Separation-III: Snow

It was just one of those regular January Delhi winter nights, you know;  with all the usual elements that have given it its unique scent -phlegmatic fog that makes the fluorescence of the street lamps even more desultory, cacophonic silence that penetrates not only the mind, but also pierces the heart, lonesome, desolate streets with their concrete skeletons that become more unforgiving as the chill of the darkness finds a malleable ally in them . Looking outside the balcony, with a mug of coffee in his hand, he absorbed the sights and sounds in all their sanguine, macabre magnificence. The mug was special; it had the bearings of not just the wear and tear of the past two and a half years, but also engraved in the cylindrical, monolithic porcelain were stories no one would know of; except him. Funny things mugs are; you think they are just a piece of stone with a mural painted to charm the simpleton mind; and here he was holding it close to his chest, guarding it more carefully than Golum had guarded "The Ring". "My Precious", thought he; he took a sip and stretched the extremities of his lips to their limits as the hot liquid marked its progress down his throat and into his bloodstream to give him that familiar rush of untamed energy he was so accustomed to having.

He thought of the day that had gone by; career reviews, appraisals, unrealistic deadlines, routine parades to the cafeteria, the same old trivial squabbles with colleagues; nothing special; just the same cycle of periodic redundance; all totemic symbols of the unimaginative, ordinary world that he had submitted himself to. Perhaps the monochromatic consistency of the season had rubbed off on his life as well. He thought of April that will soon bring spring and perhaps more colors than he could see right now; when perhaps the obfuscation that Winter had created would give way to the more serene, heliocentric moonlight. But there was still some time before that. And as he mused about the wanton behavior that Nature is wont to display, somewhere far away from the coziness of his balcony, beyond the Atlantic, it was snowing...

The coffee felt lukewarm; he smiled as he took another sip; and acknowledged the cold sweat that trickled down his spine...

Oh wicked sun,
Oh wicked sun,
See,
What we've, 
Become...

Separation-II: MUSE

Of the passion that we shared

When we

Last kissed;

Of the times you silently cried

And these moments,

I missed…

I live in the longing,

And regret;

Lest I forget

How it all felt…

And still,

Make acquaintance

With this

Gargantuan distance..

Yet, somehow

Console my heart,

Which plays

Its part,

In this systematic abuse,

I call LIFE

To which I put myself through;

Everyday…

And you ask me;

“Is our love so painful?"

"Is it so abstruse?”

To which I smile;

And give you

The eternal excuse,

“Love, you aren’t just my love;

You are my MUSE”.

Invictus v2.0- Voices and Visions

Thoughts- weird, eccentric, random, ghastly- wake me up early, every morning. They cloud my dawn; in a semi-awake state as my eyes try to grope for consciousness. The lower portion of my skull feels heavy; I have a feeling that is where my sub-conscious is located; it makes its presence felt; and I acknowledge it. Paralysed by this torrent of brain pulses whose origin I can not trace; whose purpose I do not know, I lay in this state as my physical self tries to construct the solidity that exists but has been slightly bent out of shape by my semi-conscious mind. In those moments of random cogitations I defy what space and time might mean to a trained and educated mind.

I leave my bed; I switch on the lights of my room. 8.30 am- it's too early by my standards. Strangely, the familiar coziness that my pillow used to offer is a distant past. I look at the mirror. My disheveled hair speak of the night and the loneliness that it brought along. I look at my blood shot eyes; they are the same; they are still mine and they return my gaze  unhindered, unrestricted, uninhibited; and reassure me that indeed I haven't been kind to them, yet they'll not hesitate to respond to me in case I need a reality check.Words of Douglas Adams ricochet in my head- You live and learn. At any rate you live...

Existence has often perplexed me. I am not a biologist; but I have often felt that it is slightly apathetic to classify humans as a bundle of nerves and elements. Is it possible that we are just thought waves or extensions of a previous thought wave that has come and gone by? Uniqueness is a rarity and in truth most of us are living, breathing cliches. 

Mental isolation piques me; I am a thought extending like the horizon in the hope of meeting my zenith; like a desolate neuron trying to bridge the synapse that separates it from its kin, I reach out with my dendrons. This is also existence, and I must know it as it is.

I am a thought that will not die; I am an idea that will live and spread. I exist because I chose not to fade away. I am undefeated; I am unafraid; I am myself- unique, pure, chaste.

I am the Invictus.

Out of Exile

Something that I wrote during my placement season of 2008-09. Don't know why I never posted it. But here goes..

Being jobless is an altogether interesting experience. Not only do I get to sleep all day long in my room,the varied range of emotions that I get to go through everyday amazes me. I never thought that I would get to feel all of it within a matter of few days. The joy that I felt when I got drunk on one of my despondent, dejected acquaintances' getting through a top notch job was heartfelt. And the jealousy that came along with the hangover was devastating to say the least. Cynical happiness uplifted my spirit to a new abyss as and when I heard the news of someone not making through. The misery that fate splashed across the faces of the rejected, keeps getting compounded with the passing of each day; misery becomes happiness when measured relatively; I feel happy.
I feel amused at the circus the "placement season" has become. I feel vindicated when the true colours of any individual is revealed. I am not a friend anymore; I am a"threat" to others' livelihood.A "threat"? And I thought I was "mostly harmless"!! The thin line between good and bad has vanished and the "bourgeois" are behaving like men on a sinking ship; "Every man for himself". And what do I do amid all this melee ?I sit back in my room; smile at the chaos that humanity or lets' say a part of it is creating; smack my lips; relish the fact that eventually "man" will devour "man" and wish "How cool it would be to have my canines grow like that of a vampire?".
It would make me more human...........

"We've got your pal"- A Catch-22 situation

If you ever go on the wikipedia page and type "World War-II Literature", you'll be taken to a page where there is a mention of works like "Flags of Our Fathers","The Harvey Girls" and other such classic war-time literature. No doubt that these works capture the trials and tribulations of those affected and those involved in the most compelling way, yet the seriousness of The War in the narration can become heavy and tedious for the readers. In 1961, an ex-US World War-II bombardier by the name of Joseph Heller decided to set the record straight by publishing Catch-22, a satire and if I may be allowed to call it, a mockery on The War, and it is this eccentric piece of literary work that is I am going to write about here.

Catch-22 is the story of Captain John Yossarian who is a US B-25 bombardier for the 27th Air Force Head Quarters. Everytime he completes the number of missions that are required after which one can be sent home, the powers to be raise the number. His only motive in the entire book is to save his life come what may. To achieve the same he tries various shenanigans-tries to get himself grounded on the grounds of insanity, gets himself admitted in the hospital with pain in his liver which was "just short of jaundice" but "not jaundice" and the likes. He is aided in his theatrics with a motley crew of characters- each suffering and being tormented by their own insecurities, ambitions and the failures to achieve them.

The thing that sets Catch-22 apart from the rest of the books based on The War, is that the action on the battlefield, is secondary. At the center of the novel is a simple man's struggle to come to terms with the hysteria and paranoia that war brings and his indefatigable fight to live through and perhaps beyond it. The book's high point is the convoluted humour which can make those well-versed in logic tear their hair apart-characters contradicting themselves in every next statement, corruption being justified by the economics of profit,reason going for a toss just like that, sanity and insanity becoming subjective- all add to the queer and twisted humour of the book. There is situational humour as well and it at times makes you wonder if between all this madness, a war is actually taking place. Consider this for an example:-
'Sure, that's what I mean,'Doc Daneeka said.'A little grease is what makes this world go round. One hand washes the other. Know what I mean? You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.'
Yossarian knew what he meant.
'That's not what I meant,' Doc Daneeka said, as Yossarian began scratching his back.

It is not just war and logic that Catch-22 makes fun of. Death, the greatest equaliser and finality of any war is also poked fun at. In fact it is dealt with a comical, and some might feel, even a slight derogatory treatment with the characters making near mockery of the process of dying itself.

War has always been devastating to the fairer sex and the book is full of instances where women folk have been shown in the veridical light of the misery they suffer in conflict situations. The savage attitude of men that war time brings out is exposed but only in necessary measures and there is no overdoing of the same.

Catch-22 does has its shortcomings as well. The narrative is leisurely but at times it does get tedious due to the repetition of the similar jokes in similar situations. The chronological order of the story is also difficult to keep pace with and at times you need to revisit the earlier pages to make complete sense of what is happening. The end, though climactic, is a bit disappointing and you are left with a feeling that a somewhat crazier, more maniacal solution could have been a more befitting.

Catch-22 has been listed in the TIME magazine's 100 Greatest novels of the 21st century and it justifies its presence for the uniqueness of perspective that it brings about the War. The lofty nobles of patriotism, heroism, sense of duty and bravery have been brought to the fore by many novels, films etc. but survival? That is something that this book explores and leaves you wondering whether the sense of duty in war times can or can not prevail over our innate sense of existing. Read Catch-22 for Captain Yossarian, read it for Hungry Joe, read it for Doc Daneeka; read it to realize the frailty of life, read it for the enormity of death; read it for the fact that you may understand and yet not comprehend the catch of Catch-22.

Separation-I: An Ocean Between Us

How do I know that I am alive; that this is what reality looks like and it is not an incoherent dream sequence dancing in front of my eyes? Are my senses giving me the right readings; or have they become so numb, so petrified by this nightmarish reality that actually exists, that they have chosen to paint an illusionary picture….

Inertia adds more somber colours, and I grope at nothingness that defines this reality in the hope to catch some pigments that constitute this illusion….

The unknown silently whispers in my ears, “It is time; it is time we meet”. I pay no heed to it, I believe in the illusion; it’s comforting; it allows status quo, a quasi static equilibrium, where everything happens so slowly for infinite amount of time that nobody notices any perceptible change. I gaze vacantly at the stars; their distance from where I stand is in measures of light years. And light years is what separates them from each other; each an island burning as brightly as it can. A day will come when each of them would swallow itself….. They call it the ‘supernova’; I call it suicide; suicide of the most macabre and galactic proportions… I detest the universe for what it is trying to show me…

The frost on the window trickles down, tracing a serpentine path; every turn uncertain, every bend unpredictable to the naked eye. But perhaps, at the minutest level of existence that defines matter, there must have been a perfect harmony, a symphony of sorts that caused that movement; a reason, perhaps pushing its way against all odds stacked. And then again, what is visible is randomness, not the reason and we always trust our senses and our instincts…..

I sit by the window,
I watch time fly…
I wake up,
I stop dreaming with open eyes...

The Sound Of Truth

To all those in DCE/DTU, protesting /not protesting, I hope you know what you are doing.
This is a song by the band "AS I LAY DYING". Hope you guys can get the message implied...

We have all heard what we wanted to hear
Truth that sounds right to our ears
We have all heard what we wanted to hear
Truth that sounds right to our ears

But what wisdom is there within us
To live based on the feeling of our hearts?
How many times has instinct let us down
Never to be thought through
Never to be questioned

Say what you really mean
When your ambition calls you, calls you
For what use is there in praying
If you will only hear what you want to hear?

We have all heard what we wanted to hear
Truth that sounds right to our ears

We speak of fighting to resist this world
But what about the battle within us?
If we have chosen to live against the grain
Then why are we all facing the same way?

There is no difference between us and them
If we all blindly seek truth from sentiments

We have all heard what we wanted to hear
Truth that sounds right to our ears