In keeping thoughts to yourself, there is a feeling of security in knowing that secrets are safe and nobody can judge. Of course, since nobody can know.
He knew this and practiced this. The feeling of security was well worth any downsides, as past follies clearly illustrated.
Small wonder then that when the chronic illness showed itself for what it was, he was in too much shock to understand. Denying, refusing and all those funny stages of non-acceptance were followed by a resignation to where he was. There was no way back, he realised. He would live now, without it.
Remembering unemotionally the days that had brought him to this, the childish pains and the immature temper followed by that petty age of revenge and sleep-depriving ego, he could see himself cutting off the connections.
Now he didn't know what he did. Or why he did it. Why did his friends all leave him? Why couldn't he explain his moods or his reprisals? Even to himself!
Slowly, with a blunt knife which sharpened with use, he had severed himself. And become the man who had cut his mind away from himself.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
To All That Could Have Been
You died a long time ago. I denied it at that moment, when I first saw your sleeping form. I have continued to ignore it ever since.
Today, the denial has broken down. By itself. Weeds grew slowly against the wall, expanding in the many crevices of slipshod, hurried construction. The endless rains battered the stone and the patchy masonry was washed away.
Now, worse than your dying, what hurts is how long ago it had happened. So much time has passed, since you were put to sleep.
The denial was useless, of course. You will never wake again.
Tch, to my fellow bloggers of an age past. Tch.
Today, the denial has broken down. By itself. Weeds grew slowly against the wall, expanding in the many crevices of slipshod, hurried construction. The endless rains battered the stone and the patchy masonry was washed away.
Now, worse than your dying, what hurts is how long ago it had happened. So much time has passed, since you were put to sleep.
The denial was useless, of course. You will never wake again.
Tch, to my fellow bloggers of an age past. Tch.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Gangster Murder Train Idiot
Yes, Mr. Hashmi, I am very pleased to inform you that I have a major part for you in my new movie.
Really? I'm so excited! What do I do?
It's really something very unique. You play a gangster, waylaid since his early childhood. The pains of his growing up years have hardened him up inside, and he lacks the open emotion of a normal person. Everything is bottled up inside him, since he has never had anyone to let into his life. So, he doesn't show any visible emotions on his face at any given time or scene. Is that good?
Sounds perfect. Anything else?
We're going to give you a few action scenes with guns. Big guns.
Good, good. And?
Well, you have long hair. And your character possesses a curious disposition to stand in the middle of the street, across the divider and raise his arms up to the skies while singing from a potpourri of Urdu words in a deeply nasal yet soothing voice. There is no evidence of the character ever taking vocal training in Sufi music or such like, being too busy trying to find a square meal a day. But this sort of stuff goes down well with audiences.
Right, right. I totally agree! What about rain? Does it rain in the movie?
Ha ha! I can't believe we haven't worked together before, we think so much alike! Of course it rains in the movie! Incidentally on all the occasions that villains of rival gangs come to beat you up, in the hope of quashing your intense manliness with their larger numbers and long hockey sticks. Then again, we very cleverly arrange for it to rain whenever you go to the bus stop to check out your co-actress travelling to and from college.
Really! You must be some sort of genius!
We are. I mean, yes I am! You see, even the gods empathize with you, our lead character. They gratefully manipulate Mumbai weather to mimic and model your moods in this tumultuous life you lead. Did I mention we have a cameraman who simply loves you? He insists on swooping down from insane angles and perched up heights to capture the essence of your glorious stubbled visage, as you see thugs approach or your lady walk away in a fit or your friend get crushed under a horse's hooves or your shanty get evicted because your neighbors, although they love you as much as they do, do not want any trouble or anything like that. And you, sir, are plagued to bring trouble wherever you go, to your loved ones as well as your closest friends. I mean, what are the odds of getting crushed under a horse's hooves in this modern time and age, eh?
I'm very glad we're getting along so well on this. But you still haven't told me about the most important bits, you know. How many kisses do I get? Something different this time? Can I do a Spiderman?
Well, we have looked over our script several times. Analysing your character from one angle and then another, we don't really see a kissing scene cropping up anywhere. He remains pretty much on his own, you know. He's also kind of ugly.
But, but, you have to give me a kissing scene! At least one. Right?
I don't understand what you mean, sir. The script doesn't allow it. It's really very tight. Everything is already planned out.
Stop pulling my leg! Ha ha! You can't be serious! Really not even one tender liplock, to bring out my conversion from a stoic, roughed up ruffian/hitman to experience the thrill and warmth of life and love (its true essence)? No scenes in which I experience a breaking down of my inner walls, built with hate and the need for self-preservation in the wicked streets, and let in the gushing streams of love for the whole world as expressed by loving the beautiful heroine opposite me? Even if she belongs to another, she shares with me one passionate night before she must leave, playing her part in catalysing my humanism and growth as a...growth as a human being? Our love lasts forever? And occasionally, in my old age, still roaming the streets and talking trash, I can find solace in the memory of my night of love? And we could have sepia-tinted replays played out in slow motion, with the sound (comprising moans primarily) intentionally slightly out of sync with the video to make it all seem overly chaotic and intense, to further push the idea of totally mad love-making scene?
Are you...are you...some kind of idiot?
Really? I'm so excited! What do I do?
It's really something very unique. You play a gangster, waylaid since his early childhood. The pains of his growing up years have hardened him up inside, and he lacks the open emotion of a normal person. Everything is bottled up inside him, since he has never had anyone to let into his life. So, he doesn't show any visible emotions on his face at any given time or scene. Is that good?
Sounds perfect. Anything else?
We're going to give you a few action scenes with guns. Big guns.
Good, good. And?
Well, you have long hair. And your character possesses a curious disposition to stand in the middle of the street, across the divider and raise his arms up to the skies while singing from a potpourri of Urdu words in a deeply nasal yet soothing voice. There is no evidence of the character ever taking vocal training in Sufi music or such like, being too busy trying to find a square meal a day. But this sort of stuff goes down well with audiences.
Right, right. I totally agree! What about rain? Does it rain in the movie?
Ha ha! I can't believe we haven't worked together before, we think so much alike! Of course it rains in the movie! Incidentally on all the occasions that villains of rival gangs come to beat you up, in the hope of quashing your intense manliness with their larger numbers and long hockey sticks. Then again, we very cleverly arrange for it to rain whenever you go to the bus stop to check out your co-actress travelling to and from college.
Really! You must be some sort of genius!
We are. I mean, yes I am! You see, even the gods empathize with you, our lead character. They gratefully manipulate Mumbai weather to mimic and model your moods in this tumultuous life you lead. Did I mention we have a cameraman who simply loves you? He insists on swooping down from insane angles and perched up heights to capture the essence of your glorious stubbled visage, as you see thugs approach or your lady walk away in a fit or your friend get crushed under a horse's hooves or your shanty get evicted because your neighbors, although they love you as much as they do, do not want any trouble or anything like that. And you, sir, are plagued to bring trouble wherever you go, to your loved ones as well as your closest friends. I mean, what are the odds of getting crushed under a horse's hooves in this modern time and age, eh?
I'm very glad we're getting along so well on this. But you still haven't told me about the most important bits, you know. How many kisses do I get? Something different this time? Can I do a Spiderman?
Well, we have looked over our script several times. Analysing your character from one angle and then another, we don't really see a kissing scene cropping up anywhere. He remains pretty much on his own, you know. He's also kind of ugly.
But, but, you have to give me a kissing scene! At least one. Right?
I don't understand what you mean, sir. The script doesn't allow it. It's really very tight. Everything is already planned out.
Stop pulling my leg! Ha ha! You can't be serious! Really not even one tender liplock, to bring out my conversion from a stoic, roughed up ruffian/hitman to experience the thrill and warmth of life and love (its true essence)? No scenes in which I experience a breaking down of my inner walls, built with hate and the need for self-preservation in the wicked streets, and let in the gushing streams of love for the whole world as expressed by loving the beautiful heroine opposite me? Even if she belongs to another, she shares with me one passionate night before she must leave, playing her part in catalysing my humanism and growth as a...growth as a human being? Our love lasts forever? And occasionally, in my old age, still roaming the streets and talking trash, I can find solace in the memory of my night of love? And we could have sepia-tinted replays played out in slow motion, with the sound (comprising moans primarily) intentionally slightly out of sync with the video to make it all seem overly chaotic and intense, to further push the idea of totally mad love-making scene?
Are you...are you...some kind of idiot?
Monday, April 06, 2009
Career Planning
[With more than sufficient high-fiving and over-due credits to Trivik. Happy?]
Put on a parachute and jump off a plane, into an ocean ten thousand feet below.
Go sailing in Australia and pick up the accent. Run Parkour, drive thousands of miles and live in a shed in a ranch 200 acres across.
Smoke up in a police station in Amsterdam. Hit a policeman, run around the buffoon calling him names, drunk and delirious. Call Su to bail you out. :)
Be a tourist guide in Athens, for one Grecian summer. Amidst sculptures and heroic tales, smuggle in drugs and milk the foreigners. Visit the little homes, pick the rarest rugs.
Live in Spain, driving around in a convertible. Speak the Spanish, fight in bars, woo the ladies, stare down a bull. Have a couple of months on the coast, in a villa abandoned long before. Then drive off into a Spanish sunset, someone stroking a guitar on the radio.
Report in Afghanistan. Listen to the stories, of wars and battles and living through them all. Ride the horses like only the Afghans do.
Train in Ferrari. Engineer a F1 car. Watch it race to victory and money and millions.
Crash land in Brazil on an old, battered bi-plane. Love the women. Infiltrate the gangs, make your way up. Scheming still, run away with a shipful of goods one day.
Party in an Armin van Buuren concert. After party with Pamela Anderson. Or Carmen Electra. Or Jessica Alba. Or anyone really. Don't discriminate so much beyond a certain threshold.
Climb the Alps. Sit at the top and shout at the world.
Walk all over India. Or take the trains. Learn at least5 languages. Visit the places they don't take you, and are still untouched and pure. The green and the rains in the hills and the vast waves of sand in the deserts. Drink chai at road-side shops only.
Find Hatori Hanzo. Learn the katana, the kung-fu, the ju-jitsu and the elusive art of the chopsticks.
Own a Lamborghini. Explore a pyramid. Be seduced by Salma Hayek. Go to a Playboy party. Find the island of Dr. Moreau. Read Homer and Leo Tolstoy. Make a sword. Run a marathon. BE at a Led Zeppelin concert. Be 6 UP or 24 DOWN on the Times crossword puzzle.
Save the world before bedtime.
Put on a parachute and jump off a plane, into an ocean ten thousand feet below.
Go sailing in Australia and pick up the accent. Run Parkour, drive thousands of miles and live in a shed in a ranch 200 acres across.
Smoke up in a police station in Amsterdam. Hit a policeman, run around the buffoon calling him names, drunk and delirious. Call Su to bail you out. :)
Be a tourist guide in Athens, for one Grecian summer. Amidst sculptures and heroic tales, smuggle in drugs and milk the foreigners. Visit the little homes, pick the rarest rugs.
Live in Spain, driving around in a convertible. Speak the Spanish, fight in bars, woo the ladies, stare down a bull. Have a couple of months on the coast, in a villa abandoned long before. Then drive off into a Spanish sunset, someone stroking a guitar on the radio.
Report in Afghanistan. Listen to the stories, of wars and battles and living through them all. Ride the horses like only the Afghans do.
Train in Ferrari. Engineer a F1 car. Watch it race to victory and money and millions.
Crash land in Brazil on an old, battered bi-plane. Love the women. Infiltrate the gangs, make your way up. Scheming still, run away with a shipful of goods one day.
Party in an Armin van Buuren concert. After party with Pamela Anderson. Or Carmen Electra. Or Jessica Alba. Or anyone really. Don't discriminate so much beyond a certain threshold.
Climb the Alps. Sit at the top and shout at the world.
Walk all over India. Or take the trains. Learn at least5 languages. Visit the places they don't take you, and are still untouched and pure. The green and the rains in the hills and the vast waves of sand in the deserts. Drink chai at road-side shops only.
Find Hatori Hanzo. Learn the katana, the kung-fu, the ju-jitsu and the elusive art of the chopsticks.
Own a Lamborghini. Explore a pyramid. Be seduced by Salma Hayek. Go to a Playboy party. Find the island of Dr. Moreau. Read Homer and Leo Tolstoy. Make a sword. Run a marathon. BE at a Led Zeppelin concert. Be 6 UP or 24 DOWN on the Times crossword puzzle.
Save the world before bedtime.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Transmission
In a land far, far away once, a man screamed.
In a land (as compared) merely far away, the wise woman heard.
She swallowed, feeling his pain.
Her piano she played, mournful that night.
Sadness travels faster than the speed of light. Are you listening, Mr. Hawking?
The keys strike notes within the boundaries of a chord, frozen in time, an arpeggio to some.
Reaching out in every direction, connecting with but one. Not so much to the others.
Yes, crying out to only one more mind in the world, I wonder if he...or she...hears.
And understands, and listens. And passes on the sorrow. And the pain.
What a waste it is, if no one does!
And tough luck it is indeed, if someone does!
One of a few billion is he. Or she.
That's several hundred in a million that is.
Hundreds and hundreds of thousands.
And so many thousands of hundreds.
Le kapiche?
The next time you play your keys, little woman, remember this irony.
Nobody may be listening, although everyone still is.
Maybe sadness is slower, very slow indeed then.
Jump in anyway, will you? It's time you did.
In a land (as compared) merely far away, the wise woman heard.
She swallowed, feeling his pain.
Her piano she played, mournful that night.
Sadness travels faster than the speed of light. Are you listening, Mr. Hawking?
The keys strike notes within the boundaries of a chord, frozen in time, an arpeggio to some.
Reaching out in every direction, connecting with but one. Not so much to the others.
Yes, crying out to only one more mind in the world, I wonder if he...or she...hears.
And understands, and listens. And passes on the sorrow. And the pain.
What a waste it is, if no one does!
And tough luck it is indeed, if someone does!
One of a few billion is he. Or she.
That's several hundred in a million that is.
Hundreds and hundreds of thousands.
And so many thousands of hundreds.
Le kapiche?
The next time you play your keys, little woman, remember this irony.
Nobody may be listening, although everyone still is.
Maybe sadness is slower, very slow indeed then.
Jump in anyway, will you? It's time you did.
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