Stuck

I jumped for joy and got stuck
It can't be a weight issue
I am bones, thin skinned and all that
So why didn't gravity play a role

It must be fake euphoria
Shallow highs I myself created
An allure of the inconceivable
To hide from realistic phases

Doing something you have to do
To do something you want to do
Is a mind pacifying notion
By some failure of a psychiatrist

To put your hand in every pie
And never get a bite
To fall in love every second smile
And then wallow in loss' plight

Sigh, it's probably the age
Not too many eons have we spend
Flitting through life's sanguine tinge
And time is our best friend

The transformation of ourselves
From exuberant youth 
To responsible citizen
Is like a wild west movie - full of shots and sins

Shotgun! He had called
The front seat was his
They drove in holiday spirit
Down roads with twists and dips

Something jumped out of nowhere
They swerved out of control
His side ploughed into bark
And left was nought but dark

He was gone the moment it struck him
No lasting pain
No crys of anguish
Except of those that love him

Deep remorse comes with the thought
Maybe it's survivor's guilt
We did lose a friend and brother
There is nothing that can be done

Only the good die young
The rest of us will live
And pay its price
Memory is all we will have now

I jumped for joy and got stuck
But who am I to whine
There are those that will never jump again
Swallow my pride, I must

We owe it to the lost
To save those that might have hope
And to play out our roles
Live, love, forgive and never give up

Helen

What can one say about the face
That set to sail a thousand ships?
The most troubling question that would arise
Is pity we could not see it.
 
    Aphrodite promised her as a prize
    Many a man chased after her
    All to find a wife
    Was she plagued through life?

She left behind family and child
Some say she ran hand in hand
Others describe scenes more vile
'Cross seas she was carried through

     Had she no greater thought in mind?
     Or are love and its concubines
    Just so worth its price?
    All the same, she found herself lost

Eye to eye, nose to nose
The rest was curtained by time
The first few days were love drunk
Paris must have been fine

     Somebody once claimed of peace
     That to achieve it, we need war
     So came the fleets
     And Trojan and Greek went asinine

It is not only the good that die young
Life is a gift or sorts
That is tested by the length
Of the gap between each breath

    As they died out there
    She was slowly spurned
    Men and women became beasts
    Cursed and left to weep

Then he died, she found another
He too died or was killed
Did she have a hand in it?
Was the horse one of her sins?

    Many questions are left unanswered
    By the daughter of Zeus
    She probably sought not glory as a lover
    Merely a moment that would last a lifetime

City of Joy

Moving from one state to another is said to make every Indian feel like a foreigner in their own country – such is the diversity that the nation enjoys. The pomp and splendor of its multi-faceted cultures gives it its own USP. Yet even in this difference, if we were to look closely one would find vestiges of a fine cultural inter-linking. Everything comes from somewhere and goes somewhere. Calcutta is that somewhere.

The age-old capital of the most glorious times of British India, the city still enjoys an ethereal sense of regality; so much so that at times it is in stark contrast to stark reality.  Having gotten its name from a nearby shrine to the fearsome Goddess Kali- Kalikata- this melting pot of societies can indeed be one of the most feared tests of survival for mankind.

He walked out of the station to see a sea of everything one could possible imagine. People were selling anything that could be sold, displaying all that was to be displayed (a service that could be availed of through a minimal token fee), hawking, gawking and walking. Little children, forcefully deformed at birth to appeal to one’s inner sympathy, begged on its streets. Old men and women, emotionally marred by years of slow deterioration of self-respect in the name of survival, sat at the entrances and exits with their alms-cups out-stretched. Those who could traversed the great platforms of the station foraging, like hyenas, for even traces of anything that could transformed into something for their smaller children sitting at home to eat. The older ones, those who had crossed the age of five, would have to fend for themselves.

 Stepping out into the city you were greeted by a cacophony of vehicular frenzy. The trademark yellow cabs- either Ambassadors or Padminis- awaited your beck and call. Double-decker buses leaned like little Pisas en ruote. Those who could not afford to support the prices of fuel, had the option of human horses, or rickshaw pullers as they were popularly known. He stood and stared at men who were spitting out paan, or blood, as they pulled their carriages laden with over a hundred kilos of fellow man or his goods. Having come from a more gentler part of the south of India, this was not the greeting he had expected.

Job Charnock was the Britisher responsible for the city’s birth. His name is still remembered in the little ways such as the name of a House in one of the city’s more prestigious schools – La Martiniere. The city was built to be the ideal center of business and pleasure. Its many industries gave Her Majesty a splendid income while the Hooghly river, daughter of the Ganga, provided the ports and harbours to transport its wares. Over the years it had been host to amongst the most outrageous displays of the power and wealth of the British empire. People came from all over Asia and Europe to par-take in the parties of the city. The Viceroy, decked in the representation of royalty in the nation, played host to all cultural, political and parasitical business enterprises of the day and age. It was a good time- for those who were important enough to enjoy it.

The house that had been set out for him was in a place called Ballygunge. It was originally one of the lesser areas of the cities and once upon a time had been a cheap investment with regard to real estate. The house, or rather apartment, was also plump in the middle of something else that was entirely new to him- a slum. Slums are a matter of perspective. For those who have, they are the lowest to which human habitation could sink- the nest of an unhygienic, often putrid, existence. For those who weren’t as fortunate, the slum was home. It gave them a roof on top of most of their heads. It gave them a community and a social reason to face each coming day. He walked through its narrow lanes, followed by an escort that consisted entirely of hungry stray mongrels and giggling children, gaping at the dark man, who in turn was gaping at everything he could, with the many bags and sunglasses. In the slum the only people who wore those, he would learn later, were the blind. A frail man was his landlord, one of the old generation of true Bengali ‘babus’ of the city. His wife, a round old lady, and he made the man far-away from home as welcome as he could possibly feel. One of the most special things about the house was that it would never have power-cuts. A place without its daily power-cut was almost unheard of in the city. Here however, the Chief Minister of the state had his residence in the same sub-grid as the house.

As a tribute to the success of the British Empire in India, a huge construction was under-taken in the early 20^th century. Contributions to the construction were made by those who wanted favours from the Raj and the construction in itself consisted of white marble from the same quarries that had supplied it to Shah Jahan. It was called the Victoria Memorial and it still stands in the midst of its 64 acres of blooming gardens.Another notable bit of architecture, though this bit significantly more useful, was the bridge across the Hooghly. It was renamed after the great Bengali Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore, as ‘RabindraSetu, but is however still popularly known as the Howrah Bridge.

In the evening he stepped out for some tea. A small clay pot filled with sweet milk, laced with traces of imports from Assam or Darjeeling (depending on the vendor’s imagination), was served to him along with a piping hot version of a samosa, called singharas. Food had always enticed him and he resolved to try out the best on offer. Sweets, he learnt, were an essential part of the Bengali life-style. The fragile sandesh that melted in your mouth to the succulent white orbs that were the globally famed rasagollas- all depravity and strife would be forgotten, if only for those few moments. Rice and the hilsa fish or freshly baked rotis and the ‘alu-dum’, a regional potato curry dish, constituted the staple diet of the city. On the way into the city he had tried from the Kharagpur (the home of the state’s IIT) platform, luchis and curry. Kathi rolls were kabas rolled in dough that apparently deserved special mention. Mistidoi, which is sweetened curd, and the Patuligur confectionery were additions to the palette. Each district of the state was renowned for its own particular fare, he was told. If he had the taste, he should visit Flury’s on Park Street or Nohoum’s in New Market. Kathleen and Monginis were also popular attractions. He returned home for his first night in the city, with a stomach, and by extension a mind, that was truly satisfied.

The great famines, the Partition, the wars with Pakistan and China all in turn had a direct impact on the great city. It brought in people by the millions – refugees from their own lands looking for ways and means to earn. Mosques, temples and churches adorned the city-scape. In the puja season the whole city would transform into a whirl of celebration. The beautiful women of the city would dress in the traditional white and red saree and the promenade carrying the effigies of Durga Ma and the elephant headed Ganesha would travel through the city to the mother-river. Mobs would throng the streets and the aura of a holy emancipation would be there for all who wanted it. Yet even the Gods make mistakes- they did after all create the Asuras. Yet they are there to save those should be saved- just like the city – they gave everybody a chance.

He knew there were many famous people from the city. He visited the Missionaries of Charity. People like Mother Teresa had always appealed to him. She represented what he saw to be beauty of the soul. Ronald Ross had found the cure for malaria in this very city. Social reform had come - be it Roy or Vivekananda. The spirit to remove oppression, however fanatically, was shown in the iconography of Netaji Bose. J. Bose and AmartyaSen brought academic and pratical glory to the city. Even in sports, the Dada of Indian cricket, SauravGanguly and even LeanderPaes had their homes here. Satyajit Ray had brought India her first ever Oscar. He then travelled to Shantiniketan.

The Banyan in the Botanical Gardens stretched its arms out so magnificently that atleast a thousand people could sit in its shade at any given time. Even the city’s nature was welcoming. Lotus leaves large enough to carry an entire person, floated in the lake. Squirrels adorned in the three-striped mark of the God Rama had made their homes all over the city. Chowringhee, it was said, even had its own very curious visitors that found affection for concrete jungles intermittently. The Royal Bengal Tiger was not just a symbol of a city but that of a nation. Alipore played host to the city-zoo. Always teeming with people, it is said to be most beautiful to visit in the gap between the monsoon rains. Then the resident peacock sheds all inhibition and dances for all asunder. The audience comes under one umbrella regardless of where they come from or where they shall go.

He was beginning to fall in love. True, the initial glimpses of its squalor might throw people off but the reality is Calcutta deserved to be respected- it offers a potential for redemption to mankind. In this city you could be whoever you wanted to be. Nobody would question you as long you lived and let live. Walking down its streets, he saw couples, hand in hand, smiles on their faces and eyes only for each other. After all, this was the ‘Paris of the East’. It brought back memories. It had been a long time since he had spoken to her. The city does that to you. It can make you feel lonely in a quaint personal way. It makes you long for those people that should be there with you. This was often a good thing. It made you do what was right. As he strolled back home, he realized that he was also happy. Tomorrow, he would go to work. He would be a part of a city that had its very own spot in the very history of greatness.

It is in Rabindra Sangeet that the city finds its soul. In this garden of song, the city’s many faces are revealed. It is a cycle that often overlaps- one of bichitra, puja, prakriti and prem. Diversity, worship, nature and love.It is akin to looking down on earth at the end of an 8^th day of creation. In its people you will find warmth even in the face of strife, life even in at the jaws of death and a joy that is unlike any other.

Once you have lived in its heart,

You would not look with wrath

At life in any which way

For it a city of learning

Of living, loving, forgiving and being

O Calcutta, you are my city of joy.                                

Beached

Nobody could understand his obsession with the beach. What place did nature hold after all in our more accomplished world of virtuality. It only made a difference if the the beach was named after yourself. Then atleast you could brag about it.

To think it was just where water met sand, rolled over and ran back leaving you wet, salty and cold.

Maybe it's the impeccable smell of the sea, as they call it, coupled with the excellent palm trees that litter the vicinity with luscious nuts ready to drop on yours at any given time.

Or rather it must be the intrinsic feeling that the sun was at your beck and call whilst you took in the spirit of a s on the b on a spotlessly white deck-chair. Volleyball is fun too as long as you don't have to live the rest of your life like his father with vbitis or rather semi-fractured thumbs.

Or maybe it's simply the under-clad aesthetic value that manages to miraculously spring itself along the shoreline
They walked along its length, their eyes open for beauty- the variety that wasn't too skin deep was shamelessly given preference, he might add.

But there are also those that have eyes only for one other. In blessed arms and whispers divine they are lost in their little lives.

There is then the rocky precipice that juts out into the waters. Dragging yourself along the stony walkway to the drop point where you just want to cliff dive is probably the unusaul cherry on top of some very good rum cake.

John Keats once said 'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever'. Well I guess in a couple of hundred years our spirits will still be swimming the seas..

Then sitting around a little bonfire some big dark man picks up a guitar and starts strumming to a chorus of the sea's night cries. And you know your place in the world. It's right there in the middle of that sand. With the sea by your side and people in whom you delight.

Nothing can jade your smile. It's all in the mind. It's the beach that's living. You are simply rolling with the tides.

Little Optimistic Glory

*Note- written for a school mag - it's unlike the others - though that may not be a good thing *

Every time he paused to reflect upon what he had achieved in this life he was disappointed. It is not his achievements that churned his stomach or any lack of them thereof. Truth be told it is infact the bitter thought of how much more he could have done..


Each time he was offered the chance to do something and he stepped back, away from opportunity, is a living memory of fear. That one step back is now a whole flight down on the stairway of life.

How many of us realize how short life really is. Not short in a sense of longevity but in fulfillment of purpose. Why are we on this earth? What is our end goal? Every single philosopher and thinker in the last umpteen centuries has taken that issue to be the one closest to his or her heart and yet it is the most enigmatic.

We cannot resolve all the world’s problems or conflicts. Besides even if this impossibility could be achieved it would be short-lived. What would it be like to live in that utopian world? Everyone would be equal- in ability and wealth; everyone the other’s friend; everyone free from troubles, pain and suffering.

Can we actually achieve such idealism?

Every single inch of my pragmatic being directs me to the negative. Some are just more equal than others; we cannot be everybody’s friend and lastly Pandora did open that box. It is all dissonance.

Yet something was left behind in that box. She was beautiful. Each and every bit of her radiated with a magnificent glow. Her name was Hope and there has never been anything false about hope.

We want change. We want progress. We want harmony. How?

A turtle if it wants to move has to stick its neck out of its shell.

We are all too afraid of what is out there. True, we might fail. Then again we might not.

Yet again who cares?

Show me a person who has never failed and I’ll show you somebody who has never achieved much. Failures are just part of the dues one pays for a full life.

Glory lies not in never failing, but in rising every time we fall.

In our life we will face detractors- people who try to pull you down. Some of these people simply don’t like you; the others just want you to do whatever you are doing better.

In the end of it all it is what you want to do that makes the difference. Try, try, try and then do it all over again. Each time you fail, remember you will not stop until you succeed. Each time you fail, laugh, because by not laughing at yourself, you lose out on a whole lot of laughs. Each time you fail try doing it again but differently. For in the end glory encompasses the path you take to it. And somewhere, somehow you will be happy.

‘Life is not a spectator sport. If watching is all you are going to do then you are going to watch your life go by without you.’

Weather girl

She knew no season
She sparked no lust
Her ways were merged with those in trust
And they led their lives on the edge of reason

She seems so innocent
The darling cherubin
Yet we could never truly tell
If we understood what she felt

Is there something beneath the veneer
Of the loving symbol some fear
A callous rage, a hidden trait
Something we missed out on, dear?

You could fit in my hands child.
Sometimes your blind jeer
We could crush into the earth
If we liked you less

But we don't hurt people
So near. Neither should you let it happen
When you get things wrong
And your alibis are less than strong

Listen to us honey
For you we are here
Don't be a rolling stone
Though Bob would be proud of you

We believe you are the head
Of the trinity of lead
We can't ask for much
I must disgress

The debacle you speak of
Haunts us in bed
Don't be all patronizing
Sometimes you got to be the man

People can have opinions
Of their own. Let them.
The rest should be hit
Hard till they get concussions

This is no chick flick
We are living for real
These are people you know
And will continue to revere

You knew what was right
And still you let her go
Boxing Day's soon arrived
I am afraid the show will leave the shore

And it won't be because of the stupid weather.

Purple

In the grand scheme of things the richness and vibrancy of purple defies all logic. The colour of kings, the colour of Jc's tunics- its sensuous ability to morph into light-hearted happy-go-lucky personnas is eternally appealing.

Monroe once said that she just wanted to be wonderful.

We are not immortal beings who have all the time in the world to savour its every flavour. We all have definite purposes whether we like it or not. If we don't we tend to make them. For everybody wants to live for something. Most people don't know what. But be it a rock band, a football club, a cult genre or the ultimate narcississm, for in diversity lies beauty, it's the way to anchor youself.

Avatar was a lovely movie...

'I like purple.'

Say what?! Listen blondie, we are talking about the blue men in the movie. What are you saying.

'I like purple.'

What do you think of Lionel getting player of the year? He's so hot

'I like purple.'

Let's talk about the immaculate conception..I don't want ours to be like that.

'I like purple.'

Show me the money

'I like purple.'


I hate that triangle..

'I like purple.'


Freud didn't know what she wanted. But Freud knew what Freud wanted. Then again that's probably why Sigmund is remembered today. He got some things right. And envisioned the rest just as sweetly for himself. Even penis envy. Talk about lowering her self-esteem.

In a comotose environment we may be guided wrongly. We may do things solely from our heart. Our faith and love for something may be beautiful in our eyes. That's just great. As long as you think it doesn't destroy somebody else's faith.

When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person to realize his dream. -Paulo Coelho
He wonder what happens when two people desire the same dream.

Well he supposes this is where one says

'I like purple.'