lambasts-nlsiu-inaccurate-cursory-reporting-link-to-reservation-demands

3. This is obviously completely tongue in cheek. I mean, it seems obvious to me that ToI's standards are falling/fallen, but that's my opinion. And I'm expressing it. And yes, I know things are probably not perfect at NLSIU - but where are they perfect? And if someone has to point out the flaws, perhaps they wouldn't do it quite so stupidly next time?

Rant of the Month - Ep.1

2010-09-01T07:16:00.004+05:30

I've decided to have a rant of the month, mostly because I love to rant and also because I love to poke fun at people. This is an idea that I've had for a while (taken from here) that I discussed with Sharmila as well; hopefully, we can rant about something together for the next one.

So, this one's for September.

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE

As with most offensive things, it's a good idea to start with a caveat or two.

I don't have a problem with all Americans. And when I say Americans, I mean citizens of the United States of America, not all those belonging to the American continents (North or South). If you're friends of mine, if you view this blog (or are seeing this on Facebook and are on my friends list) you're probably not the people I'm ranting about. Probably.

Also, if you can't take this as constructive and funny criticism, fuck off.

The United States of America and its creation (like they'll ever let anyone forget) was a milestone in world history. It spawned the creation of what is today a superpower that straddles the Earth and covers it not only politically, but culturally as well - you'll find some aspect of Americana in nearly every nation of this world. They have come to symbolise a fuck-load of shiite, and most of it is negative.

To be fair, the American ideology is something that does inspire. Everyone, come to America and be an American citizen. Live the good life, be accepted and work hard, and all will be well. Your rights are important to us, we believe in free speech, expression, liberty and the right to work, and all that jazz.

Unless you're, today -
a) A muslim - we care if your President is Muslim so much that we create gargantuan amounts of buzz about it.
b) A homosexual - yeah, we're not going to let you marry. We don't like you. Parts of our country are slowly taking away rights and freedoms you used to have.
c) A mexican/asian/puerto rican/whatever - stop taking away our jobs, you lazy people who work way harder than us! Off with you. Sure, our country was built on your asses. Sure, we're probably immigrants from another generation. But we're America. So fuck off.
d) A European - you're probably a crazy sex fiend. Or worse, a pinko liberal.
e) Anything not Christian - you're free to choose your religion, as long as you pick Jesus - so help me, God.
f) Pro-environment - don't you lecture us on that. We love our SUVs, and we love burning shiite up. The great American outdoors was built so that we could make a mess of it and the preservation of wildlife.

And what is accepted as American? The idea of consumerism - rampant and destructive. The idea that Reality TV and mind-numbing nonsense that gets broadcast to you every day and every second is your only source of entertainment. The concept that the lives of celebrities and their latest scandals are the coolest things around.

What is really horrendously annoying to me, of course, is that the USA can take perfectly hard-working and healthy people from a continent, and through the traumatic process of making them slaves and then fighting a war to free them, you've turned the lot into crazy people who go around calling people 'hos and spelling their names in ludicrous (pertinent example here would be Ludacris) fashions, and consider blowing caps in people's asses (trust American culture to be so messed up that masculinity and being dominating on screen has homoerotic references).

Then, there is what Americans have done to sport. No one, anywhere, can conceivably understand why they should call running around with an oblong in your hands while attempting to run over people as they try to bash your brains out counts as 'football'. What in the world does it have to do with your foot?!

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But let's be serious for a bit, now. Perhaps the greatest problem that America faces is in the way it conceives of itself against the world, and how it pictures its own identity. What Americans can certainly be lauded for is their strong lip-service to the American identity, and what it means to them. The fact that people today desire American citizenship so fervently can be seen as a tribute to that idea and what it means to people. But that being said, you can't define yourselves unless you know something about yourselves and the rest of the world.

Education
The American education system at the graduate and post-graduate level continues to set standards for excellence in education, and institutions such as Harvard, Columbia, Stanford, Yale and the like are beacons and trademarks of a quality of education that has not yet been successfully seen elsewhere. The sort of academic rigour, coupled with vast amounts of academic freedom have led to American University education being incredibly sought after - mostly by non-Americans. This is because at the primary and secondary levels, education in the USA continues to suffer from a strange amount of ... well, for lack of a better word, shiite.

American schools are currently identified and portrayed across the board as centres wherein children are obsessed with all the wrong things, where classes and children are often out of control and out of their depths in a strange combination of pop-culture and education that has vandalised a system that had much to offer as a role model in terms of letting children teach themselves while being guided. If this wasn't enough, educators have also decided that making strange demands of the education system (such as teaching Intelligent Design) are ways of teaching children in a manner that will 'subscribe to American values', but fail to spot the obvious problem of it-is-all-bullshit.

Healthcare
Healthcare in America is a touchy issue, and rightly so. Costs for the average American have increased, both in terms of medicines as well as the cost of testing and surgeries. The old safety net of health insurance has often failed due to unreasonable policies used by insurers, including those which rule out certain procedures which might save the lives of patients. Insurers and hospitals often have linkages, leading to patients in dire straits being forced to move at the moment of being stable to another hospital. All patently ridiculous.

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Okay, I'm tiring out now. More later.

PS - Heck, yeah. I know. India's probably worse off. Most countries are worse off. But that does not take away from me my ability to complain and point out crap. Not to mention, Americans were doing better before - but are not doing so well now, so this might be construed to be a critique based on relativism.

And Here I Dreamt I was an Architect - The Decemberists

2010-07-16T05:48:00.002+05:30

And here I dreamt I was a soldier
And I marched the streets of Birkenau
And I recall in spring
The perfume that the air would bring
To the indolent town
Where the barkers call the moon down
The carnival was ringing loudly now
And just to lay with you
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
Save lay my rifle down

And try one, and try two
Guess it always comes down to
All right, it's okay, guess it's better to turn this way

And I am nothing of a builder
But here I dreamt I was an architect
And I built this balustrade
To keep you home, to keep you safe
From the outside world
But the angles and the corners
Even though my work is unparalleled
They never seemed to meet
This structure fell about our feet
And we were free to go

And try one, and try two
Guess it always comes down to
All right, okay, guess it's better to turn this way

And here in Spain I am a Spaniard
I will be buried with my marionettes
Countess and courtesan
Have fallen 'neath my tender hand
When their husbands were not around
But you, my soiled teenage girlfriend
And how you are furrowed like a lioness
And we are vagabonds
We travel without seatbelts on
We live this close to death

And try one, and try two
Guess it always comes down to
All right, okay, guess it's better to turn this
But I won, so you lose
Guess it always comes down to
Alright, it's okay, guess it's better to turn this way.

The Beautiful Game

2010-06-16T08:45:00.003+05:30

I was barely 11 years old when I got my first taste of football. My father made a wager on the German team at the 1998 World Cup in France. I remember I got a t-shirt which had Footix (the mascot) on it. It was quite an experience, sitting up and watching the tournament with my family. I remember worshipping Jurgen Klinsmann, being overawed by Davor Suker, and falling in love with Ariel Ortega. I remember flashes of Baggio's play, Zidane's magic, and Peter Schmeichel. To put it simply, I fell in love with the game.

Since then, I've always tried to be clued into all that's happening with international football. And my father's earlier faith in Germany is something that has carried through. My love for Del Piero and Roberto Baggio encouraged my support for Italy. Inspite of my absolute admiration for players such as Rivaldo, Ronaldinho, Edmilson and the like, I've never been able to make myself like Brazil. They play the 'beautiful game', but I like supporting underdogs. They're usually not the underdogs, in any World Cup they enter.

This year, however, I'm a bit disconnected. I feel like it might not be happening at all. What's most worrying, of course, is that I'm apparently not missing much. All the plays seem to be defensive, the big teams are disappointing, and while Germany is being Germany and destroying the opposition in their first game itself, I think we're all aware that Germany has a tendency to not win World Cups - at least, it hasn't in my lifetime.

I shall be done with examinations soon, and I shall be free to watch this game that is the closest thing to a sporting passion I have. That being said - I hope the bloody tournament shapes up before then. Because if it doesn't, I'm going to find the closest thing I can to something to blame, and shove a vuvuzela or a Venezuela or whatever those crazy things are so far down someone's throat that if I blow it, it'll seem like they're breaking wind.

2010-05-25T04:14:00.003+05:30

The sound of the empty blank night,

Hides not the sins that make our lives.
For it cannot be lost, the pleasure
Innate to us, our buried treasure -
Lost amongst shades of morality;
Sweet conundrum that fucks reality.

For we cannot escape who we are,

Though the Lord above who sees far,

Demands from us this sacrifice -
Your freedom for faith and strive,

For lack of self and more of the divine -

But nothing seems to bridge the divide

Between desire and permissions

From this world's intercessions

And from the heart's omissions.

Yet, we strive to maintain this evil balance,

Between our urges and our conscience -

For no good reason that really does exist,

Save that we've been told we cannot permit,

To consider how our lives are betwixt

As the impulses awaken our craving.

Intangible.

2010-04-25T03:13:00.004+05:30

What a world it would be,

If only we could see -

All those things intangible,

Would it make it more manageable?

I'd see the stormy clouds of your mood,

The lightning of your thoughts as you brood

What you consider to be my indiscretions,

That come across to you as condescension

Of the time we spend together, across the paths
Laid out by wires and not really through art.

Or the bleeding red of my heart.

Or perhaps we should speak

Of the things that are indiscreet -
The empty plots of the lack of words -

The vacuous silence of moments awkward,

Following which you unleash
The moods that make me beseech,

All the forces that be -

That I could actually deal

With the distance that holds us apart -

Which only seems to make us spar

On matters which ought not to matter,

Like the idiotic words that patter

Out of mouths best left broken,
Given the hate they awaken.

Yet always there is hope -
That we'll find a way to cope.

And in that hope life remains -
As our constant efforts drain
From us our bits of joy -

As you, darling, remain coy.
Such if life, and so it'll be -
But one day I know we'll be free,

Of all that's wrong and breeds

Through our unhappiness.

A Rhyming Bed Time Story, sent via SMS.

2010-04-03T12:32:00.002+05:30

There once was a man who was heartbroken,
Sad and tired, his will completely taken -
He looked out the window on a new day,
And found nothing in it for him to stay.

Upset and bewildered, he walked out that day -
He wondered if there was ever going to be a way,
For him to get a proper lay.

He ran into Candy, the neighbourhood ho',
She was hot, but everyone'd been there before,
She made her usual offer, but he chose to convey -
His recalcitrance over having to pay
For something meant to be a mutual pleasure;
She laughed and said "Hon, you're a treasure",
"If you can keep me satisfied and groovy,
Maybe I'll throw you a freebie."

So he felt he had little to lose -
And went ahead, ready to cruise,
They went to his place and made crazy love;
Sometimes from below, sometimes from above -
And at the end she was breathless -
Through her noises, he could see he
Had achieved some success!
Smiling, he let her make her exit,
Only to discover that his wallet
Had been lifted!
It was there, but it was empty -
With nothing there, not even a twenty.

But just as he was about to lose faith,
He saw a note lodged within -
He picked it up and opened the crease,
In it he saw written -
You were good Hon, but it's a lot of money -
And in case, I like you too much, honey;
If you want it, you'll have to earn it slowly.
Come back tomorrow, same time if you're willing,
And we'll see if we can still keep it swingin'.

So in the end, the moral remains -
You never really never know what you want,
And you may never really get it;
But if you try sometimes, you'll find what you need -
And often, that's what you get when you do the deed.

---------------------------

This is an original piece, slightly modified from the original version sent to Surabhi in a series of texts when asked for a bedtime story. Her first observation was that I'd have traumatized children - and I must agree. :-)

Waiting.

2010-03-19T02:12:00.003+05:30

It's 2.15 AM. And I am, as usual, having trouble sleeping. I'm thinking of things that I shouldn't be, and worrying about other things that are beyond my control. I'm wondering about the future, and contemplating what it holds for me - and for the people I hold dear. I'm hoping that things will take a turn away from the dreary, and that by some miracle, circumstances will fall into place. I laugh at myself, silently, when I realise how silly I sound in my own head - and how, as I watch myself, I am constantly striving to amuse myself by belittling me.

But most of all, I'm waiting for the future. Waiting to see what it holds, and to respond to it. I'm not, by most measures, a very impulsive person. I like to see things happen, and then react to them and have my ends and means crystallise. People who plan, organise, and try to bend the world to their will don't appeal to me and neither does their perspective of the world. The world's a funny, crummy, and jaded kind of place - but it has a terrible and stupefying inertia that will not be outdone by the mere jottings on paper of a few, in their intellectual ivory towers. Gandhi said that one should be the change that one is trying to see in the world, and I fully believe in that. But no plan, no one take on anything, is going to change the world.

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Terry Pratchett and his universe never cease to stupefy me in their variety, their humour, their good natured mischief, and what I suspect to be one of the most astute sociological deconstructions of human society. Pratchett's take on deductive reasoning (such as that exercised by Sherlock Holmes in fiction) amused me to no end - he said that the sort of person who looks a man up and down and concludes by calluses on the hand, clothing, etc. that an individual performs a certain function in society, has a certain career, and so on is completely belittling of the depth and variety that the human experience or understanding provides us - because for every deduction that one makes, one misses out a plethora of possible explanations for that set of circumstances which, while highly improbable, still manage to happen quite often merely due to the size and complexity of the globe we live in.

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2010-02-05T03:23:00.002+05:30

I happened to wish an acquaintance on their 23rd birthday today - participating in that Facebook ritual that has become the norm. Go to the Home page, look to the right, click the links, type out a hasty "Happy Birthday! Have a good one!" and then move onto the next person on the list until you're done. Quite uncomplicated, and it saves me the usual trouble I have because I can't remember birthdays to save my life.

But a post on his wall reminded me of something all of a sudden that I felt a near physical blow. Nearly 4 years ago (about 20 days short) I was sitting in front of a computer, and I was talking to my brother online. He hooked me onto a song called 23 by Jimmy Eat World. And told me it was how he felt, because that's the age he'd just turned. A song about regrets and a love life - he told me, cheerfully, to ignore the latter. The song stuck a chord in me then, but most good music does. I listened to it for a couple of months, made other people listen to it once in a while, and then it slowly faded away.

But it's been 4 years. And I suddenly know what he meant. How many people can I say, confidently, will be there with me at the end of my days? How many things have I accomplished that I shall look back at in the future with a smile and some pride? Where did those four years go?

Some people say that the teenage years are the worst - adolescents in adult bodies learning how to move and interact in this world of ours. But these years are probably tougher - learning how to BECOME a part of this world. To find our place. Not one of those identity crisis, riddled with angst that we feel when we're 16 and frustrated. But an emptier, more questioning feeling which comes accompanied with a greater knowledge of our capabilities, a bankruptcy of our dreams and hopes, and a rather harsh crash into reality.

Come a few months, I'll be 23. As the song says, I won't always live with these regrets. There will come a time, I'm certain, where I'll be content. But that thought scares me as much - are my sights set too low? Am I really doing all that I can to be all that I might be? Am I really doing justice to who I am? I guess we'll never know. No one will.

But it's all about what we're hoping for. For making those moments count. To rededicate yourself to make your life better, and the lives of those around you better. I'm living with a memory that's playing tricks on me, in an institution that seems to destroy optimism and hope, and yet there are many who emerge from it better people. One of those people will be me, come the passing of a year and three months. And these years will be of value to me. And I hope to use what I learn, and more importantly, what I have become, to gain a place on this world that fills me with purpose.

2010-01-16T16:09:00.005+05:30

There is something inherently trippy about listening to the Nine Inch Nails. Listen to the strains of Just Like You Imagined as they remind you of something grand, something abstract, the sort of feeling bittersweet dreams of longing are made of. The pain that's so great that it's almost sweet as it stirs you and rips out your heart.

Listen to The Perfect Drug to feel that obsession course through your blood. To feel it under your skin. Insidious, and inescapable. The feeling of being dirty, being compelled, and still completely hating yourself for being that what you are, but loving the sensation of being exactly that, loving the feeling of self loathing and giving in to addiction.

Listen to Closer to feel that animal lust course through you, feel it take you over. Rip out every shred of your humanity. Feel the lust envelop you, as your eyes close involuntarily and you squirm to the beat and the absolutely divine feeling of being sinful. You can feel yourself yearn for the friction as the heat of the images burning on the inside of your eyelid overwhelm you.

Listen to Hurt to feel real pain. Real exhaustion. The absolute musical embodiment of pathos and loneliness and lack of dignity in being completely devoid of hope and brimming with the tragedy of loss of your self, loss of those who were dear, and the loss of youth, opportunity and aspiration.

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I really cannot fathom a life without music - a song in my head, a tune on my lips. A beat coursing through the paths in my head, moving my legs, keeping me going. Marching to the beat not of any known drummer, but thinking of a 4 x 4 all the while. The lyrics, as I imagine then, rather unlike the entire reality, as they echo in my head, spouting rhyming little bits of flotsam some of which strike a chord, and others which just cause me to be lost in an entirely new universe. I love music.

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Just struck some Metallica on Grooveshark. None of their new fucking crap. And right now I'm singing along with Low Man's Lyric at the top of my voice. I can't believe how much this hits me every time, every single time I listen to it. It's absurd. Scary. Just irrational. But I can't bring myself to care. His voice in the song is so raw, so full of feeling - harsh, abrasive, it rubs you the wrong and the right way all at once. And the words - they make poetry. They really do. This is hyperbole we've all heard before, but I mean it. It's performing art, not commercial rock music. But that's a Metallica from before.

And of course, the Unforgiven II. Now, I've heard over and over again how the second Unforgiven is inferior to the first. I don't care. I love it. The song has true feeling attached to it. I know I'm running out of adjectives, but I sometimes feel Unforgiven II is actually a kind of musical symphony. It isn't complex, but that guitar lick gets imprinted on my brain, and then the music never leaves.

Then, AC/DC. Bikes on a highway, people in leather, screechy guitars, screechier vocals, and that drumbeat and that guitar - guaranteed to put a spring in your step, and to make you want to feel tough, make you want to look good, look retro. You keep trying to sing, keep trying to sound that hoarse like in Back in Black - it sounds just so fucking cool. Damn.

"I'm out for what I can get -
If you know what I mean;

Women to the left of me,

Women to the right -
And got no gun,

And got no knife;

Don't you start no fight.

'Coz I'm TNT - I'm dynamite

And I'll win the fight ... "

Definitely not the most intelligent words out there. But guaranteed to make you smile. And guaranteed to make you wish for some aviators, and the wide open roads. The true spirit of Rock n' Roll. Here's to hoping it'll never die.

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So, what's on my music menu? I got myself some of the musical complexity and the epic storytelling of Iron Maiden, the trippy and absolutely adorable Pixies in 'Hey', the anthem Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, and Wolfmother. I'm going to have me a good couple of hours.

It's good to have you back, boys. Let's make some noise.

Distributed Identities

2009-12-11T07:28:00.003+05:30

A few things have happened close to each other that fueled my desire to write on the subject of identity. I happened to read (what I thought to be) an excellent collection of essays and writings on the subject of India by Shashi Tharoor (of Twitter fame) named 'The Elephant, The Tiger and The Cellphone', within which while speaking of Amartya Sen, quoted him as saying the following:

The same person can be, without any contradiction, an American citizen, of Caribbean origin, with African ancestry, a Christian, a liberal, a woman, a vegetarian, a heterosexual, a believer in gay and lesbian rights, a theatre lover, an environmental activist, a tennis fan, a jazz musician, and someone who is deeply committed to the view that there are intelligent beings in outer space with whom it is extremely urgent to talk (preferably in English)'.

It's a powerful way to get his point across, and marvellous food for thought. Tharoor uses it to draw his usual conclusions (nigh banal by the end of the book) about unity in diversity. But it gave me a reason to pause and consider many things.

First, that any breakdown of an individual into how so many ever identities still represents a loss as to who that complete person is. There is always going to be more to an individual than we can express in a set of labels that we seek to have applied to him/her. Second, that a label is often perceived as an ideal type, in that calling someone a Christian represents an image of a Bible reading Church attending kind of guy/gal, which seriously ignores a wide and well populated part of the Christian spectrum. It's essentially a kind of type-casting, as well - tell someone that he/she is *insert label here* often enough, they'll turn into that or turn into the direct opposite. Identities are such nebulous things that we'd be better off without them at all. But it's hard to imagine that ever happening. It's a by-product of our incessant urge to classify.

The most fascinating identities, however, are the ones that we construct around ourselves. Say, one of being an alpha male or a metrosexual. How much of what we like to call ourselves is a product of what we do and feel and recognising that, and how much of it is us moulding our actions so as to suit the label that we want to portray to the outside world? Strong, confident men and women often fall to pieces when the going gets tough. We're all wearing all sorts of absurd masks in an attempt to look better, more moral, sexier, more intelligent, more challenging, more ... whatever we WANT to be, as opposed to what we really are.

What actually caused me to think about this with more vigour than my usual set of random thoughts was what's recently happened in Andhra Pradesh with regard to Telangana. For those not completely in the know, a portion of a state within India is pushing for statehood. They cite no particular reason to consider them to be separate from the rest of the State, as far as I can fathom. I do accept that I probably know very little about this, but I'm not making an argument that's specific to it, but a broader one as a whole.

National identities are both constructed and encouraged by nation states looking to cement the cohesiveness that would strengthen the said nation. As far as I see it, there are some elements that are often used to bind a nation state - language, religion, culture, ethnicity, and a common enemy. In India, we have more languages than can be reasonably counted; the same holds true for religion, as well. Anyone who has travelled through India would know that the culture in the North East is completely different from the Punjabi culture in the north and west (and some would argue that Punjabi culture is no culture at all), and the South is just a whole different ball game. There are more races and identities in India than can be reasonably expected to be brought under any one head, and India earns the 'melting pot' epithet far too well. This leaves the 'common enemy'. And I don't think any rational or reasonable person would want India to need to unite under the banner of hating Pakistan, especially given that they are nuclear neighbours with what has often been only a tenuous control over their emotions and passions which tend to run wild over many things, not in the least cricket matches.

The divisive nature of the many identities existing within the Indian populace (stuff like North-South, this language versus that language, the ever-present and always ugly communalism, etc.) is just absurd. Especially given that a single person can, like Amartya Sen said, be an Indian citizen, or North Indian/Aryan origin, with Persian ancestry, an athiest liberal, a non-vegetarian environmentalist, a heterosexual who believes in the LGBT movement and welcomes the Naz Foundation judgement, a lover of rock music, a fan of science fiction, fantasy and dramatic cinema, an avid watcher of several comic TV shows, a law student with an interest in technology, a debater with an interest in quizzing, and someone who is deeply committed to the view that people should let other people do whatever the fuck they want as long as it doesn't directly affect them. And that is, as you should have guessed, me.

In such a world, and in such a nation - does it make more sense to pick on one of these identities to clash over and demand rights? Or better to find the damn common ground? Well, as long as we can converse in English - my Hindi is, frankly, bollocks.

I'm not particularly patriotic, or patriotic at all - but I do believe that we shouldn't shoot ourselves in the foot.

2009-10-30T21:59:00.002+05:30

We've shifted house.

Again.

The good thing about this, of course, is sorting out the books. I'm taking my own sweet time over it, and I love it. There are so many different books, by so many different authors, and they each call out to me. I can't say I've read them all, but I want to - from the incredibly complex ones (like a dream interpretation book my brother left at home) to the racy, thriller sort or the cool Dollar western books.

What's interesting is that ANY good book teaches you something interesting - something you wouldn't know about before picking up that book. It could teach you something about yourself or something about the world. I remember an interesting Star Wars book which was discussing the religious philosophy of a warring alien species - it stated that the gods give us three gifts. The first is life, and is the least of their gifts; it is so that we may experience their works and their power. The second gift they give us is pain - a way for you to know that they exist, and a way for them to tell you their will and what they want of you. Pain is the teacher, the imperative, and the strength of the Gods - their method to communicate. The last gift they give us is Death - their greatest gift, and their freedom from life, and pain.

I don't particularly like life being denigrated so and death being glorified, but I agree with the general assessment of pain. Then, there's Digital Fortress by Dan Brown - it taught me never to put up anything private about blowing things up, because they can always catch you. Not exactly something that sets the gray cell synapses afire, but definitely interesting reading.

I'm reading a James Hadley Chase now - interesting opening, but waiting for it to develop. Some holiday this is turning out to be, in terms of relaxation; but I'm learning a lot, I have Ria, and there is parental bonding. :-)

Life's good.

Sights, sounds and tastes.

2009-10-11T23:45:00.003+05:30

I woke up a few days back with the smell of her. Not 'her', the one I'm with. Not even 'her', the one I was with. But a her from the past. Strange. Not all too far back in those mists, but not someone I'd imagine would have that sort of impact. Just a strange, milky, odd smell that I never could understand. It wasn't particularly attractive to me; but it was what it was. And it was there. As I moved up and quickly got ready for class, the many other smells the hostel provides inundated me; but the memory persisted for the day. Quite strange.

I find it oddly compelling to be caught in the headlights of a vehicle. It happened to me while I was standing at the side of the road, just yesterday. A power cut cast a sudden veil of darkness over everything - and then, to my left against a wall was my shadow, bright, due to a motorcycle coming towards me. As it zoomed by, I saw my shadow move blurrily, slowly change shape and disappear. Just one of those things that made me stop and stare, at the spot where the silhouette had been.

Idiocy seems to be ruling the roost, what with people taking rules to be absolutes and lacking the common sense to use them wisely. It redefines intelligence to impose stupid limitations without reason, especially since the reasons for those limitations are valid ones. But a toe outside the line isn't dangerous - and if you're trying to protect someone, if your function is the safety of someone through such limitations, punishing them for what is not naturally a violation of those things is patently ridiculous. Power isn't meant to be used in that fashion.

2009-09-08T05:48:00.002+05:30

There are times when I just need to disconnect. The Facebook feed is switched off. And people are no longer watching. At least I hope.

I have spent some good time talking to my roommates, making soup(s) and noodles. And it was incredible fun. There was some studying for tax involved too. (Unbelievers can check my notes. Fuck you all.) But I like such moods. Just a moment to stop and think.

There are so many things I want to be. So many people whose expectations actually mean something to me. And so many goals and targets I want to meet for them. It's love, hate, demand and supply all at once. A nebulous mix of economics and emotion. Who'd have guessed?

I sit here with plans to get to class soon, and all the problems, people and issues I have to face ahead of me. And fuck you all. In the ass. With chainsaws. I am not going to care anymore. It's been too long since I was myself. Someone reminded me of what I used to be. Of the people I used to stand up to. Of how awesome life used to be, for me. I've lost that shit. And I'm going to get it back.

Que sera sera. Being the coolness I want to be from now on forth.

Goodnight.

Identity

2009-08-23T01:18:00.002+05:30

The darkness is a silent and welcome companion. I find myself much happier staying awake at night and doing some light (or, if not at all sleepy, heavy) reading, and love how contemplative I feel in the comforting shroud of the dark. While I love reading and have read much, I must somewhat shamefully admit that a lot of the world of ‘literature’ itself has been alien to me. I have often read some of the classics in truncated children’s versions; and will often pick a fiction book of comedy such as Terry Pratchett over, say, a Milan Kundera. I have, again, read some philosophy – but clearly not enough to honestly be able to say that I have grounding in that, either. Other than Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell, some Foucault, Chomsky, Gramsci and some J.S. Mill, all that I have read has been based on readings for class, or something of that sort. I just pretend to know enough, though I’ve probably gotten more from Wikipedia than actually reading anything.

I like pretensions, though. I have a lot of them. I like coming across as harsh and rude. In many ways, it’s a defence mechanism for having to shift around more often than Salman Rushdie during the fatwa (I only say this after reading a collection of his essays – a must read). As a new person everywhere you go, you swiftly learn that niceness is almost always likened to weakness. I remember a few funny incidents, and besides it being 2:48 AM, I have little reason to not talk about them. I had just shifted to Bombay from Calcutta; I had joined a school in the heart of the city, full of privileged brats. In my Calcutta school, I had been the privileged brat. Friends would gape at the size of my house, and I was perhaps the first student to possess a Nike t-shirt soon after it entered India. Bombay, however, proved to be the undoing of any pretensions I had of being cool. Being in a boy’s school in Calcutta had made me forget about how I looked, which was mostly irrelevant where there were no women to preen yourself for. At the age of 13, I was overweight, wearing glasses that can sympathetically be called ‘geeky’, and was sorely lacking in any kind of social grace. My awareness of pop culture was also coloured through the glasses of my elder brother and my father – I knew of Eric Clapton, adored the Beatles, was beginning to notice Aerosmith, and was smitten by the raw sound of the Guns n’ Roses. Yet, when I was asked if I know who Eminem was, I thought they were referring to the brand of chocolate (‘M & M’s) that I would often see on the covers of the Archie comics I sometimes read and wonder about.

So, the incident was when I pretended to know a little basketball. A new court had just been made in my school in Calcutta. Mom had been nice enough to buy us a plastic backboard, and we hung this from our window facing outwards and played in the driveway of our apartment building. It was nowhere close to being high enough; but I did learn some cool moves from a visiting elder cousin brother who was 6’2” and a state-level player at some point. Sure that I would dazzle the kids when I reached Bombay, even after having played perhaps 4 times before this, I told them that I knew how to play basketball ‘decently’, with an air of confidence I did not feel. That confidence was still in me when a boy named Karan Walia (I think; I’m not entirely sure) decided to divide up teams; he did so by pushing us one way or the other. Piqued at being touched and still buzzing with my false self assurance, I went up to him and pushed him back – and with forced indifference asked him not to take offence, since I’d always push back those who pushed me. When I’d been laughed at, with some “oooohs!” for effect thrown in, the game began; and sure enough, I was pushed down by Karan not long after. I did have a small miracle – I happened to score two three pointers during the game (and never have, since).

***************************

I was discussing one amongst my many embarrassing stories (most involve women, my idiocy, miscommunication and some mishap or the other) and I wondered what I was really like. Most people perceive me a certain way, and it amazes me how varied some of these personas can be. Many see me as rough, rude and abrasive. Most know me to be someone who laughs with others about himself and his own follies. Some are convinced that I am offended when they make fun of me. Others are certain I could take anything they said and make it sound lewd. A few see me as a sensitive ‘emo’ person (especially with this blog). An individual believes I could be gay. Others believe that anyone could believe this to be unbelievable. Friends from Delhi remember me almost always wearing t-shirts and jeans. Friends from college will remember shirts with the folded sleeves. Friends from before law school will remember shoes; friends from after will remember slippers and sandals. If we are as transient as I know we are, then the impression we leave on people is our true legacy. Well, mine’s a jumbled up piece of shit.

Of course, some perceptions are just bizarre. Like a junior being asked if I’m hot when I happen to plan to visit somewhere, and/or opinions of that sort being carried around. Or people thinking that I’m a charmer of some sort, when as far as I can see (and trust me, I have a good view of how I interact, especially with women), cocky is the word that springs to mind – the kind of cocky that would use that word to chortle, and definitely leave far from a wholesome impression on any mind. All this coupled with my lack of belief in any sort of assertion that I flirt, and this leaves me completely befuddled. The cockiness is to hide my lack of confidence. My impressions on people are also reflections – these mould what I am. People laughing at my jokes spur me on to being a funny man. People appreciating an aspect of my character or appearance are promoting it. I feel like a tabula rasa, and I love having that ability to change. It makes me who I am.

So I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow. But I’ll see you then. I don’t know what you’ll think – but while it might influence me, it might cause me to change something small, don’t forget that it doesn’t matter to me. Blank slates are indifferent to what is written on them; and what’s written can easily be erased. Patterns that have been formed can be grown out of. And probably will. Don’t get used to who I am. I’ll turn around and bite your ass. And when you believe I’m predictable, maybe you’re just setting yourself up for the fall.

Blink.

2009-08-19T01:51:00.003+05:30

The awkwardness seemed to abate, as they both stood there. Others were talking. There was nothing really there to be said. She turned and left, and after a second of contemplation, so did he. He went on his path, silent - but then, he was always a recluse. Walking alone, and it seemed to fit - walking alone, getting on by. This life suited him. But there was a ringing in his ears, a cacaphony of things that weren't exactly words - or even feelings. Just noises, that wouldn't seem to leave him alone.

A melancholy rose in him like a sickness - a rising tide of absolute disgust as the stupid instrument in his pocket refused his bidding. He needed contact, even though he wanted to be alone - just a strange little conundrum, among his many. He had spent the evening with her, with some others, and they'd all said goodbye - but he'd stayed, silent, on a side. Forgotten, or left out - either possibility didn't really work for him. He needed to get out while he could.

He returned, plastered that little smile, and pretended that things were well. Made small two second plans with friends. Then he retreated into his room, closed the door on the outside world, and watched a movie with his headphones on - reveling and hating his solitude.
-------------------------------------------------------------

Just a short thing that popped into my head. Not related to anything or anyone, and certainly not my state of mind. :-)

Comic # 3 - Geek v. Wiki

2009-08-01T06:06:00.004+05:30

Wikipedia has far too much information on it, and it's ruined more than a few movies for me because I can't resist reading the plot synopsis. However, with comic books, the allure of Wikipedia goes beyond the implication for movies. Full plotlines, connections, allusions in comic books to events past are all mentioned there with easy access. Conversations online (or otherwise) about comic book based issues are so much easier now for non-readers or not-so-avid readers of comic books that I'm sure several comic book geeks are sulking somewhere about how they can't talk crap and be taken seriously anymore.

Sucks to be them.

Lesson # 1 - Teh Internetz.

2009-07-31T05:32:00.003+05:30

So, we're back with Comic # 2, even though it's really Lesson # 1. Though if you were the discerning reader I would hope you were, you'd have noticed that the file name of the last one was "Honest does not work on teh internetz". Which would probably be the first lesson. Except I really can't be bothered.

I know I'm using pretty much the same setup for this comic, but I think it's a valuable lesson. Also, I had another comic lined up, but it isn't really internet related, except that it's based on a quote from Bash. Thought originality should take precedence over chronology.

Hope you guys like this one.

Washed Clean

2009-07-28T09:13:00.002+05:30

Pristine, pure and frigid streams,
Of change and stasis that seems -
To describe the life of reform,
That must now become my norm.

Early mornings no longer escape,
Attention through heavy drapes,
That hide the lights and sounds,
Of the fucking early birds that abound.

Jarring sounds of helpful devices,
Averting a near certain crisis,
As people scramble to be awake -
There's far too much at stake.

Waiting for the space to arise,
Where we can wash our sleepy eyes,
And trudge the long walk of shame;
Girls of yesteryear are to blame [1]

Hopeful looks at mechanical chariots,
Of fire and pistons for those who buy 'em,
And rush for the fast filling spots,
Except for the haves; the poor have nots.

Entry to the hallowed halls of learning -
Sitting with day dreams, so full o' yearning,
The fires of ambition constantly burning,
But the motivations are always churning.

And finally, being saved by the bell -
This place being a customised, individual hell;
But soon we'll be well qualified to sell
Our services, to save clients from their acts fell.

Innocence dies at the midnight hour,
As for means of intoxication we scour -
Taking sustenance for the coming day,
As the toll for all our tortured minds we pay.

---------------------------------------------------------
[1] - This is hearsay, but was also corroborated. I was told in my first year that the current boys hostel was originally meant to be the girl's hostel, but within a few months those stalwart ladies of yesteryear complained of 'creepy crawlies' and the distance, and the men were forced into a swap we're still cursing. This was corroborated by an old building plan that used to be lying around in the Common Room.

This is pretty much a Law School only thing, at least in my head. But I'm sure a lot of people feel the same way about college in general. What really surprises me is the creeping realisation that many years down the line I'll probably consider this the best time of my life.

A (productive?) use for my time.

2009-07-27T07:48:00.001+05:30

This is the first one. I might make more. I'm bored enough.

Random oddities in the Internet Era

2009-07-27T04:12:00.003+05:30

The internet era is odd.

I'm online, chatting to someone who is a very close friend I ought to have stayed in touch with more, and Stumble threw up this amazing webcomic series called Last Place Comics .
I'm simultaneously reading Bash quotes online, and am astounded at the amount of funny things that one can find online.

Of course, I do occasionally think that the internet is a bit of a waste. Many have already said so, right? The amazing potential to do incredible things, but Aldous Huxley (in Brave New World, if I remember right) might have been the closest to predicting things when he surmised that in the future we'd all be cowed into submission by being flooded by inane information and base pleasures. Humankind is clearly not a species of the mind.

But when I think about the people from various parts of the world that I can speak to, get in touch with, comfort, start conversations, resolve issues, learn new things, find new sources of awesome, it all seems worthwhile.

Even though Al Gore thinks he invented it, kudos to the internet! :-)

Bad/Good determination - one indisputable instance

2009-07-25T03:56:00.002+05:30

This is too amazing for words.

Wonder

2009-07-20T05:18:00.004+05:30

Everytime I stop to think
And look within, trying to understand
The thoughts that go into who I am
Forever breaking away from the plan.

Am I a free spirit, ne'er to be held?
Or just a clumsy and unlucky oaf,
Who suffers times only fell -
These questions never stop,
And step into the inane;
Why must I only write poetry,
When most of my work remains?

There is some irony there,
Or maybe a lot -
I cannot know,
I'm just a dot -
Tiny and without depth,
In a world beyond perspective -
Wishing he was alive in another world,
Where Batman was truly the greatest detective.

So while I play the music in my head -
Yellow sung in Amber's squeaky voice;
I lie awake in my messy bed,
Thinking of the nature of choice.
Absurd as it is, I cannot figure
Why the circlets of silver and gold I treasure;
For they lock me in and mark me out,
Yet emotions mean I can't do without.

In any case, as I've sad 'ere before -
The secret of poetry,
It's very core -
Lies in knowing when it should end -
And yet I've overmade this, as I oft tend.
So without much ado,
I bid adieu -
To you, you, you and you.
--------------------------------------------

Silly whimsical poetry, but it's true - all this only happens when I'm up at night trying to get some damn work done on my bloody project. Mayhaps there is some merit in handwriting projects - Al Gore's 'information superhighway' won't be this temptation that's always around. However, it's good to know that the cell I'm in is now in full capacity, and has a new food cooling unit in it. :-)

Oh, and I've also realised that sketching doesn't happen unless you shouldn't be wanting it to happen. I took the pencils, took a sketchbook, went home for the holidays - and there was NO inspiration. None. And I'm back, without the sketchbook, and I'm making faces on ruled notebooks all day.

Someone has my puppet strings, and is being quite a jerk about it.

PS: Extra points for spotting the really sad pun.

Pandora

2009-07-19T04:40:00.003+05:30

So here we go again, down the same old road to places less travelled. Yes, I'm sure Robert Frost doesn't quite like the rehashing (or as someone else might call it, 'rapeage') of his poetic lines. But frankly my dear, I don't give a damn. Life is too bloody short, isn't it?

I've been through a lot, and there's a lot more to go through - but that's life for you. It doesn't make me special, it doesn't make me anything, it just is. One of those basic facts that can't easily be escaped, however much society might wish it so. I'm deriving some measure of peace from the idea that these are paths and feelings that have previously been traversed, and problems I can solve and deal with just as well.
-------------------------------

PS: I'm on Google suggestions! Don't know how/why that happened. Odd, innit?

EDIT - This made NO sense. :-)

The End.

2009-07-18T00:59:00.002+05:30

Over the rising and setting of many suns,
Many tales that have ended and begun -
Paths crossed and intermingled,
Sparks and stares that always did tingle;

Ideas and dreams that are long gone,
Cleaned away like wisps in a new dawn -
That burns and chases away hope,
While you rub your eyes trying to cope.

This is the end, beautiful friend -
A beginning, a middle, and conclusion that rends
Through the heart of a time
When things were greater and sublime.

Absurdist Stitch in Time Saves Rhyme

2009-06-21T01:37:00.002+05:30

Rolling, scrolling -
Finding meaning - that's boring.
Dreaming and screaming,
Thoughts that are just teeming,
Begging for release.
Seeking the one that sees
Life, for what it truly is -
Madness, and bliss;
Dished in unequal measure.
In small moments we treasure,
And trends that we dread,
Like working in bed -
No rest, no recuperation,
No dealing with temptation;
Just whiling away time,
Writing absurdist rhyme.

Where'd all the good spelling go?

2009-06-01T08:45:00.000+05:30

Despair

2009-04-05T05:55:00.002+05:30

Everything you thought you had,
Has gone from worse to bad.
Lean to the side, whisper it quiet,
The end is sight,
Workin', all night around the clock.
Everything you thought you had,
Has gone from worse to bad.

Powderfinger, My Kinda Scene

----------------------------------------

Fingers groggily moving to show
This world the thoughts that keep us low
In endearing moments of doubt and pain
Which shall be back tomorrow again
To bring back epiphanies that stain
Consciousness but bring no gain
To the hopes and dreams which refrain
From being reality; my constant bane.

Despair mounts in this witching hour -
The sun fights through to soon tower
Burning all that lies beneath,
Destroying the cool night's shadowy sheath
While the mark upon my head as a wreath
Of thorns that do constantly keep
Me from reaching the arms of slumber
To the hopes and dreams torn asunder
From being reality; a victim of plunder.

The bandits march and think of victory
Mindful of what is soon to be history
The vain stand vanguards defending
Stupidity and ignorance unrelenting
In their attempt to keep preventing
The birthing of hope in minds thinking
That seek to cross thresholds blinking
Watching with eyes unbelieving
The hopes and dreams that need freeing
To become reality; no more deceiving.

On the threshold of love one must always despair
Of the twists and turns that always do wear
Down the resolve that you seek to hold true -
With life and hope, to begin anew
The dreams of being, and hopes of serenity
That, in this life, is the only true divinity.

------------------------------------

Saying yes to life even in its strangest and hardest problems; the will to life rejoicing over its own inexhaustibility even in the very sacrifice of its highest types - this is what I call Dionysian, that is what I understood as the bridge to the psychology of the tragic poet. Not in order to get rid of terror and pity, not in order to purge oneself of a dangerous effect by its vehement discharge, but in order to be oneself the eternal joy of becoming, beyond all terror and pity.

Nietzsche

V Hates You All.

2009-04-04T21:14:00.004+05:30

Degenerates. Filthy scum who pollute the Earth with their pettiness and their disgusting need to fulfil their own base desires. I cannot stand you. I will not stand you. Those of you who choose to put your own selfish, emotional needs before the needs of others, acting unprofessionally to the extent of causing harm to people who are your colleagues. Those of you that see gain in spreading disinformation and stalling matters in an attempt to guide things in the direction in which you would like to see them go, so that you take the options away from those who ought to have it due to your petty incompetence. Those of you who take an innocent gesture to be something that you must express your concern for - though you care not for the person that you're defending. Just the person you wish to crucify.

You disgusting, revolting excuses for humanity - you dregs, you bottom-feeders, you retarded grovellers and haters who pollute this earth with your perfidious presence. You make excuses for all your vile actions, pretend to show reason when all you're doing behind your ugly visages is scheming for reasons that are obvious for anyone with half a brain cell. Your twisted notions of subtlety and your mob mentality with which you avidly seek to destroy the few people who are good around you in your environment. You betray the trusts of those around you with the ease with which others change clothes.

I hate you all.

Flying Fuckeroonis, this is REAL madness.

2009-03-11T06:01:00.002+05:30

http://www.badassoftheweek.com/quarrelsome.html

Leonidas, eat your heart out.

PS: Love the description. Sounds like how I would have written it.

Freedom.

2009-02-11T00:21:00.003+05:30

It's been a while. We'll take it slow.
You and me, together; let the music flow.
Day and night, the whispers sound -
"Did you hear? He's back around!"

It's time things were done, issues passed -
Silence is golden, and old thoughts crass.
Fresh steps do beckon, and pastures too -
It's time to be off doing something new.

I lost faith in myself, and my old self withdrew;
Loss of stability, and of grounding no news.
Time to shake off the old, and embrace the dawn,
Be ready to face the bright and early morn.

There was some weight to carry,
And some history too -
But that's done with,
No need to renew
Old ties that bind
And disgrace too
Time to be me
Find happiness,
Too.

Kill Valentine - for the right bloody reasons.

2009-02-08T14:03:00.004+05:30

So, let's be clear about this - I hate Valentine's day. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. For a variety of reasons.

1. I despise the colour pink.
2. The notion of a little winged baby determining my actions through a little bow and arrow is barf-worthy.
3. There's no point to being, well, all lovey-dovey on one particular day because the card companies want it.
4. Why are you letting the women emotionally blackmail you into getting chocolate and flowers?
5. Be a man. Do the right thing.

However, I am a whole-hearted supporter of couple liberty. In other words, I absolutely believe in, and am ready to fight for, the right of a couple to be with each other, hold hands, make out, hug, yadda yadda, without being forced to marry each other. I think this entire idea of catching poor kids out for a walk or some such and leaving them 'married' in your diseased understanding of what constitutes marriage is sick and repulsive.

Hence, inspite of being a vocal opponent of Valentine's Day and nonsense of that order, I am actually inclined towards doing something for it. So, here's the deal - how about suggestions? What should I do for Valentine's day? (something I wouldn't normally do). However, there are some rules - no flowers, no pink, and definitely no undying declarations of love. I'm not into any of that. Anything else in the general spirit of Valentine's Day you can think of? Comment and let me know! You might get ringside seats to me doing said thing, and making a fool of myself.

*Shudders* I HATE VALENTINE'S DAY. But I gotta save it. So I can kill it for the right reasons.

2008-12-01T19:24:00.002+05:30

Kind of accurate, isn't it? I love how the 'Zone of PAIN' encompasses both F-buddy and Friend without intruding on awkwardness.

When the World Ends.

2008-11-24T04:39:00.002+05:30

He had always liked gloomy weather. The slow, soft feel it gave him. The nature of an overcast day, and the sweet melancholy it caused to move through him. The subtly self reflecting thoughts that would surround and cocoon him, while he strove to create something new and beautiful with his mind. As he worked on his creation, he whistled a slow tune. He recalled the times spent with her, when he'd banter - the slow exposure of intelligence, a kind of mating dance that moved through little words and silent smiles the other could not see, across a distance.

He loved working with his hands. The exertion generally gave him cause to know that something had been made, some part of him had been put into that which he had created. The way a person felt about something that was created from a scratch would never be completely understood or appreciated by anyone but a creator such as he was. The beauty he saw in the patterns, in the colour, in the swirls of his paint across his canvas showed him the grace and beauty of nature's creation that could only be truly appreciated by art - turned inside out, so the very essence of the world and its contents could be appreciated within.

A true artist can often be told by something as small as his ability to get his hands dirty. Newcomers will always hesitate to have paint on their fingers. They would be scared of the feeling, the sticky feeling of their medium on their hands. The amount you have on you can tell an observer how comfortable you are doing what you're doing. Artists will have gifted fingers, and more often than not they shall be covered in the mark of their art - clay, paint, stone dust ...

He smiled as he noted his own hands covered to his wrist in colour. While this might bother others, he was happy to feel his sticky hands. He was certain that this was the purpose, the understanding, the bonding of an artist with his medium. The complete rapture of not shaping, but knowing the shape the object wants to take. Of being a facilitator in bringing the vision that is communicated to your mind. It was nearly spiritual, as he was certain that there was an idea out there, just looking for a place to emerge into the world of the real. He loved being the vehicle for the idea.

He was certain that he was appreciated and understood, and that his works were the way things should be. He didn't think of this as hubris or excessive pride; while there was little he knew about political science, he found it amusing that he agreed with both Karl Marx and Ayn Rand when they spoke of pride in the creation of something. Of course, as in all things, creative minds can make new conclusions from the same starting point. He started as all artists did - with an empty space in which to put his creation. He looked at the roof of his small home, and saw how it was filled with his art, and it always pleased him. In this secluded part of the city, he could spend his time here blissfully imbibing the feel of the weather, and not be worried about sounds or any human presence.

He felt unique in what he did. He cherished the happiness he was certain he brought to everyone, since he was certain that since everyone lived miserable lives, art was the vehicle of relief for them. He sought to make a triumphant vision of the perfection of the human form, of freedom from all that in life that binds, that limits. He tapped into the ultimate freedom that has been given - the potential that is hardwired into each of us at birth. He tried to show how perfection was found in the way nature formed and nurtured the human body.

The processes that deluded millions into belief in God, when it was merely natural selection. God was in the little details - in the microbes, in the harsh world that shaped the way we would be born, and how we would die, and how we would live. He paid obeisance to the forces that moved our life. He liked to think of himself as a force, as was everyone with the control of anything. He just wished, sometimes, that he could completely control his reactions. But then, wasn't there humanity in the absence of control? In the lack of perfection? How could perfection be defined, unless it was in the absence of something?

Evolution, like everything, sows the seed for its own survival. Time carries on, as a concept we like to measure by ephemeral temporal phenomenon. And the human body is like a singular bright spark, before it vanishes into nothing. He hoped to bring that to life, by trying to put into pictures his thoughts on the frailty of the human body. For if nothing was done to deal with that which the human body could not cope with, another creature would soon superscede human will and thought. The dependence upon implements created through human ingenuity not attuned to making humankind more comforted as opposed to disposed towards survival, as well as the propensity to create destruction in unimaginable scales.

As he thought this, he saw the smoke trails in the sky, and he knew the end had come.
-----------------------------------------

Food.
Hunger.
Movement - trace sensations. Vibrations in the air - movement. Hide. HIDE.
Food. Move swiftly.
Reached food. Consume. Who knows when it would come next?
Run away. Extreme heat. Discomfort. Hot air moving away at swift speeds. Scuttle away.
Safety.
Darkness.

And so the meek, shall inherit the Earth. The small creatures we dismiss as irrelevant. The ones we do everything to get rid of, but make it their sole purpose to live. Civilized, or otherwise.

For evolution doesn't care much about intelligence. It cares about survival.

Loving by Numbers

2008-11-04T17:44:00.003+05:30

We were following the signs.

Living by them and waiting for the fall.

We waited so well and patiently
Beginning and end - serendipity.

A start which was an intended end.
With a promise never to be seen again.
I fought those odds quoted, and won.

There was little to be said, and more felt;
In our little mobile world in which we dealt
Blows of sensation in bodily competition
With sighs of defeat; but never consternation.
I will miss the mirrored guilt of submission.

There were times when we found freedom
No dread of the future, as we saw them -
Parental censure and binding dodged.
Against the world, it seemed we fought
We fought the good fight, a little too well
Against each other, against ourselves
Wasted times, as I see them now.
What's done is done, anyhow.

All that begins must soon end.
The pain that seems to make our hearts rend.
The separation that comes by mutual consent
One we wouldn't have fathomed ere this dent
In our happy discord, our lovely personal chaos
Full of hope, love, and hilarious pathos
If the question is one of whom to blame
Neither of us can make that claim
To you, then, I dedicate this feeling
The one before which I'm constantly kneeling
My spirit stands strong, and I hope that lasts -
But you're the one who put it to task.
Never forget who I was.

When you're using Stumble too much.

2008-09-19T03:54:00.000+05:30

Ode to the Nice Guys
This rant was written for the Wharton Undergraduate Journal

This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.

The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

Fu-zu Jen, SEAS/WH, 2003

From http://www.stwing.upenn.edu/~jenf/writing/rant04.html, found using Stumble.

How to get past the blues ...

2008-09-19T03:37:00.002+05:30

I have never been quite so amused. It seems like the perfect way to get past the initial hesitation that seems to plague every potential couple/hook-up/interest/you-know-what-I-mean.

Isn't it awesome? I suggest that it be printed and carried everywhere. If used correctly, it would be considered rather droll.

"The world is a mess and I just ... need to rule it."

2008-09-19T02:19:00.002+05:30

In such an odd place, right now. Caught in the midst of so many things, my mind flying from one thing to the next without a pause - like being caught in a maelstrom. And yes, I hear the deadlines whooshing by. And while I might like the sound, there are several that carry with it a person trying to ensure that the work gets done in time.

Of course, these are the sort of times where a crisis of motivation will enter and cause issues with your plans. Sigh.

I wish I could just mechanically do it.

Puppeteering

2008-09-09T03:25:00.004+05:30

And when you look into a mirror, think of me -
Hanging above, where no eye can see.
Pulling the strings, and making you move;
You, making notches in the grooves
That guide your motion - and make you mine;
Targets of my scheme sublime.

Consider this a victory march -
Of the wrongs that live
Within the patriarch.
Consider this a funeral dirge -
Of innocence in life and hopes
That did once stir
Beneath a surface -
Ne'er to rise again.

I am the master and the slave.

2008-08-08T03:24:00.002+05:30

Death becomes her. Her, of the absorbing eyes and the smile that puts you both at ease and on edge, without having it quirk too hard. It's when you know you're at the mercy of something you don't quite know everything about - knowing that you have not a handle on things, yet things have control over you that you cannot fathom.

Thoughts come poring out of dreams conceived years ago - about ideas and expressions dealing with love, lust and all of that rot. But when one puts things in perspective, there is nothing more or less than what one wants at any given point of time.

There is nothing that is absolute - everything seems so utterly relative. Things said to you by an inane history teacher begin to make sense at the border between sobriety and the artistic attempt at fervour you dig deep out of your soul because you believe you ought to.

I'd recommend Madhushala by Harivansh Rai Bachchan to anyone who is even vaguely interested in poetry. Tracts translated into Hindi from the original Persian, they are brilliant depictions of the feeling of a man caught in a daze or stupor.

"I have not the valour to move forward,
Nor the courage to go back from whence I came.
To which of my deeds and hopes should I turn?
And far, far way, there stands the source of intoxication."

Hm. It does sound terrible in English.

The Fisherman

2008-08-06T16:10:00.003+05:30

He trailed his line into the water, watching the ripples make circles on the calm surface that distorted his image. He let his consciousness flow through his line into the water.

Into the world.

He saw smiles, tears, hopes, dreams, and reams of unpleasant feelings. Glimmers of love, tempered by vast tracts of need, selfishness and greed.

Yet, the Fisherman fishes. For the perfect feeling. For the perfect hope. For the perfect symbol of humanity, however jaded it might have become. He searches for true giving, and generosity.

It might never come, but who knows that goes through the mind of the fisherman? One who angles through all thoughts and dreams. In a land where he glides on the surface of our consciousness in the perennial early morning. In solitude. In a land where all you can see is your own reflection, but that is due to lack of perspective - you see not a reflection of yourself, but of what the world sees as you.

The entity has no conception of existentialism - it doesn't believe in anything, for it need not. It has no hunger for justification, no need to prove importance, no requirement of anything but the simple desire to fish in the waters it is in. To peruse. To discover. Something hidden from the depths, perhaps.

Epiphany

2008-07-14T02:53:00.003+05:30

The fog wears off, the high goes low -
Thoughts that ought not to be still flow.
I move to the music that plays on in my head -
Yet I can't keep from wanting to kill you instead.

Anger rises, and anger does fall;
The things that you made me feel yet call.
You're the one that's amusing, now -
Full of silly old idiocies, anyhow.

My arms now go where they desire -
Around friends and those that I admire;
My conscience is clear, my hopes might be dim -
I am who I am, but I am not him.

Not the one you wanted me to be -
No longer a strange slave to your misery.
Two feet to stand on that I call my own -
No need to have you my thoughts condone.

My mouth is big and my voice loud,
While I drown my sorrows in a crowd;
Take your strength and fuck yourself with it,
I'd like to be polite, but my heart's not in it.

You've done enough to kill my spirit;
It lives on, this and every minute.
I might not be strong, I might not endure -
But I sure as hell am not your cure.

So take your pretenses, and be happy with that -
It wasn't my fault you were such a prat;
I'm glad somewhere that things are such,
That I shudder to think of your touch.

I have my realization, my own little epiphany;
Things are finally just as they should be.
I've given up enough trying to be good,
And been far too often misunderstood.

You have your intolerance, your greatest tool -
The one that makes you the biggest fool
In the world that we built for ourselves
The one you tore down since it matched not your ends.

I'm done with us and you, the two the same,
For they were no different, and you're to blame
For imposing yourself on so many things,
To pull everything with your strings.

This rhyme is rude, and goes on too long -
The message is simple, if a bit strong;
Fuck off, and go your own way.
You'll find your own epiphany, one of these days.

Words.

2008-05-17T23:38:00.001+05:30

Little islands of meaning that float and twitter over the consciousness. That meander across the meadows of thought, begging for understanding. Little pockets of space-time seeking to encapsulate the intent, thought and conditions of the person who first thought them into life, and connected them together. Travelling across the flotsam of the white noise that we inhabit daily.

Love.

A word with some meaning. Weight. A purpose. An intent, and a hope that moves beyond things that we know, or care to know. I love, and I hope. And I look to the future, and there is brightness in the wings of rhymes and songs and thoughts that make me glad. And I also see the alternative - dark elements of silence, that blot out all the colour in the words that would otherwise inhabit that void. We choose.

Choice.

Another word with weight. Weight upon shoulders. Human responsibility. Shrugging, or carrying. Hoping, or living. Life is full of this weight. And we move along, in the wake of both our choices, and the ones we let others make for us.

Absorbed.

2008-05-04T22:35:00.002+05:30

Is being selfish a simple matter of looking out from your own eyes, and not being able to conceive another's? Is it simply a matter of letting all else die but that which you seek the most? When does a legitimate protection of self turn into a situation which makes others wish they were dead for all the pain you are causing them on your account?

Where ends thy need, and where begins my hope? I have met many people in my life, and everyone has had an active part of them continuously working towards ensuring their own prosperity, hope and courage. 'tis but a shame that in their avid desire to save their own hides, they must lose out on so much that would seem great for their own selves.

A healthy amount of saving oneself effort and trouble is rational and expected, but a complete aversion to anything that might cause a mite of risk but lead to a plethora of gains is strange. A selfish person is very content with letting others stick their necks out, but shall protect his/herself at the cost of nearly everything else. That seems to be the rule with which they lead their lives.

Pity, that.

2008-04-28T01:01:00.002+05:30

She sat in the dark room, watching the thin sliver of light. It moved towards her - motes dancing and shining in its path. She, of the darkness, and for the darkness. The light - a threat to who she was, and her way of life.

What was she to do? The light was different - harsh, sharp, yet composed of warmth. The darkness - cold and damp - yet comforting and non-threatening. At a level that no warmth could ever reach. The level at which the cold sliver of ice that lies within each heart resides and rules over the selfish part of each man and woman.

She considered the light. Felt it on her skin, felt how it made her feel. The light moved through her and within her, giving her a peace. But - it was new. It felt dangerous. Sin, coming in from outside the darkness. It burnt her eye in its brilliance. It represented that which was not comforting, which was different from all else.

She felt the darkness bathe her, and let comfort choose her as its future. The bright blue sky and its many wonders abroad never saw her face, or graced her with their presence. She avoided it, even though she missed the sensation. Such was life.

And such does life prove itself to be. Over and over again. Must everyone lack courage?

Justice.

2008-04-19T00:36:00.006+05:30

So, today - while perusing through Westside, I found some vindication for my general apparel while sleeping.

Guess in what section the lovely garments above were found -

Men's Sleepwear.

:-D

2008-04-10T11:57:00.004+05:30

"SARTORIO"

The pile giveth; and then, the pile taketh away.

There is always the desire to rise to the top. He felt it, too - the need to rise above all else, be the chosen one. To be favoured and be so close to someone such that there is nothing separating them. That intimate feeling that overrules all other sensations. And one day, after so long, his chance came once more.

A great hand from the sky came unto him and picked him up and lifted him upto the gates of heaven. He felt himself being weighed and considered; and, after an interval where he held his breath, he was Chosen. He had been personally picked to protect and preserve. It was his turn to bathe in the glorious light. He hoped to never have to return to his damp and dark home - the glory had come to him and removed him from it, and saved him from an existence of ignonimy.

He spent an infinity of glorious occasions with his charge, being an inseparable companion at all times - being right with him at mealtimes, with him on his his, with him even in the gentleman's room; this sort of complete access made him feel incredibly special and favoured.

However, the glory trip began to lose steam. He felt an aura of disenchantment - felt that he could no longer feel as bright or happy as he had previously done. Could not serve quite as well. Tired, wrung, wrinkled, jaded, and worn.

Suddenly, the pain of separation - being discarded, as yesterday's good. The pain of rejection, the humiliation, the feeling of being used all crashed unto him. He was no longer his smart self: no longer as sharp or fresh. He felt dirty and shapeless.

He knew that there would be another chance, but for this he must lose himself and remove the baggage and the dirty habits from his time of decadence. He was removed, with some of his peers, and taken to where he might be Redeemed.

He felt the cold sharp sensation of being drowned in the waters of introspection, and the sharp abrasion and pain of the removal of his dirt, his sullied nature, from himself. He then faced the harsh sunlight - baked in it, heated until all his burdens were burnt away, revealed to himself and all; yet, this made his worries evaporate.

Soon, he found himself flat on his back - burned, pushed, and pressured. He was forced back into the right shape, the right form of mind - return to what he was, as opposed to what he'd become. It wasn't the same, though. He was a paler and thinner version of his old self. There was, however, hope. Always, there was hope, even as he returned to the pile in his dank neighbourhood, awaiting the moment of his delivery once more. Once again, he waited to be picked.

To rise to the top of the pile.

To him, there was only being used and worn. This was his purpose. And he gloried in it. And this glory came to him, as once more he was picked.

Vipul felt his sleepy mind playing tricks on him as he pulled on his t-shirt - he seemed to be hearing sounds of celebration and rapture. He shook his head and carried on.

2008-03-18T22:15:00.002+05:30

I don't use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough. - M.C. Escher.

Walking down the path, he couldn't feel his legs - they seemed to be walking their own path. Like those times when you've walked so long, but you're walking further, and you seem to be moving on your own accord. Floating, with no sensation; lost, in thoughts and considerations and fantasies that distract. He found there to be no destination that he had in mind, nothing to look forward to. There was only the walk; and a strange restlessness that pervaded his being, marking his thoughts with an urgent need to be elsewhere, doing something of true import and meaning, stretching beyond the confines of his narrow life.

He was in a featureless place, and there was nothing but the path, and nothing to occupy his senses. No breathtaking sights; not even sights that might cause him to continue watching. All there was a dark sky, starless and cloudless; flat ground.

And the path - paved in gold, and with yellow milestones that passed, with no indication that there was any destination that they were heralding. No numbers. No guidance, and no points of reference.

He dreamed within the dream. He dreamed of lives of meaning. Of companions of learning, of whispered conversations in the moonlight with glasses of wine with friends and lovers of things that had come and gone, of the structure of the universe, and the structure of the human mind. Of whether there was only what one perceived, and not what truly existed. The reduction of reality to electrochemical impulses in the brain. Of the nature of a reality where there was no pain.

Pain, acting as a guide. Basic instincts which keep you from harm. What would happen without them, he said aloud to his companions. How would you know where you were going? One of them laughed, swigged the blood coloured spirit in his hand, and said - you could measure the distance travelled with the blood you leave behind. The lack of pain would deaden you to the monotony of existence. Pain makes you strive. The hallmark of a tedium that owns you is one that causes you no pain, not until you're caught. And there is realisation, and a thought that salvation lies only on the other side. And you just keep on walking. In the hope that you are still whole when you get there. For even if you are on your knees, and you're submitting, you might just escape.

Suddenly, his little fantasy faded. He was back on the path. After some minutes of walking, his gaze shifted downwards. He noted without much surprise the sharp ground that he was walking on without footwear. The world exists, he thought, without the brain realising a lot of it. Without pain, it would realise less. The only way to truly know existence was to see the blood you leave behind. He turned his head to see miles of red behind him. His bleeding feet, torn; with chunks of flesh being cut by sharp rocks. Yet, there was no sensation, and no escape.

There was only the walk.

He began to whistle jauntily, as his big toe fell away. Life would only be on the other side. Perhaps it was fatalist, but he might as well try and make it there.

----------------------------------------------------

He awoke - slowly, as if he was coming out of a warm bath. A slow emergence, a heavy brain trying to emerge through the clinging fog.

Another day. He had to face the nightmares.

Reflections.

2008-03-13T22:39:00.003+05:30

As he raised his clenched fist, he recalled his observation - that reflections aren't ever accurate; they cannot be.

His fist came crashing down upon the glass, and blood flew, as he tried to make it as accurate as it could be.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Slow thoughts trickled down his mind, teasing slowly, like the sensation of sweat moving over skin. The prickling feeling that moved to the forefront of his consciousness and made all other thoughts unviable and difficult. Obscuring, irritating, and yet alluring in a strange fashion.

He moved, shifting his weight, as he considered the nature of human character and the many conflicting impulses it engenders within. How every course of action, every choice is an amalgamation of all the different facets of you that drag you off in different directions. About how the many desires that one has can cause such a dilemna that is not easily explained or sorted out, for the many different perspectives which cause a rational mind to come to different conclusions, simply because of the different weights you give to different considerations.

He looked down upon her trussed up form, wondering what to do with her. He traced the curve of her jaw with his knife, and smiled as she strained to move away from the weapon. He smiled at this, and yet inside he felt disgust at his own actions. Remarkable. He loved eliciting reactions to stimuli within himself.

He hated using himself and other people like lab rats. Manipulating them, controlling conditions, opening some doors to make them run into mazes, chasing something elusive, while you watch from above. He loved the sense of power, the way he could determine their actions, decide who gets to live or die. He loved the look of abject terror in his victim's face. He hated the way they screamed. He loved the way he could cut it off. He hated the smell of death. He loved the sight of blood on his hands.

He paused once more, and marvelled once more upon the inherent strangeness of a fragmented brain. About the convoluted nature of man. Of how misleading it was to state that someone was single-minded. How stupid the concept of 'second thoughts' as a specific instance.

We all doubt. We all second guess ourselves. We always hate what we do, and love what we do, all at the same time. There are no absolutes. No images. No identities, just a cacophony of connected images separated bizzarely from each other yet fitting in perfectly to form a visage that truly represented the fractured reflection of a tortured and torn human being. He realised that mirrors were false, for they showed one image and one person; but a person was many, and existed in many places and thoughts at the same time. The real person was a fractured reflection of his broken physical self.

He turned to see himself. He saw it wasn't true. He decided to fix things.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Three years later, law enforcement finally caught up with him, he was found in a room with a broken mirror, writing apologies on the wall. The victim's face had been cut in a disjointed spider-web pattern, and he was caught laughing and crying alternatingly. He begged forgiveness from the world one second, and tried to kill all of it, or at least the parts of it near him trying to keep him in custody during the other.

The papers found on him were a long psychological treatise upon the variegated nature of human thought, reflected in the many fissures in society.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

He was found dead in his cell three days later, killed by a shard of mirror that had somehow come into his possession. Investigation revealed his left hand had been found attempting to stop the right.

In the defence of Atheism

2008-02-15T10:51:00.004+05:30

*Sighs*

Forgive them, Father. They know not what they do.

These words, spoken by a man who was not the Son of God, are the only things that redeem him, in my eyes. It is a good principle to live by - forgive those that harm you through ignorance, through unintentional action. For a lot of these things are motivated by fear, and fear makes humankind act in a manner not entirely 'human'.

So, I got my response from the Ex-atheist. I think I'll call him 'The Ex', from now on. It'll make matters simpler. So, The Ex messages today, and begins by complimenting me on my blog. Thank you, I work on it occasionally. I'm glad to know it bore some fruit. He then went on to say that one must have 'trusted sources' of information. Also, agreed. However, trust is an issue, because I do not trust the Koran one whit.

He stated that his method of research was as follows -
1. Does God exist?
2. If yes, then which religion is the true one? He says he went through their authentic sources.
3. If the source had some scientific error, then it couldn't be the word of God. Since the Koran stated many 'scientific facts' that have only recently come to 'light', it must be the word of God.

Hence proved, he says. Of course, he follows this up with the scientific facts, and substantiations. He mails me some text that I am sure is taken off some website or the other, proving the perfect nature of the Koran.

This particular part of the message speaks first of the theory of probability, of which I am sure anyone reading this will be familiar with, and states that the Koran predicts, primarily, 3 scientific facts, before they were discovered or realised -
1. The Earth is round.
2. The Moon reflects light.
3. The human body is made of water.

He states that there are some 30 conceivable shapes of the Earth, hence odds of the Koran guessing that are 1 in 30. The odds of the moon reflecting light are 1/2. And the odds of the human body being made of water are 1 in 10,000, assuming 10,000 other possible substances. If one multiplies these three odds, there is a .00017% chance that this has been arrived at through guesswork. Hence, this being so overwhelmingly likely that God wrote this since it is right, and so unlikely that this is guesswork, this is the word of God.

There are two parts to the logic above - one, that these can be likened to guesses, and hence probability applies; and second, that such overwhelming odds would create a definite tendency to believe that God wrote the Koran. There is a third part to my defence of atheism, but I shall come to that at the very end.

Guesswork
These three statements by the Koran are called 'guesswork' on the basis that the 'prevailing viewpoint' at the time was to the contrary - the World was supposed to be flat, the moon was thought to be auto-luminous, etc. However, these are the prevailing viewpoints only in a certain part of the world - in Europe. It is a testament to the westernization of education that we truly believe that the world was conceived to be round only when, during the Renaissance, it was shown to be so.

This is ridiculous in the extreme. The Koran is estimated to have been written in the 8th Century AD in Arabia. In the 6th and 7th Centuries AD, there was an Indian philosopher by the name of Aryabhatta, who had come to these two conclusions already. Also, given that trade between the Western coast of India and Arabia was common at the time, such ideas were easily communicated to Arabia, and in fact the Renaissance was borne out of these ancient thoughts being transported to Europe through the interaction between Europe and Arabia many centuries later.

To the credit of the Europeans, though, they came up with this even before Aryabhatta - the Ancient Greek Astronomer Anaxagoras, from the 5th Century BC, had already thought of this, too - more than a thousand years before the Koran was written. So much for 'guesswork', really.

There is, of course, the 'guess' of the Koran with relation to the composition of the Human Body. It is stated in the Koran that the human body is made of water - well, this is a gross misunderstanding of biology, as far as I know it. While the cells of the human body are composed of 65-70% of water, it does not mean that the human body is 'made' of water. There are no components, the arbitrary 10,000 number besides. It is a ridiculous statement to make, and if God exists and did write the Koran, it must be something that causes him merriment.

Odds and Proof
Even if one assumes that the last four paragraphs have not been written, and that the Koran does make these statements against prevailing thought at the time, I think it's more than a bit of a stretch, to use probability to prove something. Probability gives odds. There is no proof in saying there's a .00017% chance of something being false, hence it is true. To mandate that millions lead their lives the way you want them to, to make them bend, bow, and scrape to an idea which may or may not be true, given that these are odds, is a crazy one. To prove something scientifically, it is not enough to prove that it is likely - a single exception would prove a scientific theory false. Hence, the mere chance that the Koran is guesswork is enough to disprove the definite existence of God. His existence might be likely, even overwhelmingly probable, but that is not enough. That is not proof. Proof, in science, is beyond any doubt.

God Existing v. Atheism
The final, little bit. Assume Atheism is wrong. Assume that God exists. Assume that the Koran is his word. What, truly, binds me to follow his word? Nothing, really. Merely the threat of punishment in the afterlife. If, in his infinite wisdom, he gives us will to do as we choose, and to follow or not follow his words, than clearly it is a decision for us to make. We can choose to take the paradise and the houris (I always wondered what faithful women got - forced lesbianism?) or we can choose hell.

I choose hell, honestly. I'd rather suffer that torment than force myself to do things that don't agree with my conscience. Islam means to 'submit' - your morals, for someone else's. I won't do that. I do not submit.

I thank you for you patience in reading this horribly long thing. If anyone is interested, I shall be glad to forward you the Ex's message, and/or send you links from Wikipedia dealing with Aryabhatta, etc. Also, if someone could find out what the real prevailing notion in Arabia was with regard to human body composition, I'd be much obliged.

Atheism, and Why There is (Fortunately) No Heaven For Atheists.

2008-02-13T12:17:00.007+05:30

My mother has always been concerned about my immortal soul, to be honest. I displayed a disturbing tendency, in my youth, to concentrate on the wrong parts of the holy lessons I was meant to be learning. Being brought up in a 'good' Hindu household, I learnt a lot about Lord Krishna. I would pointedly ask my mother why he was allowed to steal butter, but I was not. Not to mention, the clothes of women (I never understood why till much later). This, perhaps, set the stage for my subsequent lack of belief in God - he was permitted to mess around, but I was damned if I did anything of the sort.

Atheism came very naturally to me, even while young. Show me God, I would say, to my perplexed teachers in the Christian school I went to as a child, where under the guise of Moral and Remedial classes I learnt a good portion of Biblical tales and fables. While I found these stories interesting, I always questioned their veracity. To date, I am fascinated with religion as a way of life, but continue to stand against anyone who wishes that I believe in something I have no evidence to suggest exists.

My belief, if it may be so called, in the non existence of God or heavenly beings at all was further reinforced when I read the excellent book The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. He looks at the 'God hypothesis', as he refers to it, and summarily rejects it. He considers all the things God has done, and proves that since these cannot be proven, there is no reason to believe that God exists. And being the healthy pessimist that he is, he states that he will not believe in something unless there is proof.

What is the proof most often given by the religious? They speak of the miracles that their texts claim to have witnessed. They speak of the resurrection of Christ, or the ascension of Muhammad. They speak of Christ turning water into wine, and of Gabriel speaking to Muhammad. And all the antics of the Hindu pantheon - don't even get me started. Nonetheless, I have continued to be absorbed in religion, which confidently refuting my faith in a so-called Higher Power.

I made a friend when I went to Pune, notwithstanding the fact that she was primarily responsible for me wearing shocking pink lipstick due to a dare. I recall that at some point while sitting down, I noticed a small bracelet, which I picked up, looked at, and then asked who it might belong to. It was a beautiful little thing, with a verse in (I'm assuming) Arabic/Persian/Urdu inscribed upon it. It is likely to have been a verse from the Holy Quran (or Kuran/Koran/Corran), and I handed it back without issue to the person whom it belonged.

I thought it'd be the last of anything religious I'd see for a while, from her or from anyone related to her. I had no reason to believe that religion would ever be something that I would discuss with her, or her kin, considering that I knew very little and next to nothing about her. That was before this message from her brother found its way into my inbox:

DUDE I WAS WANTED 2 SAY THT I WAS AN EX-ATHEIST BUT NOW AFTER MUCH RESEARCH I CAME 2 KNW THT THERES NO GOD BUT ALLAH N PROPHET MUHAMAD WAS LAST N FINAL MESSENGER!!!!
DUDE FIRST I WAS OFF DE OPINION THT PLP WHO BELEIVE IN GOD JUS HVE BLIND FAITH N THT GOD WAS JUS IN THEIR MIND BUT DUDE I GOT A SHOCK WHEN I STARTED RESEARCHING ON DE TOPIC!!!!!!
1 CAN PROVE SCENTIFICALLY N LOGICALLY DE XSITENCE OF GOD!!!!!
N KNW ALHAMDULLILA IKNW THT ALLAH XSIST ....
SO DUDE IAM SURE U MUSNT HVE RESEARED ON DE TOPIC CAUSE IF U WUD U WUD DEFINELY KNW DE TRUTH WITHOUT A DOUBT!!!!!1
SOO DUDE BEING N X-ATHEIST IKW XACTLY HOW IT FEELS BUT JUS WANTED 2 TELL U THT START RESEARCHING BEFORE ITZ 2 LATE!!!!!
IF U HVE NE DOUBT OR NE INQUIRIES 2 MAKE ILL B GLAD 2 HLP U!!!!!
GIV ME A CHANCE N ILL PROVE IT 2 U SCIENTIFICALLY N LOGICALLY THT THERES NO GOD BUT ALLAH N PRIFET MUMAMMAD IS HIS MESSENGER!!!!

I spent quite a bit of time staring at the screen, trying to reply in some fashion in my head that I thought would make sense. None came. None, at least, that I could send back as a personal missive to him. Unlike many others, he is trying to do 'good'. Given such sentiments, my normal vitriol is best avoided. I shall attempt, as far as possible, to understand what has been written.

Let's look at this, then, through kindly eyes - or at least as kindly as we can make them. The first thing stated is essentially a declaration of sorts. I was an ex-atheist, he says. I researched, and found that Allah was the only God, and the Prophet his last and final messenger. Now, I would like to respond by simply stating that I am an atheist, and have done enough research of my own to determine for my own purposes that there is no higher power of any sort.

The question, of course, now becomes what research did he undertake to thus turn him around? I cannot fathom this from the message, and anyone who can, I'd like to know what it is, so I can respond to it. All I know is, and continue to know, is that I know more about religion(s) than the average individual, because of my avid interest in mythology and religion. This stretches from the Ancient Greek and Egypt to Scientology, and I know quite a bit about Islam. While I agree that I am not a scholar, I find certain parts of the Quran to be so completely alien to my morals and my principles that I cannot stand by that text. There are several examples I could cite; however, I know that my morals are not something that I can expect others to adhere to, nor are my standards. Since these are, in essence, beliefs of mine (in the mould of "I should not do this"), I do not want to compare Islam to them, for that would be inappropriate as well as unnecessary. But the texts of Islam often condone or encourage behaviour that would be bizarre by the standards of most This is one such example: http://www.islam-watch.org/MuminSalih/Breast-Feeding-Man-Islam.htm
*NOTE: The above site is an anti-Islamic site. It's views are not mine - but the episode it alludes to in the life of the Prophet is accurate, according to the Koran. Nonetheless, it's not very intelligently written. Please read with caution.*

Let's see, shall we? I don't need saving. I don't need paradise. I don't need belief in anything but myself. Those things might be good, they might help others when they need sustenance, but I need myself in those times, and I really can't have so much to deal with in one go. I don't believe in things - they exist, or they don't. I exist. I believe in that.

If the existence of God can be proven to me, I shall believe. But I shall still not follow his precepts (if they are indeed, his) nor his rules, for I am me, and I have rules of my own.

Hurt - II

2007-12-30T23:37:00.000+05:30

A small chain
A bond you can
Never escape.

A small happiness
A belonging you can
Never displace.

A tiny hope
A big weight that you can
Never embrace

A transient touch
A beautiful sensation you can't
Disdain.

This hurt I can't erase;
And in our strange need for pain
I need this torture now.
Now.
And forever.

Hurt - I

2007-12-30T23:32:00.000+05:30

A lonely impulse
Acting on what you
Never knew

A fleeting glimpse
A flash of what you
Never show

A small gesture
A smile and look you
Never share

A small enigma
An attraction you can't
explain

Our eyes meet as we consider,
The strange nature of our desire.
Our ends are as near as we are -
Galaxies apart.

Sermon on the Mount

2007-12-17T01:40:00.000+05:30

"What is the meaning of life?", he asked.

"Do I lead your life?", the monk replied.

"What is the meaning of ALL life?"

"Do I lead everyone's lives?"

"Who the fuck taught you the Socratic method? You live on a bloody hilltop!"

"Who the fuck taught you the Socratic method? You're just a stupid urban hippie!"

"What's the point of this?"

"If you see no point, why are you doing this?"

The youth's mouth worked for a bit, but no suitable response came to his mind. He turned in a huff, and walked some distance from the Holy Man of the Mountain. Many of his friends had told him of the learned man who answered all questions put to him, but none had mentioned that he was incredibly annoying.

The Holy Man looked upon the back of the rich young boy and despaired. He didn't know why all these idiots came and asked him questions. He was just sitting up here, begging for alms. He'd sent a little boy to the village after paying him five rupees to entice rich travellers to come up the mountain. Tired of the annoying questions the first time, he'd responded rudely. Apparently, that boy had not wanted to look like a fool to the companion below; he'd pretended to have had an out of body experience and what not, and now these brats came to him regularly. He tried to get rid of them, but they all persisted. It had become so bad that he was considering shifting mountains, but he knew that there were four other Holy Men after his patch, and his stubborn possessive nature prevented him from moving into their hands.

He sighed, and wondered how he could get rid of these damn yuppies. Annoying kids with their flashy clothes. All he ever wanted was some food and alms, and not all these damned questions! He wondered why anyone would imagine he was wise, since he spent all his time on the mountain without doing anything particularly knowledgeable. He sighed, and remembered what this horribly stoned Israeli tourist had once explained to him while being incredibly grateful for the meagre amount of hashish the Holy Man had managed to procure and given to him.

"You! Brat!"
"Excuse me?"
"Stop being silly and listen!"
Despite himself, the youth did just that. All the thought of figuring out a fake story for his friends was exhausting his two brain cells, and he needed the break.
The Holy Man realised he had the brat's attention, and decided to end this properly.

"Take this."
"What is this?"
"Hashish."
"What's that?"
"You smoke it, it makes you happy. Er, Holy, also. Bob Marley said so."
"You mean Hash. You have HASH?! Why didn't you say so before?"

5 minutes later, the brat was quite mellow, in the afterglow of the Hash he'd been given. He sighed, and looked towards the Holy Man. The Holy Man looked extremely confused and perplexed. The Brat wondered why.

The Holy Man didn't know what to do beyond this point. He had hoped the drugs would be enough, but this brat was obviously persistent. He decided to take the initiative.

"What is your problem, basically?"
"I want to know the meaning of life!"
"Why?"
"Please don't start that again, I'm actually feeling good now!"
"Hm. Fine. Let's try again, shall we? What about the meaning of life is important?"
"Well, won't it explain who I am? What I am doing here?"
"What is your name?"
"How is that important?"
"Well, isn't that who you are?"
"Not that who I am. The real me. Who I want to be. Who I feel like being."
"Okay. Why are you asking me these questions? Why don't you know the answer?"
"I don't!"
"Fine. Have you heard of Occam's ... er, what was it? Hm. Blade? Something like that ... Come on, help me a little. Don't you know about this one?"
"No!"
"Fine. There was this Israeli gentleman named Occam, who had some trouble shaving, alright?"
"What kind of trouble?"
"Um. Wait, I knew this one. Yes! After the first time, the razor wouldn't shave right."
"Okay."
"So, he wondered what the solution was - and it came to him! What did he need? A razor which shaved only once. Then, you'd need a new razor. So, he invented disposable razors!"

Brat's drug addled mind couldn't quite grasp the earth-shattering implications yet. He was sailing the clouds, and had trouble grasping the importance of disposable razors, and their impact on the meaning of life. He stared at the Holy Man's earnest expression, and couldn't quite understand why this man was considered wise. As Brat thought about it, the situation became murkier - he didn't use disposable razors, he used those Mach III things, the red one with the hot girl in the advertisement. It was, he had been assured, the best a man could get. Clearly, Occam's Razor didn't have much of a presence in the Indian market; Brat considered, for a second, a business of importing these bloody razors. But a moment more of contemplation convinced him that this was far from the meaning of his life.

He chuckled at the Holy Man. All he needed was the meaning of life, and here this supposed wise man was, dithering about razors. He was so ... stupid and inefficient. Words that he'd learn to despise, while worshipping what he thought were their opposites, through his time in Business School - Wisdom and Efficiency. He chuckled some more.

At this point, the Holy Man was beginning to lose his patience. He looked upon the chuckling bandicoot of a brat with more than a little alarm. Not only had the Israeli gentleman's approach towards shaving problems not impressed the fool, he was now pointing at him and chuckling. The Holy Man realised that the Brat had now begun mumbling about how the Holy Man was Occam, and that he himself was Gillette. Now, the Holy Man was not ignorant of the ways of the world, and was aware of what Gillette was. What he could not understand was why the Brat would believe that he would need any of their products. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved, and he was rather proud of his long, matted and dirty beard. It took a lot of time to make it look professionally vagabond-ish. What was especially bothering him was that the Brat was now passing out, and that this meant more time spent with him.

The Brat was beyond cognitive thought now. He drifted off to sleep, dreaming of Israeli women, and wondering if he should go there and sell Mach IIIs, if they were so busy using substandard disposable razors. He giggled at the prospect.

The Holy Man sat on his haunches, in his default Holy-Man contemplating position. He had to make this worth his while, and somehow get rid of the Brat. He thought about it for a while, and considered what he needed, and how he must get it. Then it hit him - the perfect, and obvious solution. It was so simple! He couldn't think of anything simpler. He grinned.

Many hours later, the Brat awoke as the sun rose upon his prone form on top of the mountain. His head felt like several trucks had run it over, and he felt sick to his stomach. Wait, no. The sickness was rising from his stomach. After leaving a patch of the Himalayas bearing a part of his organic matter, the Brat looked around, trying to get his bearings, and trying to remember who he was, and how he got here. He began recalling the events of the last evening. He realised that instead of being on top of the mountain, he was in the valley. He felt his backpocket to feel his wallet - it was there, but it was considerably thinner. He pulled it out and looked at it, his panic rising.

Inside, the only things that were left were his credit cards, liscenses, and a little letter. It stated that following -

You are a brat, and that's what you are;
But for all that, one imagines you'll go far
In life, for it is made of the silly things,
One never knows why this happiness brings.

On the other hand, you feel dissatisfaction;
For you feel the need for immediate action
In life, for there is a lot you want to do,
One never knows why one is such a fool.

Just stop making your life complicated;
Do what you want and stop becoming inebriated
In life, there is little one can do,
But say - the simplest solution is always true.

Fear and Choices

2007-12-11T18:44:00.000+05:30

I've been watching V for Vendetta almost manically for some days, now. It made me consider quite seriously human nature and the nature of the fear which is the primary motivator in it. Most human actions are determined by fear. Governments are based on fear - fear is the underlying principle that seems to unite all human actions. Fear of some sort determines every institutional mechanism. Freud tried to unify all human action through the perspective of sex - but sex is about fear, is it not? Fear of not being able to procreate. Fear of not being able to leave a mark upon the world. Fear of not performing. Fear of even talking about it afterwards.

Bertrand Russell, on the other hand, attempted to determine human behaviour and the existence of the myriad of human institutions through the perspective of power. He essentially stated that since the desire for power is the greatest one, individuals and institutions seek power. However, this is incorrect in that power might be desired, but Russell did not actively consider why it might be so. The reason I believe that any entity would seek power is to protect itself or to cater to the fear of being harmed, or the fear of not being allowed to survive, for any number of reasons. All entities are essentially self perpetuating, hence there is a fear that they shall be unable to perpetuate themselves, hence the need for power - to prevent such an eventuality, or at the very least, make it seem less likely.

Also, what seems to surprise me the most is that when I think of it, nearly all human actions are governed at least partially by fear of some consequence or the other. Even when were have "conquered" our fear, we are still doing something which is in fear of some other eventuality. Let me explain this, if I can.

Consider a soldier in a war, who is showing extreme amounts of valour in attacking the enemy positions, and so on and so forth. Think of all the propaganda that has gone into making him that way. Think of all the possibilities of losing the war and what it will do to him/his family preying on his mind. Consider his understanding of what his comrades or commanding officer will say if he isn't brave.

Sex and power are mere manifestations of fear. We glorify lack of fear to person, without realising that the fear has merely transferred unto some other subject, that you care for enough.

When one looks at one's own actions in such a light, they make a lot more sense.

PS: Arbit speculation about my own motives started somewhere through the middle of this particular post. Spent about two days writing it.

Complicated Thought

2007-11-30T00:46:00.000+05:30

A maelstrom of extended convoluted thought, that pervades many parts of my extended consciousness. Creating a labyrinth of epic proportions, as I attempt to untangle my many thoughts, feelings and considerations that seem to have no end, no limit and no boundaries that can be clearly understood. My feelings on several matters are rather muddled, and I need to spend some time contemplating the same before deciding to do anything about any of the various events and people that currently seek to affect my life.

Erotic Dreams

2007-11-10T12:34:00.000+05:30

A fleeting touch
Gentle sensation
Flooding
With memories
Of love
And reflections
Of affection
Screaming
For attention
Those glances
Burning
Those eyes
Mesmerizing
As they entrance
Confusion is caused
As lust
Overruling
Controls limbs
Movement
Sensual snake
Rustles
Against my body
As I close
My tired eyes
To dream.

Feelin' Groovy.

2007-11-03T10:21:00.000+05:30

Ever since I heard the Simon and Garfunkel song, I've been aching to be able to be so crazy as to go out into the world, greet lamposts, keep the fauna growing, and look for fun. In other words, I've always wanted to feel groovy.

It's been a strange kind of goal - one's ever-present desire to be 'cool' which encompasses all else is common, but a desire to be groovy - it means something substantially different to me. It means a more fundamental change in the nature of an individual which allows him to do crazy, happy, insane things without really having to worry about who's watching.

I've met and loved and been with so many different people - and I don't mean love in the strictly relationship/sexual sense. I mean that in the varied spectrum of people I've known, I've been lucky - but that my reactions to all of them has been the same, in the sense that it depends upon a clear and present standard that I apply to everyone beyond a certain point of proximity. Further, I've pushed some people away because of my nascent feelings of a certain type, for the simple reason that I don't want to do anything 'casual'.

Well, why must I take these things seriously? If I can't be happy and enjoy my life now, when will I? Of course, there are some things that must not be done, which would cause harm or pain to others - but if there is no harm, why must I have a guilty conscience? Why can't I live?

It sucks to be un-groovy. I'm trying.

Wish me luck.

Give me as many reasons as you want - I just want to leave.

2007-10-09T23:30:00.001+05:30

It's very difficult to explain something to someone entirely self absorbed. In fact, it's impossible to do so entirely. To be able to understand what someone's saying, you need to be, to some extent, in their shoes, and thus begin to construct what they mean by what they're saying, and why they're saying it. For self absorbed people, this isn't possible. It's also difficult to understand self absorbed people - they're so busy making sense to and for themselves, that other people don't matter.

The worst kind of self absorbed person is the self absorbed coward. These creatures don't tell you what they want, but expect you to read something they've written or conveniently left around for you, so you can stumble upon it. And they try to molly-coddle what they're saying, and what they want from you, so it ends up with the other person sitting through a ridiculous medley of 'What-I-Want's and 'What-I-Need's which no one should have to hear. It's torturous to be told that something you say to express yourself doesn't seem to be 'serving a purpose' for her, so it shouldn't be said.

Oh, every word I say is not for the other person's benefit. It's because I want to say something. This is where communication becomes a problem. 'Meaningful' conversations are conversations that the self absorbed find meaningful. 'Useful' things are things they find useful. It's ludicrous.

And to think I've been making an effort to try and be nice. Well, screw that. I can't believe I sat through what she was saying as long as I did. I put the computer away because my mother took one look at me, got me a glass of water, and whispered to me that my look was scaring Ria. It was. I'm just glad I didn't say anything then. And I'm glad I was able to blow her off without saying anything particularly nasty. Ria's been following me around since then, and won't leave me alone.

It just annoys me so much to know that I was making an effort, and that effort was to be able to show someone I care about (can't say any more about it. Don't feel it anymore. For the first time in two years. It's over) that there is a better way to be, and that's she doesn't see it. But it's quite disappointing to learn that my trying to show her these things wasn't 'meaningful' enough, simply because it didn't suit her frame of mind.

There is no compromise. She just WANTS. She just NEEDS. Everyone else is secondary.
Empress of her own little universe. With no one in it. For they're all leaving. Because they can't bear to be there too long. It's interesting that half of the people she mentions as people looking out 'just for her', are people she's called selfish half the time she's known them. Her hypocritical nature is beyond belief. I spent a substantial portion of my time around her listening to her say things completely inconsequential without complaint. And now what I say is meaningless.

That's it - I really don't have to take this. At all. I asked her what she wanted, and she got it. In the beginning, and through the end.

She wants it clean - I'll give it to her.

Times Like These

2007-09-20T17:17:00.001+05:30

I am a one way motorway,
I'm the one that drives away,
Then follows you back home
I am a street light shining
I’m a wild light blinding bright
Burning off alone

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again

I am a new day rising
I’m a brand new sky
To hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
Do I stay or run away
And leave it all behind?

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again
--------------------------------------------------------
The Foo Fighters - Times Like These

This song has somehow affected me more than I could have expected. I know that I'm at a threshold of my life - I've had to leave some parts of me behind for nothing better than satisfying myself, and because I'd taken a burden upon myself that I couldn't quite carry. It was causing pain and conflict. So I moved out of that obligation. But it does make me feel like an utter coward, somewhere.

Now, I feel more optimistic about life, and its trials and tribulations. I find myself looking forward to things. Looking forward to spending time with that special someone. Finding things and emotions within me transforming - into something new, but not bad or wrong. It's like getting into a new pair of clothes, or looking out at the world from under a new set of pince-nez - it's a revelation to realise that there was more to Heaven and Earth than was known of in my philosophy. (Yes, that's a shady Shakespeare allusion. Deal)

I'm going to learn how to live. On my own. Not have it shown to me. I shall learn, and live. I shall be happy. It's times like these which determine the real character of a human being. I'm going to make my life something greater than it was.

The entire idea of having a hurdle, of having something to climb, is to find that moment of perfection of standing at the summit of your effort, to recognize the beauty from high up above, and live for that moment - before enjoying the 5 seconds it takes you to fall down off that height, and celebrate the death of that which once was.

Some things, you just can't believe.

2007-09-13T11:51:00.002+05:30

How can ANYONE be serious when they say that they'd rather go to Roti Park with you than go to Peco's with someone else? :-)

On the other hand, why would anyone stay up nearly all night just to come up with some shitty legal case for some shitty hypothetical woman?

Why would anyone ruin a week of their life for almost nothing?

Why would we stop ourselves from doing what we would really, REALLY like to do?

Why can I not express the love I feel?

Too many questions, and too few answers.

But life is a quest for such answers. And I'm looking as hard as I can.

Open Your Eyes

2007-08-13T09:16:00.000+05:30

All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you
My bones ache, my skin feels cold
And I'm getting so tired and so old

The anger swells in my guts
And I won't feel these slices and cuts
I want so much to open your eyes
Cos I need you to look into mine

Tell me that you'll open your eyes

Get up, get out, get away from these liars
Cos they don't get your soul or your fire
Take my hand, knot your fingers through mine
And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time

Every minute from this minute now
We can do what we like anywhere
I want so much to open your eyes
Cos I need you to look into mine

Tell me that you'll open your eyes

All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

It does feel strange and untrue. Numb, I'm moving through everyday life waiting for the equivalent of 20,000 tuns of emotional pressure to fall upon me. And the Gauls were worried about just the sky ...

And I've realised that I have enough of CGL boy rubbing off on me that I feel like a self sacrificial martyr for a whole 10 minutes after this happens. But then I stop, and I calm myself down, and realise that I have caused pain, as well as borne it. There is no reason to believe that I am the only one suffering. That'd be idiotic.

I don't have a clear, snappy one sentence 'why' as I used to. I used to be good at making that happen. Waiting until something crossed my self imposed lines, and then punishing it. But this is so different - in fact, beautifully so. It is, as some silly debater would say, a 'sophisticated' argument. That is, unlike a straight assertion of some fact or reasoning, it's an argument of balancing relative needs, and arriving at a compromise for dealing with them.

I'm doing this because I need to. No other reason. Why would there be?

I just need her to open her eyes. Just be aware. Have that long-awaited epiphany.

Love.

Dreams.

2007-07-23T10:37:00.000+05:30

Things aren't quite as I wished they'd be. But they're still happy. Things still move, and we still move with them - ideas, hopes, dreams, and memories. All the things that one creates in the mind, but each are things which are so extremely tangible to us that many would give their lives for them.

I've discovered Haiku recently. It's given me the ability to write poetry without having to think. It's too easy. Just spill out three lines, the first and the third being the same length, with the middle line being shorter; and none should rhyme, or be connected. Or, so I was told. I've been writing such silly doggerel all over my notebooks, because it's far more interesting than Administrative Law, at the very least. And don't get me started on my Civil Procedure classes.

I've had the recent experience of being asked out on Orkut, and it has made me question some of my most fundamental beliefs about human beings. My profile clearly lists me as committed. Furthermore, the individual in question stated (on a public scrapbook) that the reason for her attraction to me involved me preventing her from making sandwiches when a group of us had been at her establishment, and the other greedy pigs had started demanding the aforementioned snacks as their right.

Now, why on EARTH would anyone even DREAM that such a thing would create any kind of bond between us? Yet, that is the stuff some dreams are made of. Flights of fancy, great overarching thoughts that we dream connect things that are otherwise entirely different and distant, relative to each other. The connections that we seek to make, we desire to make, are made in dreams. The things we are, and the things we hope to be, and the things we dread, and the things that our waking mind cannot conceive ...

That is the stuff that dreams are made of.

Anarchy.

2007-07-12T10:21:00.000+05:30

Antiestablishment: opposed to or working against the existing power structure or mores, as of society or government.

I never thought of myself as an anarchist, or someone who was particularly anti-establishment. I was just, always, myself. Doing what I thought was right. Whenever I do the right thing, I often find myself blocked or barricaded by some authority which purports to have the job of doing that very thing I was planning to do - except that they aren't doing a good job, which is what causes me to try and do what they're supposed to be doing. And at this point, the authority does their utmost to get in the way. Sometimes, I manage to get what I want out of my efforts; other times, I cannot.

I'm currently in the midst of such a situation - I'm trying to help some people, and do something I'm good at simultaneously. But, as usual, the authority (in this case, an activity based committee), is seeing it fit to be about as helpful as mastadons trying to stomp the ants on your lunch at a picnic. They're repeatedly blocking us, without understanding what that means. We're trying to help them do what they're doing. Nitwits.

But I shall do what I want to do. It's not that difficult dealing with people obsessed with power. It's only difficult to deal with those people whose motives are transparent. For when they are, there's little that can be ostensibly done. But it's known but not admitted that the problem stems from ego issues and insecurities.

I'll play on those if I need to.
Manipulate them if I have to.
But I shall have what I want.
Because I can.

Chasing Cars

2007-07-09T13:16:00.000+05:30

We'll do it all
Everything
On our own

We don't need
Anything
Or anyone

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel

Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life

Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads

I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life

All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see

I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

-----------------------------------------------------------

This is Chasing Cars, by Snow Patrol. A song that gave me a strange kind of peace in the midst of much confusion and heart-ache. I've always felt strongly on the nature of the division between professional and personal. It seems to be rather awkward for everyone involved for someone to take someone's professional decision personally. Change things around, making them different and difficult for people to deal with. Just ... make life a little more complicated. Leave you caught in a cycle, where nearly everything seems to be as pointless ... as Chasing Cars. The origin of the song name comes from something that was said to Gary Lightbody (frontman for Snow Patrol) by his father, with respect to some girl Gary was after - you're like a dog chasing a car; you'll never catch it, and you wouldn't know what to do with it even if you did.

Well, I caught it. And I thought I'd understand what to do with it. I have continued to have the most amazing relationship and love that can be imagined. It seems incredibly right, and continues to this day - and it's been so long since it all began. I feel old, but that doesn't take away from all that value I give unto it. However, the problem of dealing with the insanity that is any relationship plays upon my mind quite often. I keep wondering whether it's all worth the pain and suffering any kind of dealing with people who are that close to you.

And then, there was last night. Just a serene feeling of being there. Nothing more, nothing less. There was also the dream. The feeling of soaring, of having found peace and understanding of self. Alone, and together.

All that I am, and all that I ever was, isn't within her perfect eyes. They are within my own vision. But those eyes are what all of me wants to be with, and that's all that matters.

Rage.

2007-04-17T17:00:00.000+05:30

Idiocy. Bloody idiocy. Stupid acts of stupid, petty people, maligning me. And who I am. The things I stand for. For no better reason than the dirty, selfish, satisfaction that comes from watching a lie pass muster. I hate her, and all she's done. She does this because she's bitter. But she chose. She chose to leave, and I was decent enough to be friendly after. She abuses my trust, abuses everything she ever meant to me; she is the dirty filth of the universe, amalgamated into a human person.

I couldn't have done that which she says I did. I wasn't there. I didn't want to. Everyone who knows me well knows that this isn't something I'd do. Unfortunately, there are enough who do not know me well, but know of me. And they spread this vicious slander for their own purposes. One takes the higher road and ignores this shit. That is all one can do; that's all I can do. Yet, the desire to drain the lifeblood of those who attempt to destroy who you are and what you stand for is great. The desire to take their lives, to destroy them utterly, to reduce them and all they hold dear to motes of dust scattered amongst the winds. They know not my rage, that which I keep bottled inside. They know not what they do. I ask not for my father to forgive them, as did another forgiver in the past; I ask myself to see fit to ignore these base creatures. I know I want to destroy. But once again, I control. I rein in my passions, for I wish to better myself.

The world shall never hear of this again. Nor shall I speak of it. But if I am crossed just once more - ONCE - I know not what harm I shall bring to them or upon myself. But whatever harm that is - so be it. I cannot be expected to control everything. I pride myself upon my need to satisfy self and principle.

My bloodlust threatens to consume me. Why did this have to happen? What did I do wrong? There is no God, nor no heavenly being, nor no fate from some life past. Just idiotic, selfish minds, pursuing momentary pleasures.

Should I tell people of all the things that were said? All the things she sought? All the lies she told? All the words she used? All the passions she begged for? I keep my peace, and my counsel. This is where a man of honor suffers. I don't pretend to be one, but in this I know why they suffer. Because no one holds themselves to the standards of others. And they use the moral gaps to exploit the goodness of other.

Either she shall be punished, or she shall not. Fate shall decide. The future beckons me. Let her die in the past, rotting in the thoughts of what has come and gone.

I am a survivor. I have been through worse. This will make me harder. I'm looking forward to it.

The Life and Times of an Unfinished Melody

2007-04-10T21:35:00.000+05:30

They get taken right out of your head. Like drops of condensation on the window. There a second; next, all one sees is a trail against the window, and the world outside looks just a little ... off where the trail is. Small, slippery, treacherous thoughts. The ones we can never be truly be rid of. The easy way out. The lonely path. The way to what might be peace, if you are a coward and scared of doing the right thing.

Sometimes I wish I was someone else. Something else. Just different enough to be in peace. Just happy enough to be real and live. Just for an instant. But I betray myself. Every second that I'm alive, I betray my own desires and wishes to just be. But if I were anything else, I would hate myself. This, I know. Sometimes, I marvel at the ability of my mind to change things about me easily. Unfortunately, the mind is the instigator of this sort of behaviour, and this sort of dilemna.

Talking Don't Come Easy, Now. The Words Get in The Way.

2007-03-11T21:19:00.000+05:30

RANDOM FLIGHT WRITE -

Once again, I'm flying. Sitting inside a little pocket of oxygen and several Carbon based life-forms, I fly - a fragile existence; but, thankfully, a temporary one.

I cannot but help but think of the canine face of my near-most precious companion. And it bothers me that she can make me feel so incredibly guilty for going to do something that I have to. My parents - I miss them, but it's understood that I have to leave. They make it easy for me to go. Ria? No chance. Not a single one in hell. She ignores me until I leave. And it hurts. It truly does.

To someone who isn't a dog lover/pet owner, and even some who are, this might seem an odd kind of statement. All said and done, we ARE discussing a dog. A creature. As someone's being going to great lengths to point out, a non-human. Yet, I cannot but love her. And it hurts to leave her. It just does. Some part of it has to do with the way she makes no demand of me other than some attention, for which I'm adequately repaid. And when I say a little attention, I mean a large portion of time spent with a sock worn over one's hand, moving it about to present a target for her, so she can growl, bark, and mock bite it - all the while, her tail wagging so fast it could probably run half a city.

The point I'm trying to make here - there are simple joys, and simple pleasures in life. These come from simple creatures with simple wants, and desires. Yet, their simplicity does not make them any less valuable. In fact, it makes them more beautiful; for there is no deception. In some ways, they are more selfless and loving than any human being. My mother and father have expectations, and wants of me. My dog only wants a biscuit, now and then.

What does that say about human nature? I don't really want to get into it. That's something to be decided by those whose opinions matter. Because I've come to realise over numerous pointless debates online, that there isn't any such thing as a cogent, open argument that can be found. People just wish to be heard, and wish for their points of view to be accepted. I have nothing to gain from such an exercise.

Consider - I say that stray dogs be neutered and resettled outside the cities. The argument given against this? Rapid urbanization means that eventually the dogs will be back. To which, I say, keep them FAR from the cities. To which, again, the argument given is that the city will continue to expand.

Now, what does one say to this? It's retarded. The problem of shrinking natural spaces needs to be tackled, and is being so. People are working to find a means of co-existence. Taking a current problem, and assuming it into the framework of the other as a tool to predict the non-applicability of a suggested solution is ludicrous, at best. This is like saying that since we'll eventually urbanize the entire Earth, we might as well go and fill up the Canyons, dam the rivers, and destroy nature now. Or, at least, stop attempts to preserve these things.

I will no longer raise my voice. My voice, and the way I present it, is honed by an active participation in debates to be LOGICAL. Whether or not it always manages this is another story - but my goal in making any argument is to show that my conclusion and my stance are based on some rationale that I believe in. The attempt is to reduce the assumptions and beliefs as much as possible, such that the solution can be appreciated from the largest collection of starting points; that is, present a solution that logically deals with all the facets of the problem, such that they be solved to the maximum benefit of all parties involved.

For example, my idea of a solution to say, traffic congestion - better public transport. Why? For a bus, carrying 50 passengers, occupies much less space than, say, 12 cars, carrying four passengers each. If we improve public transport, people will no longer feel such a great need to use their personal vehicles, provided they travel in enough comfort in public transport. If the bus can get them there, save them fuel costs, and comfortably enough, they won't need to take the car out of the garage as often.

That's a logical solution. It's not a model - I'm not suggesting HOW to go about improving public transport. That's entirely separate. I'm just showing how logic can be made to endorse a belief. However, arguments are swiftly turning into "... in my personal opinion, I think we should do this. Why? ". What use is logic in the face of dogmatic belief and grandiose statements? It's easy to forget that all of these problems have been created in the same manner - an illogical consideration of an existing problem.

I no longer consent to my participation in that which is a futile exercise in self expression. That's it.

Of random hotness and funny comments.

2007-03-02T19:51:00.000+05:30

The world has been playing tricks on me, of late. I watch myself, and reactions to me as I enter a room. I see how people react to me, and how I react to people. Patterns of behaviour and speech emerge that shock and amaze those that do not see them develop clearly. Reactions to bad jokes that are well told, and facial expressions that show wit.

I spent the last weekend in a city that has, since my departure from it 6 years ago, become a new place. Life seems to ebb and flow out of places that I would never have found myself visiting; yet, there, I walked in and felt like I belonged. The sea called out to me with its siren song, and I found myself entranced enough to spend hours watching an unchanging seascape. My mind was in immense amounts of peace.

But how does one describe this sensation? One cannot. The truth cannot be contained in the simple, horrible words we try to confine it to. So when I'm asked to describe an experience that is so intensely personal that parts of me do not understand what has happened, it's a little difficult to put your all into it. You stick to the small things, the shallow things, and hope that they go by without incident.

Oh, hell. Distracted, again. Getting back ...

I went to Bombay looking for memories. And I found them. I made some new ones, too. All in all, it was a satisfying experience. I'm beginning to realise that this is the first time that I've WON something in college. Come first. Not second, not also ran, but first. But these things never mattered to me ... It just seemed worth a mention.

What I did NOT go to Bombay for was adulation. Or generally freaky looks from the female gender. I've been to many extra curriculars, and found that there is usually a male nucleus to female drooling at such events. I've always watched, made disparaging comments about the nature of social relationships, and one night stands (if the drooling was getting excessive and I found myself avoiding puddles).

In Bombay, it took me a while to realise that I was becoming the guy I never wanted to be. I was cracking funny jokes and being myself, and gradually I found people clustering around me. I'd orchestrate conversation. Talk to the people who were interesting, and make them talk to other people. I felt a little like and arranger of music.

I couldn't understand this behaviour, and it makes me question myself and my beliefs about my own nature. I enjoyed it, but I didn't want to. And I despised it, hated it, and all that while I didn't want to do any of those things, either. But I did not behave oddly. I was at ease. I said things and acted like I do when I am in not so familiar company. I treated people like shit, and they came for more. I insulted them with a smile, and they laughed. I questioned their intellect, and they continued nodding at me in faked understanding, proving my point.

I'm growing increasingly paranoid about how I might become someone who uses people. Manipulates them. And somewhere, even though I can find no real grounds for this sort of fear, I do not wish to lose what I loosely consider my own humanity.

2006-12-27T14:37:00.001+05:30

Who's your Daddy? :-D

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

2006-12-22T11:38:00.000+05:30

Secrets.
We keep these thoughts hidden from all else. Little bits of flotsam upon the placid ocean of our thoughts. Little messages in bottles that tell you where you are, where you stand, and what you really want out of a situation.

How do we really know who we are until we move into those deep dark depths inside of us? Do we realise when unconsciously we measure ourselves to the stated standards of someone who, by all counts, shouldn't matter to you?

Does the sunlight shine into the depths of you, to reveal all the things left behind - locked doors that hide memories, thoughts and desires, never to be expressed?

Hush, child - think not of these things. Live life. Move on, in ignorance.

Building Bridges

2006-12-19T11:26:00.000+05:30

The gap into ruin - something to dread - has been ventured across. Cautiously, plaintively, a well of happiness inside of me begins to brim over. I feel relief, but in small amounts only; there is still the dread that the bad times will return. In this manner, I attempt to continue with life, as if nothing has happened - nothing has gone wrong, and life gives me new hope.

The dread remains a shadow. Dreams are steeped in dark shades of gray, as I try and come to terms with this new kind of life I have to lead. I dream on, waiting for the day that the dreams shall change to a reality that cannot be otherwise understood. To experience the feeling of being, and of being with someone. I live on in hope, and in love.

Withdrawal

2006-12-16T12:39:00.000+05:30

Pulling away, like the tides of the ocean;
Yet, never to return to those shores.
Resigned to the exit that I choose to make;
I've never felt quite this way before.

Exhaustion fills all parts of me with pain;
I have no inclination to try and be.
It seems like an indelible dirty stain;
My determination I can no longer see.

I feel my skin crawl in the presence that once
Filled me with with both hope and joy;
I feel the anger and hurt that accompanies
How my only will to live is destroyed.

Oh, Dearie Me.

2006-12-02T19:00:00.000+05:30

Cum catapultae proscriptae erunt tum soli proscripti catapultas habebunt.

Which means that if catapults are outlawed, only outlaws will have catapults. Interesting thing to note, is it not? That which you to deny to someone, you allow someone else to have. A someone else you do not have control over, a someone else who does not listen to you.

We deny ourselves things each and every day. We deny ourselves happiness. Experiences. Experimentation. Each and every day. Every instant. Is that fair? Should we allow others to have all of that which we do not have? Sure, there are parents, annoying teachers, self righteous friends, and lady preachers (incidentally, I liked that rhyme); I see roommates spending quality time with lady Mary Jane; I see people spending money and lying to parents to get back in the game. I see people being weak and going for admiration; I miss the strong people and the non-adulation.

I don't like the way the human race seems to be growing. I can't say I agree with the way people are taking the easy way out. I don't like the way that people are giving up thinking for pleasure. I don't like the fact that beauty is trumping brains.

I think the human race is evolving out of intelligence. I'm going to miss my sanctuary.

The Watcher

2006-07-28T17:13:00.000+05:30

Ancient eyes watch without interest,
Gazing - sight watching over all beings.
Dark shadows move through the space,
Seeking to cover everything.
Small recollections form flashes of light,
That burn synapses and harm true sight.

-------------------------------------------------

Two small shadows seek to hide,
Seek company within each other.
Find a small enclosed space,
And erupt in unearthly rapture.

They then flee from the guardians of the light,
Escaping from authority they do not accept.
Try to escape once more into the deep dark night,
To find the route that no other suspects.

Vituperative, Vindictive and Killing -
All that is free.
And precious.
The rapture hangs, momentarily, in the air;
But soon, like all things, it must disappear.

It lives, now, only in their myriad thoughts,
Late at night, or in the early morn;
The scientist proclaimed that thought was not conserved;
Yet, all deep thinkers remember that they were born.
So, until such time it can be created again,
Let the shadows reach out for hope, then.

So much for my Happy Ending(s)?

2006-06-02T15:29:00.000+05:30

I just love this picture. Taken from the poster of the movie of the same name as the words printed on that oh-so-small towel, I must say I'd watch the movie simply because of the poster. I like the whole joke, and the byline - "Everybody wants one". Sheer genius, I say. Good use of lighting make this poster seem less vulgar and more artistic, somehow. It takes away from the crudeness of it all, to some extent.

I'm not quite sure why I'm rhapsodizing about this picture. I'm sure it happens to people sometimes. Something that makes them feel like they ought to give it all away, pack up, give the butler his notice, and walk out the door to spend the rest of his life doing - NOTHING.

Sigh. I want to relax. Come home. Chill out. Be myself. I so desire to be myself. Sigh...

The past hits back!

2006-05-31T23:43:00.000+05:30

Bleargh.

Once again, I find myself at the threshold of an examination I do not wish to give. A vicious cycle. You give one set, only to go forth to the next. True, once my journey in academia is over there shalt be no more exams; but in that time, I'll be tested on everything I do. Not exactly confidence inspiring, I say.

Further, I was shocked to realise how an utterly disgusting and monotonous exercise it is to go into the bloody details. Frankly, m'dear, nobody gives a damn. Sure, no one gives a damn about me, either. But somewhere, when few really care about the farce that is history, someone should come along and tell that annoying empress that she has no clothes on. Of course, if that was really to happen, we'd find ourselves looking at cobwebs, I'm sure. Bleh.

Why exactly do I run into the strange, annoying and idiotic people in life? Where are those 'like minded people' college is supposed to be full off? 'Tis all a bloody joke.

Emptiness and three year old retards.

2006-05-24T21:17:00.000+05:30

I cannot understand the stupidity of women who believe themselves to be completely reasonable. Somewhere, her behaviour is unforgivable. Not to mention, excuses about other reasons for being upset make her that much more so. I can't believe she can't deal with things like these without turning into a complete dolt. Bleh. Women.

One would think drama is something not always necessary. Yet, they make it seem like a pre-requisite to breathing. The whole idea of being the way they are stems from their stereotypical desire to make an impact. I believe somewhere that the whole patriarchy deal has left women scarred psychologically for eternity. Now, it seems to be embedded in their character - since they tend to be physically weaker in some ways, they shall attempt to make it up by playing upon the heartstrings of the men. Of course, the men are to blame for being gullible enough...

Which leaves me with the conclusion that I'm a gullible idiot.

Sigh. I hate it when logic backfires.