Winds of Change

I don’t really believe in comebacks, or resurrections. I shall make no attempt to make this same like one. And yet on this arduous and painful road journey, I find myself, once again, connecting with something which, not more than a year and a half ago was supposedly one of my greatest passions.


A lot has changed since then. Most of them have been small, the ones which are an inevitable result of the passage of time. Engineering School is over. I no longer spend my days studying subjects I have no interest in, trying to find mathematics and literature courses to circumvent the process of studying my core discipline. Somehow, by some bizarre twist of fate, I have ended up in a peculiar job. Let’s just say I now help manufacture what I once used to despise…...and worse, I gladly gobble up the handsome pay my employers offer me. Yet, I am glad to have moved on. My guitar playing has advanced, proverbially, by leaps and bounds. Artist-wise, my spectrum of musical appreciation has widened, though the focus continues to be restricted to a few genres. My appetite for reading crime thrillers has waxed and consequently waned. Hence, in terms of books read per month, I am back at the number I was at 3 years ago in college. I have grown more introspective, broody, and philosophical than ever before. I have also become a lot mellower. Things which appeared important, and the dearth of which signaled the end of the world at 18, suddenly seem lesser than immaterial at 22.


There was one big change, however, which was unnatural. With the advent of my new profession and the rigors demanded by it in terms of time and energy, I had begun to neglect one of my most prized creations……The Runaway Train. Towards the end of its tether, the frequency of posting had dropped to once a month, and later, once in two. By September 2008, it was officially defunct. The old post referencing my Russia trip stood like the final pillar in a dilapidated building falling to ruins. It was over. When I joined this job in mid 2008, I was asked, at Orientation, about my hobbies. I had mentioned, in my profile, Music and Writing. Music I was able to substantiate well, but for Writing, I gave a rather muffled explanation about a blog I had started a couple of years prior. Needless to say, it sounded quite unconvincing. At least, it seemed so to me.


In the meantime, my aunt, a software entrepreneur, leading a kind of lifestyle quite like the one I presently lead, (with the exception that she actually enjoys what she is doing,) had become an avid reader of my blog. (If I may say so, with all due humility,) She was quite the fan. Last Saturday, she called late in the evening. After a bit of small talk, she began with a volley of questions: regarding the hours of my work, how hard I have to toil, how much free time I get and what I do with it, and so on. Eventually, she got around to the point had been waiting a good half an hour to make. Why don’t you update your blog? Why have you stopped writing?....and all sorts of other unanswerable questions.


I can’t explain it. It’s not like I had a realization that I had regular readers to cater to. Nothing of the sort! Issues like the acquisition and retention of readers have not exactly been number one on my priority list. Runaway Train was always driven by what I felt like writing, and when I wanted to write it. Somehow it was the humbling thought: if the Executive Director of an organization, with her packed daily schedule, numerous hi-fi meetings and conferences, frequent travel and more, could find time to read an obscure blog, take care to notice the date of the last post while questioning the unexplained halt in the entries, perhaps its creator (who is no Executive) should take some time out and at least attempt to continue what he had once so enthusiastically created.

All Those Colors

You cannot mix orange, white, black and yellow together in the same composition, you brute……….you just cannot!

Kevin Chase, the young 24-year-old painter, has resided in his apartment, the one a couple of doors down the hall from mine, for the last half a decade or so. It has been a pleasure to know him. Yet on a particular summer evening a year ago, we got into a heated argument - that led a strange incident, both of which I remember to this very day. Let me mention, that Kevin happens to be one of the most mild-mannered and accommodating people one can hope to meet. But when it comes to art, and in particular colors, one careless remark is usually greeted by a queue of caustic utterances.

It started innocently enough. Kevin had just returned from his trip far up north. As was the norm during his travels, he had picked up several key inputs from the local artists. We were discussing the art of using complementary colors in close proximity to create aesthetic effect; a technique most artists are aware of. As a challenge, he asked me to pick out any 4 shades from his tube set, that he would mix to make his composition. As a jest, I picked out Black, White, Golden Yellow, and Orange, and urged him to create whatever came to his mind. Needless to say, the 4 of these are not complementary, and traditionally cannot be used together. Even more obvious is the fact that Kevin would embark on a long tirade, ranting about the philistine that I was.

It was while I was laughing my head off that Kevin suggested a different approach. Since on a conscious level, one could never shade using these colors, he decided to paint while high. Painting under the influence, he claimed would, be an extremely good way to tap his own subconscious stream of thought. And then he was off; eyes closed, his brush worked furiously. Within a couple of hours, he was done. Whatever he had drawn, we promised to keep secret between us. The painting was more than a tapped sample of Kevin Chase’s subdued thoughts. It was a window into his mind, his opinions, his faith, his broken dreams, and his understanding of life itself. It was all he had seen, during his years of travel and in particular, his latest stint.

Kevin had proceeded from the bottom up. On his canvas, starting with black, he outlined and shaded a couple of ovalish shapes attached to jet black cylindrical tubes. I say ovalish, for unless one knows exactly what these shapes represent, no other description can be made available. The thickness of these tubes would gradually increase on ascent. This gradual diametric expansion on ascent meant that the slender, delicate tubes would eventually meet. Somewhere just above this meeting point, the black abruptly ended, signaling the start of another new train of thought. In this portion, I noticed the rare use of what he called a casing. Essentially, a brighter color is surrounded by a color more bland than itself. Here, Kevin indulged in orange at the core. The surrounding shell, he chose a body of white, streaked most artistically and meaningfully with black. The criss-crossing designs thus created were truly breathtaking. The shell had long fork-like shapes, falling vertically to the side. This shell fit perfectly on top of the part he had conjured up earlier. Of course, he wasn’t done there. At the ends of the arms he added tiny dabs of a 50-50 mixture of orange and white, which gave a familiar hue. Next he repeated the same color at the top of the cased shell, and thus drew up a neat little sphere.

Sometime around this point, the effects of the cocktail were beginning to wear off. It was timed quite to perfection. Kevin was now in the ideal state. He was neither in a hypnotic trance, nor in a completely sober state. He half opened his eyes. He looked at his own creation……..It was almost complete. Realizing that the shapeless spheres, cylinders and other shapes needed some contours, he picked up the brush dipped in black paint. He would go on to touch up the small orange-white sphere on top of the cased shell. At the very center, he drew a vertical stroke with two small rings at the bottom. At the top end of this stroke, on either side, appeared two pod shaped slots. At the edges of the sphere, two much shorter strokes came up. He was at the point of sheer ecstasy. His cheeks were blushed red, pupils dangerously dilated, and his movements unsteady. With one final gasp, he picked up one of the brushes and dipped it in the golden yellow paint. Quite obviously, he felt something was missing. With about a couple of dozen neat flicks, he created above the mentioned form, a crown. It was clearly two parts, separated neatly through the center. He interspersed the yellow with occasional black streaks to create the illusion of shading. He took a step back to admire his work. At this point, he was mentally too exhausted to fight off the overwhelming tiredness. The sight of the golden yellow flakes caused him to emit a low guttural bellow, following which his legs gave way and he slumped to the floor.
At the point, the painting was what one could call ninety nine percent to completion. It was quite obvious that Kevin had carried forward a lot of memories from his recent travels. On his desk, lay one of his photo albums. I opened of the albums, and casually flicked through it, hoping to find something while not knowing what exactly I was looking for. They were all pictures of his trip up north. Soon, realization dawned upon me. Only about half the photographs had exactly what I was looking for. I had never seen Kevin as happy as he seemed in the captured stillness of the polaroids.

I was, and am, no artist. I cannot create beautiful images right out of my imagination. But the proximity to Chase over the years had at least taught me the art of copying……give me a reference and I am able to create a quite convincing replica. I felt I owed my friend to give him a helping hand…….I needed to finish what he had started. All that was left for me to do was plant one of the pictures besides the painting. Some careful observation, and a few tentative strokes later, my work was done. I had touched up what was missing. There was no hint of masculine exaggeration, or unnecessary detail. Everything was pert and well defined, flawlessly outlined, and typically feminine. The baby-face cheeks, the snub nose, the inviting pale thin lips, the flowing blonde hair, the delicate patterned suede jacket, and the miniscule buttons on the orange shirt…….and of course, the sleek, shining leather designer shoes. Lastly, I violated my own rule of using only 4 colors: I went and mixed some bottle-green into the orange, and applied it to the eyes. It was now complete…….Kevin would love it when he woke.

Where Jesse Met Celine

The early mornings in this land are unlike the ones back home. At the height of summer, a midnight shower has condemned the temperature to a lowly 10 degrees. The strong breeze necessitates the use of a windcheater, as I make my way down the lobby of the inn. A quick swipe at some of the goodies at the breakfast buffét, and I am all set to go………..

The town is bustling with people, mostly tourists. Strangely though, the swarms of people are accompanied by a serene, almost eerie calm. Initially, I sorely miss the rowdy cackling of the pedestrians. But as my initial homesickness is replaced by an overwhelming curiosity to find out more about this completely alien world, I take a step backwards, and try to get a broader view of the old palace from a distance. It seems that even the architecture – the inanimate buildings, and the cobble-stoned streets seem completely at ease with themselves, just like the people here………… The horse drawn carriages at the courtyard seem inviting. The driver speaks in fluent English, with the trademark gutturall of the Germanic accent. The good man is dressed in attire that makes him look like a 21st century version of immortal Sherlock Holmes. He offers a guided tour, in exchange for the measly sum of 65 euros (his words!). What follows is this wonderful trip coupled with authentic explanations that only a local can provide. In the calm of the town, one can hear the sound of the horse’s hooves. Their effect is strangely hypnotic, as we negotiate through the narrow alleyways. In the distance Maria Therésa stands tall, as my guide explains the history of the monarchy. He points to the temporary office of Hitler and then another building that was the headquarters of the invading Soviets in the aftermath of World War II. After many more we finally come to a corner house, seemingly old and run down. “Here lived the greatest composer the world has ever known”, says my driver. Minutes later, we pass a larger house with white walls, and pointing to the building this time he smiles “And here lived the second greatest – his student”. That his tone is overflowing with national pride helps me connect two and two together……….. I smile back, recalling Dad’s classical CD collection.

Once the tour ends, I visit one of the town’s world famous coffee shops. Quite needless to say, 7 euros for a cappuccino at this quaint place seem better spent that all the cash I have dumped down the drain back home, visiting wannabe café chains. After lunch at an Italian restaurant, I take a cab up to the hilltop. The cabbie tells me it is the place to get an excellent panoramic view of this whole town. I am skeptical at first, but what I get to see takes my breath away. I see this most picturesque of European towns, the architecture like wooden toy houses one plays with as a child. The colors seem so sober, and admirably dignified, capturing the essence of the town itself……….as far removed from showmanship or barbarism as one can imagine. Everything seems perfect……every corner, every cobblestone, every roof, and every window. There is hardly a hint of anything that seems out-of-place, unnecessary, or clumsy. It all seems so German…….it is civil engineering raised to dizzy heights that people from our part of the world can only imagine.

I round off my one day outing by visiting the palace ground of the legendary Habsburgs – one of the most powerful European dynasties prior to World War I. The scenes are just like something out of a picture postcard. The age of the palace is not for a moment betrayed. The people here have maintained their historical gems with care, giving them a special dignity. I feel that once a people have realized that all parts of their historical past have relevance, to be accepted and preserved whether signifying pride or shame, they have taken the proverbial giant leap towards greatness. As part of saying goodbye to this magical land, I climb to the top of the much smaller hill at the rear of the palace. Here I run into my cabbie – Hans, who seems to have done his own sight-seeing during this time. His otherwise pleasant countenance bears this angry scowl. He seems unhappy. I look at him questioningly and he points a few feet behind him…….towards a small water pond with a greenish blue surface……..Just next to it is a bench, and on it a young couple are talking, and their English has a familiar, unmistakable drawl about it. They are at the same time, getting…..ahem…….let’s say, too intimate for Hans’s comfort. “Americans!!” he grunts, and walks off in disgust. It is then that suddenly, my feeling of deja-vu is resolved. I suddenly remember where I have seen this town before.

The Prayer

The belief of men, or more so a conviction,
Desperate pleas for mercy, the tears and sobs,
Our choices and actions, the wrongs and sins,
By the holy river that is Faith, washed far far away.

Can we truly erase- blot out, is the question raised,
Catch up with us it will, the gaping genius hole of the past,
Common prayers for mercy, dogmas rituals and ablutions,
For the ones remorseless, a few moments with no meaning.

Past lives forfeited, to new life and beginnings,
Starting over at ground zero, nothingness and scratch,
The perfect ideal of “believers”, but nonetheless mythical,
Remains a resounding no, the answer to the question asked.

This illusion like all, fleeting and momentary,
As the euphoria subdues, with time fade the colors of joy,
As smiles turn to frowns, and our faith is shaken,
With the temporary trance broken, self-loathing of souls tarred.

Says the wise man, salvation lies within,
Elucidated by the special prayer, not of mercy but otherwise,
The essence of which, neither time nor tide can erase,
Its very nature the cause, for it stays with a man till death.

The fifth and final stage, the culmination of life,
Known to us as “Acceptance”, with the power to conquer all,
A puzzling coincidence, that the final stage of death,
Also holds together this prayer, the one to set us free.

With the rasp of turmoil, and the cry of angst,
Into the blackness of night, a tone ravaged by emotion,
Comes the message to us, at the climax and crescendo,
Of the futility of forgiveness, the meaninglessness of mercy.

Savior and only companion, prayer in the key most ethereal,
Help us accept, our every evil deed and crime,
As we look to mature, grow old with grace,
Never pleading innocence, absolution or a journey back in time.

The Only Inevitability

I remember most of it.......the remaining parts continue to be hazy. Someone once told me that dreams are an extrapolation of our subconscious desires. They are a muddled mixture, consisting of the way we wish things around us to be, with a seasoning of what the individual would consider Paradise, and with the occasional sprinkle of - a reference to - events in the very recent past. Dreams come from the right half of the brain, and are bereft of logic and often absurd. Nonetheless, I feel that these visions, the ones that I have been having for the past week or so, have left me certain.......certain of all that lay behind, of all that lies ahead, and most importantly, of the only thing in the cosmos that remains constant....the single inevitable entity, perpetually frozen in time and space.

The walk begins on a cold winter morning. The familiar gate, the archway which we have passed under so many times, is rendered invisible from a distance of more than 10 yards thanks to the early morning fog. The other side is aesthetically beautiful, an evolutionary Gaia. A fern brushes the face, the only unprotected part of the body, and the dew quickly evaporates off the warmth provided......a pleasurable feeling. The pleasantness is coupled by the security provided on this side of the archway. As abruptly as the fern vanishes, a massive load appears on the back, one that seems to crush, and almost disable. The walk quickly shifts to a cave full of comforting sights......cave paintings, tools, other people on similar excursions. It doesn't last long, as it shifts quickly to another gateway, similar in structure to the first, also obscured in fog, but with an altogether different hue. It is but a decoy; there is nothing on the other side. Along the way, there are scenes of tragedy, along with some comic relief, some scenes of insanity, as well as brief epiphanies and realizations. But as the dream begins to lose structure, and slowly tends towards the ridiculous, the more painfully evident it becomes, that nothing is permanent. The winds of change begin to blow, and the harder and more violently they blow, the faster the dream disintegrates. At this juncture, one of two things happens. Either the dream breaks - and I wake up, the clock indicating some hour I am not familiar with - or it doesn't, and everything is reset back to the beginning, on the same winter morning.

The end result is that I face this constant shuttling - going back and forth in a dream that signifies the fickle nature of the universe. It appears that nothing lasts more than a fleeting second. It seems inexplicable and against all logic. For a moment, one may be seduced into believing that the mere absence of the left hemisphere of the brain is responsible for this absurdity. Here lies the paradox - why would a vision of the meaninglessness of life, of the dynamic nature of all that surrounds us, with the intended teaching that nothing is ever meant to stay the same, be stuck in a godforsaken cyclical sequence? It is against its very essence.......A lesson on dynamism and change, caught in a static, never ending loop. It is only then that the truth dawns, and though surprisingly simple, it leaves me with a strange but unique combination of goose bumps and a dramatically slowed heartbeat........

Too Stubborn To Die

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust they say,
A blinding light, and a misty haze,
I see only, the darkness of that night,
I breathe only, that poignant air of fate.

The will of a man, his greatest ally and friend,
Joy's prerequisite, an essential for success,
Several have come, boasted this virtue as their own,
But crumbled to insignificance, at the greatest test.

Not a mere power, to stop one's blasphemy,
Not a trivial skill, to show off to the world,
Not a form of of control, to exert on onself and others,
But sheer courage, the detemination not to give in.

Anger and Vehement Denial, it just cannot be,
Pathetic Bargaining, a few days...hours....minutes more,
Dramatic Depression, standstill and complete stagnation,
And then Acceptance, without the loss of will to fight.

Remember the son, as caring father and kind friend,
Remember the rest, as the one who loved all,
But remember I, by his memorable last fight,
A paradox - tubes and masks, yet so majestic with grit and resolve.

Say the Catholic, to relent the ultimate sin,
Say I an atheist, to surrender unpardonable,
Not a gift of God, but a privilege and duty,
To mind comes the old man, just too stubborn to die.

Divinity

I see things, all that no other can,
I see the truth, the untold facts of human life,
I see sorrow, accompanied by pain and death,
I see the answer, simplicity that eludes the rest.

Man's own doing, loss of sense and control,
The iron grip of impulses, the work of the devil,
Arrogant egos to innocent souls, all powerless,
All confused and impotent, swept away to nothingness.

A worthy suggestion, the Priest with the Riddled Face,
Balance he says, at first I ponder and reason,
But choose cynically, the option that seems most divine,
What seems correct, ageless having stood the test of time.

Millennia I have spent, keeping souls from harm,
Warning and shielding, from corruption and damnation,
And yet find myself, out of ideas and with nothing to say,
I stare into the tunnel, the freight train rushing my way.

But the mind is such, fickle and unpredictable,
Every thought a passing, with the lifespan of an instant,
Incorruptible I remain, as I follow Bob's famous advice,
To indulge is merely human he says, to deny is truly divine.