Runaway Train===>

Of Strong Men

2010-07-25T11:32:00.002+05:30

An old man of the hills, there was but one,
A well of wisdom, an abyss of advice,
Pacific his voice, never betraying emotion,
Eyes bright but still, watching the world blind.

That summer’s evening, a child’s curious play,
The forbidding rosebush, a harsh lesson on thorns,
Came running the toddler, leaping into his chair,
Streaming tears of hurt, then ignominy and shame.

“Reminded by you, of a time so long ago,
Prior the Great War, the bullet in my brain,
Robbed and cheated, of light and colors,
At the onset of grief, forever unable to well.”

“Tell you I shall, like I used to your father,
Of their significance, in the world their place,
A simplicity to admire, with a power to envy,
Misunderstood by many, made trivial by most.”

“Proof I was human, full with dreams and wants,
That I could sense, failure..loss..anguish and pain,
I miss those moments, when they gave me relief,
Those harbingers of despair, yet vessels of hope.”

“Child...be not ashamed, of brine drops that flow,
Affixed to ones weak, yet a totem for us brave,
To accept and realize, to embrace your sorrow,
Remember...little one, a strong man...is not afraid to cry.”

The Things I Want

2010-06-24T17:32:00.002+05:30

All that I feel, the summer gale rustling leaves,
Everything I hear, the melody of hummingbirds,
These things I see, green grass and blue sky,
The things I want, choices I cannot simplify.

Exist these dark desires, as I meander forward,
Perhaps that they loathe, tremble at and fear,
Selfish to the core, yet groundless and wild,
All the things I want, at a score and three.

Of frivolous imagination, morning come the right,
Of logic and reason, evening come the left,
A bloody battle each day, since the day of nineteen,
Between things I want, the warring halves of my brain.

Modernity a bane, out-datedness a disgrace,
Like father and grandfather, I wish to be,
The alternative rejected, frowned upon as a fool,
Contain the things I want, the scourge of the free.

But for a room and chair, a whisky and a cigar,
Ethereal music, one’s own and of others,
With books and tele, peace and lull,
These things I want, perhaps the things I need.

Every element in place, the night before last,
An illusion of the exotic, too good to be true,
Once broken the dream, faded quickly the hope,
Of the things I want, those that I cannot have.

The Question - Part II

2010-01-26T11:06:00.003+05:30

A few years ago, I had a question. It wasn’t complicated. It was, on the contrary, simple and concise. The question was all around me.

On a gloomy evening a few winters ago, the question had come to me courtesy some morbid introspection and a year-old bottle of Jack Daniel’s. It was unlike anything I had ever faced before. Like a desperate, thirsty man stranded on a desert island, digging up the soft earth in the despairing search for water, I would spend my time searching through the deepest nooks of my soul. I could not, however, come up with the answer. Logic was of no use to analyze it. No mathematical formulae could be used to simplify it. The murky greyness of the possibilities would haunt my dreams.

What If? What if It happened? What would happen thereafter? Many authors in history had openly written about and condemned it. Poets had weaved beautiful yet wistful odes for it. Cinema was made warning of it, and how to skillfully evade it. Several had dreaded it, and given in to sub-standard escapes at the first opportunity. Others feared it, and though they would act unconcerned or seemingly confident, trembled at the very thought of it. Only a few lived it, but their lives would be spent in a catatonic state in a fruitless attempt to block out reality.

My resolve to find the answer to The Question seemed to have an adverse effect on my physical health and state of mental well-being. I would waste less time eating, and spend the time gained thinking…..thinking about the possibilities, the scenarios, of the whispers of concern of those who cared, of the wide-eyed questioning expressions of those who did not, and lastly, the gleeful chuckles of those who hated. With an average sleep span of less than 4 hours per day, over a period of 2 months, I had become gaunt, hollow-eyed, and irritable. It was not the cesspool of nonsensical answers that I would receive on asking people The Question, but rather, my inability to come to a satisfactory conclusion using my own powers of reasoning, that continued to confound me. It was a first for me, because when faced with all the previous questions life had ever thrown I had always, without fail, managed to conjure up the answer myself.

In a recurring nightmare, the black hole symbolizing The (unanswered) Question would grow larger and larger, relentlessly hounding me through a cornfield, and eventually engulfing my insignificant, struggling form into its endless swirling girth, with my muffled screams completely unheard. The next moment I would wake up screaming at the top of my lungs, waving my arms like a raving lunatic, completely soaked in sweat.

Then a year passed. On another cold winter evening, I was halfway through a good old friend of my mine. With my temples throbbing, eyes blurring and hands shaking given the copious amounts of alcohol rampaging through my blood, I raised the glass up to drain. At the last gulp, with me more or less lucid, I started to experience the very nightmare which had tortured my sleep every night for the past 11 months or so. It was the same golden cornfield, and the black hole was menacingly approaching a tiny figure running a losing race. Perhaps it was different due to my consciousness and minute levels of lucidity, but this time, the dream proceeded differently. I did not, for some inexplicable reason, struggle or scream, and quietly let myself go, down into the swirling black mass of nothingness….Of Nothingness……Nothingness…….Nothing……

The black hole was utterly serene and peaceful. There was nothing inside. The things most puzzling at once sprouted solution, the darkest began to betray a lining of golden glimmer, the endless proceeded to revolve back to their very beginning, and those supposedly meaningless seemed to burgeon purpose. The What-Ifs had suddenly been replaced by the So-Whats.

That was the point when the glass slipped from the grip of my quivering fingers and onto the floor. It shattered immediately upon contact with the hard marble. Appropriately, it was in that peaceful moment disturbed by the clink of the breaking glass, that I snapped back to reality, and for the first and last time, saw The Question – the unanswerable, perplexing and forbidding question that thrived only on the clouded mystery associated with its answer – for what it really was.

The Question - Part I

2009-12-18T18:49:00.012+05:30

A few years ago, I had a question. It wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t one of those perplexing questions from modern existentialism, though when looked at out of context, it did. The passage of time has eroded my memory, and I am unable to clearly recall the events that led me to ask myself that question. What I can remember, is that it occupied the majority of my idle time, and my obsession to find the answer kept me worried and sick nearly cost me my sanity.

It is said that people end up unhappiest when they attempt to participate in activities they have an interest bordering between a minimum to none - the guilt that follows is of mammoth proportions, and we feel the masochistic urge to kick ourselves. Ironically, it is that tiny measure of minimal interest which can work against us. Though small, this residual though fatal enthusiasm is easily expanded in size through questionable company, coupled with naivety and bad advice. The upside to the whole mess is that once we have participated in the aforementioned activities, the once lingering urge vanishes and does not reappear. Only, it is almost always, too late.

The question was all around me. It was everywhere I could look. It was, for example, at a get together a friend’s house. All of sudden, my senses would go into hyper-drive, and I could hear a proverbial pin drop in the next room. The whispers of the people around would ask me the question. Often I felt my head would explode. The question would be asked on television, in the middle of B-grade cinema and in memorable sitcoms. I could hear it in music that I loved, in tunes I played. It would come to me in books I wanted to read. It would sneak up on me in the disapproving stares of team-mates when I missed scoring a goal on the football field, when I threw my wicket away cheaply in a game of cricket. I could feel its undertone in conversations with friends, both in their sympathies and their taunts.

So we come back to this question.

What was the question? What prompted me to ask myself such a question? What was the answer to this question? Why was this question followed by an army of more perplexing questions?

The question had come to me in a drunken haze. I remember only the bottle of Jack Daniel's and my glass. I do not remember the time and date, nor do I remember the people around. All I remember was that it was still early days in college. Someone I had never spoken to, met, nor heard of, had prophesized a terrible fate for someone else. It had nothing whatsoever to do with me. Yet, quite out of character, I had asked myself what I would do if faced with such misfortune. What If?

Could the unthinkable be possible? What would I do? How would I cope being different and off the norm?

The Promises Of The West

2009-11-20T17:00:00.002+05:30

The wise man had once said, “Son, there are no such things as happy endings.” Perhaps he was senile - old and wrinkled, his best years behind him, bitter, cynical, seeing nothing but desolation and despair all around. There is the small, miniscule possibility that perhaps, he was not.

As far as he could remember, it had all started 2 years ago, in the White Room. The room was supposed to be his escape, after years of confusion and hopelessness, of a better life. It was a gateway to the perceived comforts that lay beyond. It was about getting richer, about being independent like never before. It was also about freedom from a constant and painful cycle of events, which had marred his life from the very day he was born. It was almost too good to be true.

On he went, to the green fields of the west, where the sun shone brightly late into the evening. It was far from civilization, but the prospects were bright. A new expedition, an example to the rest of the world, he was told. It began well. Everything was laid out just as it ought to have been. The planning was perfect. He addressed every last detail. The best of the land had racked their brains along with him, and a group from far off had also been summoned to validate the concept. They were able to find no flaws. It was everything he had ever wanted. His heart welled with pride as he looked from the nearby rooftop onto the depression below. For 16 months, he was a success. His mind would flash back to the White Room and all that was promised.

Time passed quickly. Progress, was unfortunately, not so nimble. 2 months of inaction, the outsiders got bored and left. 3 weeks later, and a local gang-lord began interfering in day to day affairs. A month on, plague swept the land and the men vanished. 4 months thence, the wood began to rot and the metal began to rust. Yet another month and it was, for all practical purposes, over. He began to feel more and more disillusioned. His mind would once again flash towards the white room. Was it all a big lie? Is this how things were destined to end? Was everything going to be just as it had been prior to the White Room. Surely not…….

He tried to recall the faces of the 3 men sitting across the White Room. They all looked calm and relaxed. Then it struck him. However, it was not the calm of confidence. It was resignation - the look of someone who has come to terms with failure, the knowledge that all dreams are meant to be shattered, that all ideas are to fall into obscurity, and that eventually, vision and foresight are bound to get clouded by an endless sea of mist and haze.

Winds of Change

2009-10-29T17:55:00.019+05:30

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

2008-06-11T00:07:00.002+05:30

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

2008-05-29T09:24:00.002+05:30

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

2008-04-08T16:08:00.002+05:30

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

2008-01-19T20:15:00.000+05:30

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

2007-12-22T20:08:00.000+05:30

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

2007-04-20T18:04:00.000+05:30

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.

Memories

2007-03-10T14:19:00.000+05:30

In my head this voice I hear, in fear and sorrow,
In agony and ecstasy, the good times and the bad,
At times soothes, and reassures even and at others,
Shakes and shatters, a wave of fury like no other.

The master, the art of bringing others' stories to life,
Of Inevitabilities and Certainty, Of Tragic Suicides,
Betrayal & Solitude and A Plea for Mercy, and above all,
The tale Of an Ailing Love, dying but refusing to let go.

Humble beginnings, and sudden, unprecedented fame,
A mere five years, a journey from rags to riches,
Nothing would stand his way, but an on-stage accident,
A severed septum, abandoned and left to rot away.

The unmatched master, of heart wrenching tales,
'Twas bitter irony, that his tale of misfortune,
Of tragedy and betrayal, of sadness and solitude,
Without doubt, was the most dramatic of all.

And yet the resilience, the character of a champion,
Bouncing back with projects, not one but three,
The last the icing on the cake, the vision and courage,
To go solo, to face the harsh world all on his own.

His followers, plenty in number around the world,
His fame, comparable to the legends and all-time greats,
While there exist others of my kin, comrade I assure you,
Your Memories where you left them, they are bound to remain.

Hell's Fire

2007-01-11T13:09:00.000+05:30

A man's thirst quenched, his sorrows drowned,
Little else matters, when the heavens tremble,
And the fire of Satan, from the depths it rises,
As down the throat, every last drop falls.

Common interest, maybe shared ground,
Clear blue as the sky, or maybe white,
Immaterial, incomprehensible after a while,
All the eyes see is haze, all the heart feels is joy.

A power, a privilege just like any other,
Too little useless, too much shall destroy,
Blasphemy and shame, in the hands of the foolish,
Enlightenment and alleviation, in the hands of the wise.

The opportunity, to reflect and look back,
The introspection, to mourn and regret,
The courage, to reveal all one can never confess,
And the realization, that better times lie ahead.

The first acquaintance, gloomy lights and six friends,
Far into the past, beyond the bad days and the good,
When the soul was fresh, and the heart young,
When it was merely a fad, not a pleasure as now.

A great people the Russians, were geniuses,
Plundered their own country, to ruin they did,
But brought to the world, what no other could,
And combined the elements, ambrosia and fire.

Hit by realization, all of a sudden and abrupt,
Dawns the truth, followed by the ironic smirk,
Worlds far apart, but then exists irrefutable proof,
For just like him, she has Hell's Fire burning in her.

Resolve

2007-01-01T10:18:00.000+05:30

It's the new year.......2007. As the memorable chapter that was 2006 ends, I look back onto the past year, with nothing but the utmost joy and satisfaction. Over the past 12 months, everything has, more or less, seemingly gone my way. Let me mention, that amongst the better achievements of the past year, was the creation of this blog. Though in recent months, it has been witness to a dramatic drop in the frequency of posting, it still remains rather important to me. Then came the sudden re-acquaintance with long forgotten friends, from school, and elsewhere; and all of a sudden my social circle had multiplied tenfold. Though not truly an achievement, but rather, an event, it still forms part of the package that was the year 2006. Next, a good friend agreed to guide me, to help me become a fellow six stringer. And to top everything off, were the efforts I made to clear my conscience, seeking advice from my priest-like buddy, Paul (affectionately called Pastor Paul). I still remember that part - it was just like a confessional at a Church......but it was certainly effective. The path of rediscovering myself, my purpose, and revamping my dented self-esteem began that very day.

And yet, despite all the good that I see happening around me, at the turn of the new year, one tiny little problem has surfaced. Suddenly, I have overwhelming feeling of confusion (primarily) , accompanied by guilt, and a tinge of fear. Fear of the past, fear of bygones, the terrifying thought that perhaps with a single wrong move, I could end up breaking the very promise I had once made to myself on a cold January morning, all those years ago. The feeling has gripped me for a week or so. The memories seem hazy, I wish not to remember, but the mind has this marvelous quality of forever reminding us, warning us, of the dire consequences which we may have to face. When the pieces first fell into place about a week ago, Christmas Day to be precise, I wanted to run, run as far as I could. I wanted nothing to do with; it wasn't my world; it wasn't my fight to win or lose. And I also remembered the previous summer; it had been an eye-opener and a pleasant experience, and silly old me - I had even penned My Way, a poem solely dedicated to it. But, the harsh reality still remained, and at end of the day, it ended up a farce. Then I realized something else.......it had been a really long while. I am no longer an overzealous teenager, I'm 20 and wiser. The past is after all, an ever expanding gaping hole. The more you fear it, run from it, the more it seems to envelope you in its relentless clutches. Perhaps this was a chance to look back further into the past, further than the days of damnation, and to re-look the ancient things with a different perspective. Maybe it was a chance to have everything I secretly seek. Or maybe it was just another dead end.

I still remember the bad days, when the people closest to me had reprimanded me for being irresponsible, and the opportunistic parasites, forever envious, had their little fun at my expense. The promise I had made to myself, was never to be in that same pathetic state. This is what serves as the drive for my Resolve. I have, I realize, a set of duties, and a daily routine. It is not a favor I do anyone. It's merely a part of being responsible. And that whims and fancies can never be part of the same world, though they require a parallel universe of their own. All I wish is for the dear ones to realize that the current situation, is not completely in my power. Subconsciously, perhaps I yearn for it, perhaps I'm supposed to, but it is certainly not my fault. To summarize, I take an oath hereby, that I shall do all in my power to prevent the calamities of the past from recurring. What happened shall, in all probability, not happen again.

I keep having this recurring dream. The dream keeps shuttling between 4 different scenes. In it, first there's this telephone booth, the door to which keeps opening and mysteriously closing in 20 minute intervals. Next there is a table, in a secluded corner of a bar, with a couple of glasses of vodka, but the chairs vacated. Then comes the scene in a large room, with bright light on one half, and total darkness on the other, and a figure standing on a thick, distinct line running through the separation at the center. The figure loathes the dark with all his heart, but simultaneously avoids the brightness due to the fear of sunburn. The culmination takes place with a car on a highway, with the driver stopping to look at a set of billboards on the roadside. The words "Mutual Trust" and "Hope" are highlighted, and the words "Affection" and "Certainty" are blurred out. It is usually at this point that the dream breaks, and I wake up sweating profusely.