Apology

As a blogger you often develop an insecurity to keep your blog updated and it gets difficult when you are running short of your creativity juice, and worse at times when you lack the thing called writing talent. So in that case like most bollywood scriptwriters and music director you tend to go for what they euphemistically say inspiration. On two different occasions, going through such phases I came across two brilliantly written blog posts I have ever read and couldn’t resist playing a plagiarist. Fortunately (yes fortunately I mean) author of one such post came to know this and that person is gentleman enough to carry no hard feelings for my mistake if I admit it and delete the post. I said fortunately because it will serve as a long time lesson. I already have deleted both of those posts and this publicly written apology is to make that gentleman feel that I am ashamed of it and this post here is a testimony of that. Sir if you are reading this, I hope you may forgive me for it.

Who is driving my car?

Ram Mohammad Thomas, a Dharavi teen, providentially wins a major quiz show transforming his fate overnight. … catchphrase “D: Destiny it is written”. Pleasant feel good fiction, as the artistic liberty settles on a joyful end. The imagination got moderately acknowledged but the adapted movie, though critically unworthy, was showered with awards. Seems like the exhaustion of protracted war-for-peace, fright of international terrorism, chained natural cataclysm, the greed driven financial panic, the looming climatic catastrophe; all so chronically synchronized to co-ordinate with the eschatological doomsday forecast, have created an imperceptible whirlpool sucking optimism to the depths of the globe. Action is defunct, assurance is the prerequisite. Consequently things promising hope are bestowed supreme attention, be it either a Slumdog endorsing predestined destiny or a relatively newbie politician orating excellent changes to be.

Inspite of following a joyful climax the concluding catchphrase “Destiny: It is written”… scares. If it is, then how come are we real? Aren’t we too characters of a fictional plot performing as per the whims and fancy exercised by the creator, hypothetically assumed as God? Where is the space for free living? “When all we are, are random variables fit into the equation of hope and fate then why pursue desires?” A friend said… good lines!!. Never been able to believe in the supposition of God, as always even then I thought of advocating free will, but we didn’t debate over its unenthusiastic connotations.

To free will, destiny thing is bullshit phrase akin to “Marriages are made in heaven” which is impugned by witty T-shirt answers ‘So are we here just to have sex? ’ But at times temptations subdue my all encompassing will… are these subversive forces the masters governing me? Individual temptation yet again is genetic instigation.. so is my life genetically coded in the 23 chromosomes… again prewritten…well if only I could decipher my DNA to match my will.

What if I say being pre-destined do I have anything to fear? .... precarious thought!! Fatal upshots of a written destiny were edited by granting an individual some say in his own destiny. The theory of reincarnation plotted by present actions came into folktales. Errr… a loop hole.. this present itself is already “Written”. A catch-22 situation indeed. Seems like neither destiny nor free will is the answer… then where to search… may be in some very elusive place between these two simplistic poles. No definite rules …the whole game is a flaw.

Saint to Devil

Endurance for momentary cheers,
and impulsiveness for sighing alas.
An year to see the Jesus,
a single day made me Judas.

Taking words as predefined terms,
I changed to devil from saint.
But my hopes of revival dashed,
learning there’s no difference ain’t.

No difference speaks of equality,
so are all we equals as if clones?
No forgiveness, some are more equals,
said the looted farm of Mr. Jones.

Nursery Rhymes Revisited

As the mighty gray clouds concealed the sun,
and the slow wind swiftly begin to blow.
Everyone in hiding is out on grassy streets,
expecting mild showers to come and go.

There comes young Cinderella from fairy tale,
carrying her single slipper waiting for a match.
She thinks it will be her lucky chance today,
But outside pleasant fables life is a dismal catch.

Here comes little Johnny carrying his baseball bat,
praying rain to go to Spain as he wishes to play.
He naively thinks it only takes a little sugar to laugh,
But let him grew up and ask a lot more someday.

And Jack descends tumbling down the steep hill,
breaking the crown and spilling a pail of water.
He painfully expects Jill coming after for him,
But she doesn’t as now he is not what she’s after.

Last Time when I died

Last night I had this very bizarre dream. It was that I was in a battlefield, holding my position in a bunker firing my Simonov on the opponent on the other side. Blood and dust surrounded me amid the howling of fire. After taking a few shots I wondered which battle is this, what is that I am fighting for? I examined my blood stained dusty uniform to find a swastika mark on it. Ok so I am a bloody Nazi, but which place is this? There is no sea around so it can’t be Normandy; neither can I find snow so it is not Stalingrad either, and since Germans had mostly air attacks on UK so it can’t be London too. I guess this godforsaken place is Sicily, where else? It means I must be fighting the bloody Americans. Good!! Where is General Patton I wanna directly shoot him and end the battle. But wait, I admire him. I also admire George Scott who refused the Oscar playing Patton. I admire both of them so why kill any? But hey I am a soldier, right? I too must be fighting for a cause, whatever that may be.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ I need to focus. I aimed my gun at an enemy. Shit man it is the face of my childhood friend. I don’t wanna shoot him. But what if he does? I can’t take any fucking chances. No No certainly I can’t. It was the bollywood effect that instead of hailing Hitler I shouted ‘Hail Mogambo’ and took my shot. Holy Arjun! It was perfect. Headshot. My childhood friend died, not much pain ahhh . Simultaneously I felt both a guilty sigh and triumphic ooze. Lord we men, what a basterd we are? We are more ethical then we think and far more immoral than we could probably imagine.

I don’t know whether it was guilt or triumph but I lost my focus. Consequently a bullet stroked me, piercing my chest, blood oozing out of it. It hurt like anything. Oh lord! How unfair I am goanna die, and die so young, how sad. But an inner voice explained me don’t panic, don’t panic! It’s just a dream, a play and nothing lasting. Yes and all of a sudden the pain was over. Hurray. I begin to think what should be my dying words. ‘Jesus Christ!’ or ‘Hey Ram!’ or what about ‘Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan’. Confused. I just muttered “Sorry mate! We are just a pawn in the game” and decided to die.

But wait it’s not over man. It’s a dream and I saw the aftermath too. The scene was my grand burial ceremony. Several guns were fired. Ohh Great! I must have been a high ranking officer and not just a private. Generals with stoical faces were giving me salutes. I tried to look for Hitler, he was absent. That disappointed. People came and gone but at the end this lady remained. She came to my grave and put some flowers and a photograph of me and her together. She wept for a long while and when tears refused to shed then she too left. Meanwhile I kept on wondering who she was? Girlfriend? fiancé,? Wife? Or as I was a soldier on a war, was she a whore I was sleeping with, who fell in love with me? I tried checking her fingers but my vision kept on blurring. First I was killed and then puzzled, such is life. A bitch. And for the first time after that shot I regretted dying, even in a dream. I know I will wake up alive in the morning but I will never know why the hell she was crying.

Something gotta give Up

“What makes you come here son?” he inquired in a deep voice, the reply “I need help”. “So does everyone who comes to me, take the couch and try being specific” he paused to recollect his thoughts but the misty disorder veiling his heart didn’t produced any. “There is something happening inside my heart, something strangely painful and it is making me weak” “Son the heart is an egoist; it feels its need intensely and strives ruthlessly to satisfy them. Have you lost something?” “I have a dream but I lost my hopes” “Ah!! Another dreamer. You love your dream .Right? And it is probably threatened?” “Yes. I said I lost my hopes” “You are never so defenseless against suffering as when in love” the words seemed disrespectful but he couldn’t help not agreeing. “While adoring your dream you had pawned a part of your narcissm” “But sir once that dream gave me a triumphant conviction” “And now pain. If you can’t make it then let it go” “But I don’t want to” “Wants, desires, dreams all are elusion my boy, the life and death drives. They commend to us because they save us pain and give pleasure, but we must accept without complaint that sometime they will collide with reality and will be dashed to pieces” “I agree but then what about this pain” he unable to force himself into unbelief “Don’t alleviate it with imprudent attempts. Let it grow. Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise. All this sadness of heart is the birth-pain of a new attitude trying to be born” His words knocked him. After few silent moments the voice broke “Are we done?” “There is something which I cannot say aloud or perhaps even think” he lied because he thought he was.

I and the dead

Now days too have gone hazy with the already dark nights,
Rendering my vision of who I am into a blind murky sight.

Where was it when I had last encountered me I can not say,
As I’m persistently busy escaping from myself as long as I may.

I scheme external calmness while restiveness haunts my soul,
I deceive entirety while deep inside I experience an empty hole.

My past are moments wasted, future is not worth breathing for,
And to stitch worn dreams the unscathed present is a thin chord.

My existence is a helpless trade-off between people and time,
While sands of later swiftly fleets, formers wish not to be mine.

Harmonizing these two phases I’ve lived as one through my plight,
Nakedly switching morals amongst shades of black gray and white.

When the diverse colors merged sweeping my conviction along,
My spirit died beneath the ripples of resignation mounting upon.

Secretly the dead man inside me asks the dusk of last day to end,
For his death will ensure if dawn of new life may perhaps begin.

That blissful Naked Man…

Long back ago there was a prince, a king in the making, who kept moving towards his throne with little steps called achievements. He kept on keeping on, but not after a target but for the sake of moving. Yet sadly in the course of his little accomplishments, caught up in his talent show, the prince got greatness thrust upon him as people began to believe him and expect a lot in return. He never even once asked for those believe but they indebted him with hope. Thus what just began as a journey of selfhood, with the burden of expectations turned into running behind undesired aims set by spectators. His life wasn’t his but a puppet show. Never once was he asked what he wanted to be, he was told what he should become. He tried to be him, people made him to be them. When he asked rest he was made to run and when wished to fly he was chained to hustle. He asked for silent solitude, he was given an echoing audience. He wanted to be a wandering nomad, he was shown the throne. Unable to sketch a way out, the king in making gave up dreaming and toiled on the path which he hadn’t chosen.

On that path he found himself lost in the labyrinth of anticipations. As it was not his path he was ensured to fail, it was only a matter of time before the axe would fell and one day it did. And all that was there impending since long was over. All the hopes, belief and anticipations died. He had robbed the hopes of many people and thus in return was robbed of their belief. The kingdom abandoned him. The prince had failed for the first time in his life and the failure hit him hard on the face. He wept behind closed doors where no one could listen. Finding it hard to meet the eyes of spectators he went into a state of isolation, hiding behind the ruins of broken dreams to escape from his past. He had once pined for solitude but when that was granted it turned out to be loneliness, which he morbidly accepted as a punishment. He reduced himself into a dead man deprived of everything. He first took pity on himself but then with time he got institutionalized to that state. He realized that now he was not expected to fill in someone’s shoes and since the kingdom had no expectations henceforth he was free. He realized that now he is a naked man with nothing to loose, invisible to spectators; and this realization made him feel blessed. For the first time in life he was naked and therefore liberated, he felt the centre of his life within him. He recognized that what he failed to achieve was not his own wish. He never dreamt to be a king.

With this insight a new hope was generated within and this time it was special, it was his individual hope. He gathered the scraps from past as memoir of failure and stroked another match to go anew. This time he promised himself never to let anyone be a part of the voyage and only listened to his heart to discover directions. Thus the naked abandoned prince moved ahead with resolute passion. Once again he could feel; he felt new life in his soul. On his new journey the only spectators he had were his principles. But habituated to external drive he lacked motivational incentives and thus looked for it around. Once in his path he met someone inimitably spotless, someone first of her kind, close to being called integrity. He found in her seraphical thoughts and was mesmerized by the delightful moments he had talking to her. Those moments instilled in him the vital inspiration which worked out for him and success begin to follow. Enchanted by the magical experience he got smitten enough to forget his promises and made that someone the centre of his journey. He dreamt to make those moments a lifetime event; he wanted to carve up a moment that would have last till his end. But then not every story has a happy ending as not everyone deserves everything. A lettered man he was and thus could never verbalize his truth convincingly.

At the end it had all turned up to be an all-sum-to-zero game. After all the triumphs finally the prince had became weaker than a man should be. Those successes, which at first he had thought of exclusively for himself and later to split half it with only one person, once again brought him in the same old arena of expectations. Once again the spectators were around with revived hopes to welcome there one time missing prince, the king in the making. In his isolation the prince had forgotten that one cannot escape from oneself, one can’t be free of oneself as there is no way out of oneself. While the kingdom was jostling to shine the older throne, the armored prince with his lonely heart cried for shedding his covering as he desolately missed that blissful naked man once he used to be.