I have been having a bit of writer’s block, again. Actually, this ain’t new; I have writer’s block all the time, chronic. In layman’s language, its ‘in-built’ or ‘default behavior’, which also means I’m not a good writer. But nevertheless, I have not been able to write shit since a long time.
I have been plagiarizing quite often, big fan of the whole idea of stealing someone’s text and showing off as you have written the whole damn thing*. It also has its setbacks, since you have hardly understood the real meaning or the whole idea that another lonely blogger has put into words. So, the problem with being a self-important nutjob is showing off the text amongst others. See, now, they will ask if they won’t understand a word or an expression, consequently, you are in some deep shit.
Speaking of deep shit, I’m already into it a little bit. Because they don’t write good stuff enough these days, and I have to really think hard and come up with original freaking text. Now trust me, this is damn hard.
So I plagiarize my own text.
This has been fun so far.
*That’s why I’d eventually end up in hell.
Read my older post called “Death of a Blogger”…
Well, actually this one is inspired from that one.
See, I did it again.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Enigma
There's a choice.
You can either have nothing or everything.
The thing is nothing and everything of both is not possible. It's ideal.
So dealing it with a pragmatic approach might seem impractical.
Like the grass being greener on the other side without a validation of your own reality.
But the choice still holds. The question remains.
Dichotomy!
'Paranoia is total awareness!'
You can either have nothing or everything.
The thing is nothing and everything of both is not possible. It's ideal.
So dealing it with a pragmatic approach might seem impractical.
Like the grass being greener on the other side without a validation of your own reality.
But the choice still holds. The question remains.
Dichotomy!
'Paranoia is total awareness!'
Monday, August 2, 2010
In extremis
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, you realize how meaning springs into your life. A sense of predefined purpose which was lost in all the cacophony of living the life “they” wanted you to live. Can you still comprehend what the true desire is? Would you know what you and only you wanted to do in this life. Do those things that come purely from your own desires, without any influence from an outside force. Can you feel the individuality of your purpose?
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, do you feel the insides crack? You feel your arachnophobia or the agoraphobia is now invalid. You are embroiled in the totality of fear, ready to defend your own self from any pinprick of unseen circumstances. Fears melt down to one single existence. The perceptions change from a person who took life for granted to a person who feels the extreme importance in those imperceptible things, the ones that do not come within your definition of life. The little things you tend to miss out while compressing your life in a few flashes before your eyes.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, what difference does it make? Your hollowed existence sticks out to scream at the insufficiency that you led till now. You never tasted life. You kept it on the side so that you can build and keep building more structure to your life, so that at the end of it all when you feel you have earned it… that’s when you indulge. But why wait when the reward is right in front of you? Why toil to earn it? Do we need to be awarded tokens of acknowledgment from what others think of us? Are we that dependent on others in shaping ourselves? We fail at living. Coz we forgot what it means. It’s now a memory beyond recall. Maybe.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, whom do you think about the most? Do you think about the love that filled your vacuous existence? Do you think about the ones who loved you? But then why would you think of anyone but yourself. Why think about those who are soon going to be memories? To cushion the oncoming blow by the memories that you thought were “unconditional” and “pure”? Is it that hard to not see yourself reflecting on each one of your actions? To verify how unconditional they were and measure the magnitude of purity that was so obvious. It withers away. It’s not the cynicism, but the harsh reality that you can only be the one person. The one and the individual! Only one.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, how many questions tend to…
“Done thinking?” The gunman smiled.
“I don’t…I….Not quite.” I stutter.
He slowly moves his hand with gun in his firm grip. His hand slides to his left still in the air. His sleeves flay in the violent wind that lashes the empty landscape. His eye twitches and the right corner of his mouth goes up to take the form of a malicious yet benign smile.
“Do you think this was a joke?” He yells. His face calm.
“I didn’t get the time to think about that.” I regain my ability to speak.
He takes a few steps back. The left hand was still in the air, with the gun pointing west.
His index finger touches the trigger. Even though he was far I could sense the pressure that he applied on the trigger. I could feel it as if it was me doing it. The weight of the gun was in my hand. The bullet that was lodged inside the gun was waiting. The pressure builds up. The trigger was not light. He had to bend his hand to add slow pressure to the finger. My elbow twitched. The trigger was suppressed, but only half way through. It was on the threshold of release. A door was to be opened. Freedom.
He clamped his teeth together with a look of intensity. My jaw was taut. There was an instinctive propensity to release the gun, but my hand shivered. He pointed it at me now. My hand was hovering near my head. The threshold was here. He was not. I was.
The pull was not hard. The gun was a trigger now.
Click.
Silent and Black. No vision. No tunnel.
Just a distant hum escalating as it came nearer. The Doppler.
The upsurge. The crescendo. The climax!
I fell. But I felt it. I felt the ground. All was black, but I still felt the ground.
I fell… and my left leg was the only part that was on the bed.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, do you feel the insides crack? You feel your arachnophobia or the agoraphobia is now invalid. You are embroiled in the totality of fear, ready to defend your own self from any pinprick of unseen circumstances. Fears melt down to one single existence. The perceptions change from a person who took life for granted to a person who feels the extreme importance in those imperceptible things, the ones that do not come within your definition of life. The little things you tend to miss out while compressing your life in a few flashes before your eyes.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, what difference does it make? Your hollowed existence sticks out to scream at the insufficiency that you led till now. You never tasted life. You kept it on the side so that you can build and keep building more structure to your life, so that at the end of it all when you feel you have earned it… that’s when you indulge. But why wait when the reward is right in front of you? Why toil to earn it? Do we need to be awarded tokens of acknowledgment from what others think of us? Are we that dependent on others in shaping ourselves? We fail at living. Coz we forgot what it means. It’s now a memory beyond recall. Maybe.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, whom do you think about the most? Do you think about the love that filled your vacuous existence? Do you think about the ones who loved you? But then why would you think of anyone but yourself. Why think about those who are soon going to be memories? To cushion the oncoming blow by the memories that you thought were “unconditional” and “pure”? Is it that hard to not see yourself reflecting on each one of your actions? To verify how unconditional they were and measure the magnitude of purity that was so obvious. It withers away. It’s not the cynicism, but the harsh reality that you can only be the one person. The one and the individual! Only one.
When there’s a gun pointing to your head, how many questions tend to…
“Done thinking?” The gunman smiled.
“I don’t…I….Not quite.” I stutter.
He slowly moves his hand with gun in his firm grip. His hand slides to his left still in the air. His sleeves flay in the violent wind that lashes the empty landscape. His eye twitches and the right corner of his mouth goes up to take the form of a malicious yet benign smile.
“Do you think this was a joke?” He yells. His face calm.
“I didn’t get the time to think about that.” I regain my ability to speak.
He takes a few steps back. The left hand was still in the air, with the gun pointing west.
His index finger touches the trigger. Even though he was far I could sense the pressure that he applied on the trigger. I could feel it as if it was me doing it. The weight of the gun was in my hand. The bullet that was lodged inside the gun was waiting. The pressure builds up. The trigger was not light. He had to bend his hand to add slow pressure to the finger. My elbow twitched. The trigger was suppressed, but only half way through. It was on the threshold of release. A door was to be opened. Freedom.
He clamped his teeth together with a look of intensity. My jaw was taut. There was an instinctive propensity to release the gun, but my hand shivered. He pointed it at me now. My hand was hovering near my head. The threshold was here. He was not. I was.
The pull was not hard. The gun was a trigger now.
Click.
Silent and Black. No vision. No tunnel.
Just a distant hum escalating as it came nearer. The Doppler.
The upsurge. The crescendo. The climax!
I fell. But I felt it. I felt the ground. All was black, but I still felt the ground.
I fell… and my left leg was the only part that was on the bed.
In Extremis is a Latin phrase.
It means “at the point of death”, it also means “in grave” or in “in dire straits."
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Native of a Nomad
I lived in 4 cities in 22 years, regularly visited one another. I liked all the places I lived in for different reasons, and therefore don’t really think any one place to be a favorite over another.
During the last few years that we spent living in Gandhinagar, I was often asked a most baffling question – ‘Tum ho kahan key?’ to which I wish I had a simple one-word reply, but unfortunately I didn’t. So I would say...
“I don’t have a native place. My father grew up in many places, but you could say he is a native of Jamnagar.”
Before they jump to the next assumption, and say “But you don’t sound like..!”
And I would say, “I’m basically a native of Lalpur, a small town near Jamnagar. Hmm, even though I'm from Lalpur, I was brought up in Gandhinagar. And lived my early years in Radhanpur and a small village nearby…”
And they would say… “Forget it, man!”
For a long time, I wanted to visit my native place. So I went there this summer.
It has been sagely said that "everyone has a native place;" and with this unanswerable proposition we couple the remark, that they are prone to consider it the most Eden-like spot on earth's surface.
When you fall short of words you begin to spout poetry. Sounds illogical, but when you are the only soul sitting by the river under a canopy of stars with just waving trees and a lonely temple across for company, believe me, it’s easy.
But when I arrived there, it was something I never expected.
Those lofty trees have disappeared, whose trunks were covered with deeply carved names, and mill-wheels dash passionately in Nature's once secluded sanctuary. The money-changers have come into the temple.
Maybe, in revisiting my birth-spot, it would have been pleasanter to have found it the way it was. But it matters little, since its picture hangs in the halls of memory, to fade not till she herself is dead.
During the last few years that we spent living in Gandhinagar, I was often asked a most baffling question – ‘Tum ho kahan key?’ to which I wish I had a simple one-word reply, but unfortunately I didn’t. So I would say...
“I don’t have a native place. My father grew up in many places, but you could say he is a native of Jamnagar.”
Before they jump to the next assumption, and say “But you don’t sound like..!”
And I would say, “I’m basically a native of Lalpur, a small town near Jamnagar. Hmm, even though I'm from Lalpur, I was brought up in Gandhinagar. And lived my early years in Radhanpur and a small village nearby…”
And they would say… “Forget it, man!”
For a long time, I wanted to visit my native place. So I went there this summer.
It has been sagely said that "everyone has a native place;" and with this unanswerable proposition we couple the remark, that they are prone to consider it the most Eden-like spot on earth's surface.
When you fall short of words you begin to spout poetry. Sounds illogical, but when you are the only soul sitting by the river under a canopy of stars with just waving trees and a lonely temple across for company, believe me, it’s easy.
But when I arrived there, it was something I never expected.
Those lofty trees have disappeared, whose trunks were covered with deeply carved names, and mill-wheels dash passionately in Nature's once secluded sanctuary. The money-changers have come into the temple.
Maybe, in revisiting my birth-spot, it would have been pleasanter to have found it the way it was. But it matters little, since its picture hangs in the halls of memory, to fade not till she herself is dead.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Shopping and the art of standing like a coat rack
So there I was, in the women’s section of ethnic wear. Staring at all shapes and colors of cloth cutouts designed to look whatever their definition of "ethnic" was. My sister was in the trial room for what seemed like hours to me, or probably somewhere down the line my idleness was so causal that it tore through the fabric of space-time creating a localized worm hole thus trapping me in a time loop of painstaking idleness.
All my idleness didn't go in complete vain though. I was proud to learn a thing about myself - I have PATIENCE! Although I don't know the collective magnitude of what and how much of patience justifies the word to be written in caps... but hey, I do have it.
The thing is I had to play the role of the faithful driver for my sis who has a deadline for her shopping dates and items. I prefer chauffeur... no wait... I prefer being called the transporter. Gives me that Jason Statham-esque Mercedes driving image kicking some ass on the way.
Which is the exact opposite of what I'm doing right now.
Now one thing I noticed is how women shop. When when you see a woman shop... you realize that men don't actually shop. They pick up stuff. Shopping is this whole art consisting of various sub branches and psychological nuances and all sorts of meticulous data you can put in. And my sister is not a woman when it's shop time. She has the masculine ability of getting bored while shopping... and that too within the initial few minutes. Although this would go in the 'pros' list when it comes to me being the ‘transporter’... her methodical perseverance and dedication is a total let down that scrawled all over the 'cons' list.
The following observations are on the various women I have observed shopping while standing like a dork in the ladies section.
-Women come.
-Go through all the sections once.
-Think about all the sections.
-Think about what others would think about the clothes in those sections.
-Short list a few clothes in order to give some hope to the guy who works at the store.
-Shatter his hopes by rejecting all the clothes that the woman had just short listed in order to experiment on a fresh batch.
-Through this process the locations do change from one shop to another.
-There is no accurate finalization... only and approximation of what they think is close to perfection. This condition is highly dependent on whether they find the 'Ohthatdress!’
(The 'Ohthatdress!' usually occurs when women spot some dress which is something that they were predetermined about since it would have been worn by someone else such as a friend or a celebrity... or some influential woman)
-After the process described above, that spans a few hours, the casualty report might consist of only a handful of or no particular clothing. (If the budget is not an issue the woman might come out with bags weighing more than the woman herself).
[Note: 1. This is a vast field of study, my points are a crude generalization of my own observations.
Note: 2. These points are strictly limited to shopping of clothing, things like cosmetics and perfumes require yet another flow chart though the process remains somewhat the same.]
The pick it up men method:
-Go to shop.
-Go through all/most/very little of the stuff once.
-Decide on the basis of budget first, then liking.
-Pick it up.
Finish.
It may seem I'm being violently sexist here, but I condemn none of the methods. Both are equally bad in a way. One is too meticulous and the other has the complete lack of it.
There has to be some fine balance.
Hence my conclusion is if you go to shop... go with a gay dude. That's a balance.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The Death of A Blogger
A blogger died and reached the Pearly Gates to be interviewed by St. Peter...
St. Peter: Welcome to the Pearly Gates. The name is Peter, Saint Peter. (to himself) Great...another blogger...I am gonna need more coffee...
Blogger: Hey, this place is cool...nice gates...and I see you have a fog machine for the mythological touch...I could write a great post about this place...you wouldn't happen to have a camera, would you?...I like to include pictures along with my blog posts. (smiles annoyingly)
St. Peter(rolling his eyes): Why do I get all the screwballs on Monday?
Blogger: And hey, you've got a cool pc and everything...did you upgrade recently?...if not, you should really consider it...you know, Microsoft just released this great new operating system called...
St. Peter (frustrated, already): Would you just sit down and be quiet already? Now, the reason you are here is that we have to decide whether to send you to Heaven or to Hell... Tell me about yourself…
Blogger: About myself? The Gods in their wisdom did not grant me the gift of seeing myself as others see me. They must have thought knowing what others thought of me might endanger suicidal tendencies in me and decided to let me stew in my own self esteem. Now I am up against the formidable task of having to say about myself…
St. Peter: Whoa, whoa…! Tsnt this whole answer from Khhushvant Singh’s article “Seeing Oneself?” I have read his “Not a Nice Man to Know” too. Dont try to fool me. I am sending you to Hell.
Blogger: WHAT? No...there must be some mistake...I have led a good honest life...I did not commit any sins...
St. Peter: Well...it looks like you plagiarized one post too many without giving credit to the rightful bloggers...
Blogger (sheepishly): Uhhh...heh heh heh...ok, maybe I was "inspired" while writing a couple of posts...but I wrote a lot of genuine ones too...you know, thoughts for the day, movie reviews, poems, jokes...
St. Peter: Jokes, eh? Well, guess who's laughing now? (Breaks into guffaws of laughter)
Blogger: Uh, you are.
(Awkward silence)
St. Peter : You weren't supposed to answer that. It was a rhetorical question. I was just saying - That the "joke" is on you, buster. (Laughing hard while beating the desk with fists)
Blogger: Uh, what joke?
(Silence again)
St. Peter: You know what, Mr. Smartypants? I am too old and too rich to put up with this. Off you go... (presses a button... hidden trapdoor under Blogger's chair opens and Blogger falls with a rapidly fading yell)
(Blogger lands in front of Satan)
Satan: Ah, another one of you...it's surprising how many of you bloggers turn up here. Welcome to Hell. Let me be frank...I don't know what Peter Parker up there told you but the reason you were sent here is that you are a smartass. Oh and in case you haven't guessed already, I am Satan...
Blogger: I thought you said your name was Frank...
Satan: I am gonna pretend I didn't hear that. Now, if you follow me I'll show you the Blogger's Room.
Blogger follows, trying to stomp on Satan's tail. Satan leads him into a huge air-conditioned room with row after row of shiny new workstations.
Satan: In here, we have the latest computer technology ever conceived, entirely for use by you bloggers. You can sit in here for as much time as you want and create blog posts unrivalled to anything you might have composed before.
Blogger: Wow...this is unbelievable...just look at all the cool stuff in here...the templates, the formatting tools, the photo albums...oh I must be dreaming...or I must have died and gone to heav...Hey, wait a minute...I thought you said this place was Hell...so how come you give us bloggers the best possible tools and facilities for blogging?
Satan: Ah, you see, that's the best part... none of our systems have a "Submit Post" button...
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The Cliché
He opened his eyes. He was waiting for her at the train station. It was late. Almost midnight. The train would be leaving soon. And they'd go away. Far away from the family feuds and the intimidation and the pain and the...But why hadn't she come yet? She had to. She had promised. The light turned green. A whistle sounded. The train set off in motion with a gentle shove. One last searching look. He rubbed away the tears. And stepped on to the train...
He opened his eyes. His head felt heavy. And a couple of sizes too big. Something cold was pressed against his hand. A .45 automatic. Used quite recently. He could smell it in the air. He tried to get his eyes to focus. And regretted it immediately. She lay on the carpet in a pool of blood. He stumbled over and hugged her. Then carried her lifeless body and placed it on the bed. He knew he would be the prime suspect. His fingerprints were all over the place. Well, so be it. He rubbed away the tears and reloaded the gun. They would pay for this...
He opened his eyes. Someone was calling his name. He walked over and got his espresso. 3 more hours of studying. And then 2 more in the examination hall. He wondered how many more espressos he'll need. He tried to concentrate on the squiggles which according to the author were a data plot. Someone who smelled nice squeezed past him, stumbled and scalded his neck with her latte. He screamed. She panicked. Everyone stared. She got some napkins. She said she was sorry. He said it was alright. He made a quick trip to the restroom. He sat down. He saw she had the same textbook...
He opened his eyes. The hospital tiles stared back at him. Cold, unfriendly and spotlessly clean. She'd been in surgery for almost three hours now. His brain was numb from worrying. And praying. All he wanted was for someone to come out and tell him that she was going to be okay. It had been a drunk driver. One who hadn't noticed or hadn't cared for the red light. Why? Why her? Why today? Why hadn't he picked her up from work like everyday? He rubbed away the tears and looked up. The nurse was walking towards him. Please let her be okay, just please let her be okay...
"What are you doing? And why are these crumpled papers on the floor?"
"Well, what does it look like I'm doing? I am trying to write a short story. But everything I've tried so far just sounds so clichéd."
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