Stomping Mad

Really?

2010-02-18T10:12:00.001+05:30

Are they real? Your smiles
Infinite list of friends
Myriad photo albums
Of strange lands
Colours of market places
The freedom in your outstretched arms
The mirth in your eye
The wanderlust sprinkled Liberally in your tag line
Are they deep? Impactful?
Life changing?
Or a facade That you desperately cling to
Or a mirage of ever youthful hope that you create
So you can run away from reality
The grimness
The grind of a village of minds
Millions of thoughts
Jostling for space
Pushing you
Shaping you
They say a traveller goes far and wide searching for truth
And returns to find it in their backyard
Is the footloose rush constant?
Do you tire not of searching?
Searching for all that you crave
Probably placed tantalizingly close
By the same wind that teases you on
Move it says crave
Be blind to all that is granted to you right here
Get swept up in my dizzying arms
Wander.

Clouds

2010-02-15T21:03:00.003+05:30

You drift by
Your skirts billowing
A puff of white and blue
A rind of grey
Pale but present
Gossamer sheen
Serene you seem
Implacable almost
Truer wisdom there hasn't been
Carrying mournful sighs and
Squeals of young joy
In your bosom
You wait not
You want not
When your heart is full
You pause to cry a little cry
Tears of silver sequin
On a heaving carpet of parasols
Your work done
Sniffing in the afterglow of your outburst
You turn into a wisp
And leave us
Glimmering in the brightness
Where once your silken shade fell
A wee bird tweets on a green arm
Mourning you
Wanting you
If people could speak your tongue
They could learn much
Of how we are all mere travellers
Constant upon the breath of the wind
Our work done
We must leave
The tweeting bird us to mourn.

You know you are really really lazy when..

2010-01-27T20:43:00.004+05:30

You know you are officially a lazy bum if you do any of the following:

1. Watch torturous non-music shows on music channels ( case in point : MTV Style Check) because that is easier than limping to the PC to play songs that you'd have to choose.

2. Eat the last five chips in the bag even when you are near-pukey full because that is easier than looking for a rubberband that you'd have to then wrestle around the mangy plastic chip bag neck. And of course it would snap. Then you'd have to look for another. You get the picture.

3. Eat chips for lunch.

3. Eat breakfast cereal for lunch.

4. Talk your friends into emailing you 75 photos from the birthday dinner the night before, as it is too much work to get them on a pen drive, which then you must plug into that wonderfully awkward USB slot at the dusty back of the PC. The PC, then of course, shall refuse to 'recognise' the hardware. Further pen drive jiggling and stabs of pain in lower back from bending over the CPU shall ensue. Just gmail them already. It only takes like what 3 hours?

5. Further talk your friends into bringing their digicams along to dinner parties so that it saves you the trouble of uploading and emailing photos to a billion other lazy bum friends. Plus you get to be in all the photos.

6. Wait right until the point where you really really have to pee.

7. Claim to be paying Rock a tribute to explain your (3rd time in the week) crinkly unironed black tee.

8. Prefer using the 'Channel Up/ Down' function over punching the channel numbers on the remote control.

9. Prefer using the backspace key to correct a typo as rewriting the word is somehow less work than taking the cursor back to the exact letter which needs correction.

10. Wait till the very last 'Low Battery' sign comes on the screen before putting the cell phone on charging mode.

P.S.: MTV Style Check is one of many cloyingly perky shows on music channels which have NOTHING to do with music. Note to all VJs: Please, for the love of all things good, lose the accents. Brit twangs and Southern drawls get old. Really quickly.

Why?

2010-01-24T23:52:00.002+05:30

Why did you not teach me the ways of the world? Of the intricate and delicate web of human relationships? Of the ways of the family? Of that every interaction is a transaction outside of that one person who is your all? Of the seamless flow of cold hard worldliness into the warm circle of hearts? Why did you make cynism cool?

Why does elusive self knowledge dissolve into numbness? Why is the journey towards exploration of my own heart littered with withered enthusiasm?

Why did you take the best parts of me with you? Why my sprightliness? My faith? My joy? My energy? Why did you leave behind charred remains of loss, fear, regret and an aching want? An aching want for you? For our conversations? For your being?

Why did you leave me behind? Friendless? Blinded? Hurt? Lost?

Love songs.

2009-12-29T21:05:00.003+05:30

I miss love songs. They are like hugs in sound form.

I miss the shiver down my spine I got when 'd hear the first few strains of a well loved ballad on air. I miss my heart soaring at the lurch of the melody.

I miss tearing up on a wintry morning moved by the sheer depth of the power of a good love song pulsing through my ear phones on the dark still staircase in college. I miss the warmth that the feeling gave me.

'Unchained Melody' by the Righteous Brothers was an anthem at one point in time.

Did I just grow out of them? Get tired of all the sentimentality? Or was it deeper than that?

Like we forget the charm of fairy tales, do we also forget the magic of love songs? In the slightly greying adult years with men and mortgages swirling in our heads, do we stop opening our hearts to love songs, our companions through our teens, our friends even lovers on lonely nights?

Do we stop humming them as we fry an egg or fold up the washing or log on to the internet? Do we stop smiling to ourselves as we recall them in our heads while shopping for groceries or taking a break at work? Do we stop pausing for the last instrumental bit as they are played out on the radio?

As we pass through life, do most of us lose that moisture in our spirit to appreciate a heartfelt ballad? Is that why nostalgia hits us so hard because we are so far removed from our younger, more trusting selves?

'Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs', McCartney wrote. I hope some of those people are still around toasting their souls against the warmth of a good love song, keeping out the frost of 'growing up'. Keeping out the hot drying winds of cynicism.

R.I.P. Britanny Murphy

2009-12-21T21:10:00.005+05:30

Just stumbled upon the following article and blinked sixteen times before I could take it all in. It is incredible how resilient the human mind can be, no matter how many you see or hear about someone passing away, I always have that moment when time stands still for a moment and I can almost hear the hum of mortality, of a force bigger than us, outside of us. Brittany Murphy died yesterday of cardiac arrest. She was 32.
http://www.ctv.ca/gallery/html/ent_brittany_murphy_20091220/index_.html

I loved her girl woman persona in the film Uptown Girls where she starred alongside Dakota Fanning as her nanny and eventually best friend. Her striking raspy voice was the power behind Gloria the Penguin in 'Happy Feet'. Raspy voiced, ditzy Britanny you will be missed. R.I.P.

The culture of superlatives.

2009-12-21T17:31:00.008+05:30

The No. 1 spectacle lens in the world. The winner of the "Car of the year" three years in a row. The quickest drying ink in the world. Best Student of the Year. The largest supplier of dentistry tools in India. The fastest selling computers on the market. Today's is a fast paced almost blurry world of superlatives.

There was a time when the three degrees of comparison were good, better and the best. Today we only have time and attention for the last one.Whatever happened to being good and being better? How in the world did those two sterling terms get classed with mediocrity, being sub standard and just not 'good' enough?

My parents taught me leading by example of being good. Being good was the highest virtue. Things were simpler when I was 7 years old. It is wrong to steal. It is wrong to lie. It is right to put back what does not belong to you. It is right to tell the truth. And follow the rules. It is right to be nice. To be polite.

Being better came by, once school level competitions became du jour. Got to be faster. Draw straighter lines. Balance the lemon in the spoon longer. Put up your hand quicker in a pop quiz. Finish the paper quicker and lessen errors. Play better volleyball. Write better essays. Speak better in elocution contests. Dress better.

And then, one day, one inconsequential everyday day, better just failed to make the cut. The highest score in Maths. The cleanest diagrams in Geometry. The most important notes in Science. The best coaching classes in the city. It was all about chasing the fickle zenith of perfection.

Today, it is everywhere. This disease of the superlative. In the wild eyed captains of industry, stock traders, multinational corporations, teachers, parents, students, food chains. Everywhere. And it is eating away at the very roots of our world. This illness that is so dangerously pervasive has turned the world and its hapless leaders almost blind to the consequences of their superlative gathering blitzkrieg.

One glaring example is that of the recently concluded Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen. The UN led conference which was hyped to be a common meeting ground for heads of state from 115 countries of the world to tackle head on, the gargantuan crisis of global warming, has now been pronounced a dismal failure. Simply put, the newly signed accord directs the developed countries of the world to pay money (Money!? You cannot buy out Global Warming Inc. just like everything else you know!!!) to the developing countries to 'adapt to climate change' all the while leaving the developed countries' own carbon emission levels largely untouched. One shudders at the extent of the denial of whole countries to this potentially end-the-planet-in-massive-implosion-caused-by-hysterical-CO2 levels situation.

But maybe that is the point after all. If we are to destroy the world, why not do it in the worst, most painful, most unfair, most damaging, most irreversible and most catastrophic fashion possible? Why not compete with other countries by producing the highest and most poisonous carbon emission levels? Why not have the highest death toll caused by climactic disturbances? Why not have the highest incidence of student suicides caused by a rotting education system?

After all, it IS a world of superlatives. And never has this attempt to make everything look bigger than it is or better than it is or truer than it is been this pathetic. Or this dangerous.

Three bands and counting

2009-12-19T09:50:00.007+05:30

So I was surfing the internet the other day going through my usual crazed routine of staring wild eyed and hair-a-tousled, at completely unrelated webpages like "Eidetic memory" on Wikipedia to "How to apply eye shadow like a Pro!" on Salon.com, reading each piece breathlessly as if the internet surfing police might catch up with me if I didn't finish my quota of a zillion websites a day.

What is it about internet surfing that leads to this giddy, semi-euphoric state of being? It is almost as if I am in a race of some sort with other non-visible web surfers to get the more interesting piece or more bizarre news item. I typically begin with some word or term that I need to look up for example 'egregious' (after watching Pirates of the Caribbean 3) or the term 'cbb' (after a friend used it on Facebook,means 'couldn't be bothered' by the way) or something.

After that is done, there is invariably a link on the bottom of the page like 'Want to know if fish like pizza? Click here!' and then it begins. One bizarre piece after another, each where 'a team of researchers in Sao Paulo/ Greenland/ Bora Bora/ Hampi/ Hawaii' are always finding strange and very useful facts about myriad species like the green rimmed turtle that dislikes being poked in the eye (really?! That's fascinating!) or that listening to Mozart leads to depression in a type of ferret in Scotland.

And then there are your beauty and cosmetics sites which are teeming with 'tips & tricks' (how I hate that term) on homemade beauty rituals. Mix 3 spoons of ripe papaya mush with honey and add a drop of cement for a flawless complexion. Or lightly baste your arms with bleach and industrial iodine to lighten stretch marks. Each home recipe will be accompanied with an image of a woman smiling in ecstasy at her cement induced beautiful complexion, probably now stuck with that dazzling smile forever frozen in cement.

Of course one cannot forget the medical websites which would have you believe that an ache in your left ankle could mean a dangerous disorder with an unpronounceable name. Reading these can make you nauseous or worse gunning for your poor, unsuspecting doctor who then mildly points out that the ankle pain is probably being caused by your six inch stilettos which you wore to a party the night before.

All rewarding reading I am sure. Piling up on an already overloaded, frazzled brain. And all that clutter seems to push the thirst for mindless web surfing even more. At the almost-end of one of these sessions, my fingers seem to gain a life of their own and type away into the Google search bar. My toes twitch in anticipation as the page loading status bar progresses slowly as if to tantalize me further in my hunger for useless trivia. I can finally take no more when the status bar pauses at the third band and refuses to MOVE, and I do what any internet surfing junkie does when cornered by a difficult-to-load webpage, I hit REFRESH.

That divine key invented by people who built computers to allow for people to vent their protest against slow-to-load webpages. My friend when I need one, in the face of roadblocks in my trivia devouring blitzkrieg on the World Wide Web. Sometimes REFRESH does not work and you know you must accept defeat and hit the 'BACK' key. You can hear the Gods of the Web tittering in the background upon your downfall.

But, then you pick yourself up and jump on to the next inane web article. Life goes on. Never mind that your brain will soon collapse under the already torturous load of 'information' and you will turn in to a blubbering, broken down piece of humanity. Someone will write an article about you on the Web and some adrenaline fuelled web surfer will wait impatiently as the article loads. Three bands and counting!

Evil woman & her insipid lout of a son in the optician's clinic.

2009-12-16T11:53:00.008+05:30

So yesterday I amat the optician's. My optician is one of those extremely sought after medics thanks to a solid reputation and winning the hearts of Vile Parle middleclass housewives. So he takes appointments starting from 3.30 pm but never lands up before 5 as his OTHER clinic always has a deluge of optician hungry beings.

This means by the time it is close to 4.30, there are 30 people minimum hanging around twiddling their thumbs looking fixedly at calenders the way only people waiting in doctor's offices do. Most of these are very aged people who drop by after cataract procedures. Shuffling in at 84 years with wizened skin and freckled feet with giant Jackie O dark sun glasses is enough of a sight to move the strongest.

Three similar individuals walk painfully to the receptionist to inquire mildly whether the doctor would take much longer. My feet hurt if I sit around for too long you see. I have to get home before 5.30 in time for my insulin shot. My grand daughter must be picked up from dance class as her mother is out of the country for a conference. The lavender, musk and sandalwood talcs lend only a slight fragrant foil to the scent of the evening of life.

Please take my seat. I hasten to let a purple sari clad lady sit, who clutches at her cane as if it would run away if she let go. I am met with a demure 'thank you'. Another gentleman shuffles up and looks around for a place to sit. A boy of seventeen sits on the far end of the settee whilst his mother sits in a chair next to the desk, her eyes vacant, her faux diamond encrusted bangle sparkles. As I watch the old man hobble over to support himself against the wall, I am amazed at what the diamond lady says. There is no place for people to sit. This doctor is always late. She continues sitting. That and a perfunctory nod of the head is her contribution to the situation.

I can sense the vein in my forehead throbbing. Tell your son to get the hell up and give the old man a seat. Give him YOUR SEAT. Move! But nothing. The youth continues tapping away on his cell phone, straightening his hair with his fingers. I feel as though I might burst with outrage. I catch my breath as I inch closer to saying something cutting to both of them and wake them, shake them out of their complacent smug selves. The words pile up at the back of my throat. And then it happens.

I catch the eye of another person in the row and signal him to let the man sit. He scrambles to his feet feigning horror at his not having offered earlier. The faux diamond lady and her son stare into the middle distance unmoved. She dabs her nose with a too pink kerchief. Her son picks at his many pimples and stretches his long teen legs much to the consternation of the person sitting next to him. I have given up yet another opportunity to speak up for the right thing. For the good. For the decent and considerate. Another lost battle with voicing disapproval of crass acts that are both symptoms and catalysts of the ripped social fabric in today's India (of India Shining fame). Why did I not speak up? Some latent instinct to avoid conflict? A prospective rejection or rebuttal from others? Why did I not speak up?

You are sowing the seeds for a rash driver. A lane cutter. Someone who pushes an old lady or stamps on a little child's toe to catch the train. Someone who does not let a pregnant lady enter the bus before him. Someone who takes the biggest piece of the cake at a party. Runs over a sleeping pavement dweller and does not even blink. Someone who bribes a Government official to allow use of cheap (read substandard) cement in a bridge construction project. Someone who sleeps in his beautiful insulated home whilst the residents of the slum next to his sprawling apartment building scramble for their family members who died in the landslide that struck their huts from the shelled out quarry. Someone who is finally, too busy speaking at an international conference to hold your hand as you lay gasping for your last breath. You are writing your own tomorrow. And it does not look good.

The what the why and the how.

2009-12-16T11:25:00.003+05:30

First the what. This is a blog where I intend to VENT. Vent about all of those things that drive me completely crazy. Make me stomping mad. You know those times when you want to throw your cell phone that just died of low battery in the middle of important call onto the floor and jump up and down on its smug (and dark) screen? Or fling a stray boulder at the bank clerk who insists on plodding through your entire name (father's too) while attempting to update your passbook? I mean put the bloody thing in the printer and let me go!

The why. Just got rejected from a job that I was hoping to get for a long time. One that I didn't really want but wanted all the same to get for the sake of having a job in a respectable organisation (questionable), decent money (for antacids for working late under whip wielding bosses) and spend my days comfortable raving at the madness of a 65 hour work week.

The how. Everytime I see anything, however minute, or gigantic in proportion that gets me really really peeved (read fuming with mild vapours rising from the top of my head) I will write a blog entry about it. Warning : Most of these entires will be heavily laden with exclamation points and searing sarcasm capable of inciting very strong feelings of antagonism (I hope) in the reader. For example wanting to spontaneously smack your boss in the back of the head with a large stapler. Or wanting to kick the colleague always dragging his feet in the lunch queue peering into every container of insipid goo the office wants to pass off as food. Or yanking the bill register out of the hands of a lethargic raccoon eyed clerk at the bus station and making out your own ticket.