Passionate Ramblings Of An Incoherent Mind

The post of Christmas Present

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 20:52:00 +0000

Christmas Eve! Christmas Eve!
The din of jingles sound!
Wait socks of hues many
For a grandpa most rotund

He slides and creeps down a chimney
Dust off silt and soot
Ingests the gourmet cookie
As a cat licks at his boot

The sight of a saturnine feline
Would melt any frozen heart
His heart (warmer than mine or thine)
Now threatened to fall apart

He lifted the milk-glass to his lips
Yet his decision was already made
Soon milk dripped from whisker tips
Yep, Happiness was his trade

Dan, Dugh, Debby, Check Check Check
He ticks them off the list
At the bottom, though, there was a speck
"Whoa! Now what's this!"

A name though strange not bogus
A name not rote nor false
A name to baffle all of us
That name was Inlove Falls

The field named 'Yen' was empty
But empty is a malaprop
There were entries many
With as many strikes and chops

So Santa mused and pondered
He scratched his gelid beard
"Righto! Lets go meet him
And see what he has to be heard"

And thus that it transpired
On that snowy night
Rudolph worked overtime, but hey
This years our wallets are tight!

...

I believe you call this, a Magnum Opus?

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 19:55:00 +0000

The movie Avatar has been hyped quite a bit., having been in the pipeline for half a decade, and titled the brainchild of one of Hollywood's favorites, James Cameron. The reviews promised 3D action, special effects and fantasy beyond all else. It is thus that I found myself on the sere and barren path to Satyam, with no small measure of expectation.

They promised a spectacle.

And boy, they delivered one. This movie is unlike anything you've ever seen before. The setting is something fantastic. Plants, animals and sentient forms come in all shapes, sizes and hues. The effects are cutting edge, avant-grade, sublime! Not for a minute is there a plastic or paper feel to anything that isn't plastic or paper, and trust me, you don't find many of those on Pandora. In all, the movie is a looker. This is one of those once-in-a-generation blockbusters, a spike on the radar of movie-goers and a throwback to the age (yes, it is that long back) when movies dazzled, dazed and promptly dumped us back in reality as the credits rolled. In effect, you should watch this movie.

But that aside... this isn't advertised as a spectacle but as a movie. And it is painfully obvious that the movie is but a side-effect of a dream. Left to him, the director would gladly have made a documentary of the ways of the Na'vi and the splendor of Pandora. But you can't market documentaries, nor can you justify such a price tag for them. In short, the story of Avatar is average, trite even. Any fantasy genre fan can make up this story in a snap. The story moves at a good pace, has the required ups and downs, but despite a surprise here and there about the timing of events that are inevitable, the broad plot is pretty much the same.

The most important part of fantasy, as JRR Tolkien's works attest, is history. Intrigue. The knowledge that the movie is only part of a greater scheme of things, shadowy, mysterious things. But while the movie is long for an English one, (almost 2.5 hours), the history of the species is never alluded to but once, maybe twice. The next most important is dialogue. To have an alien tongue is one thing, but to make 'realism' impede emotion is another. While it was eerie to hear the hisses and snarls in the beginning as subtitles jumped out, I just felt the dialogue too tame. Definitely a weak link there... Even, the parts of dialogue that were in English were, lets say, just not momentous enough.

The political allusions were entertaining. Was I the only one, or was the talk about how we fried our mother-god a direct reference to global warming. Also, Uncle Sam was pulled into the fray with the pithy line, "You're not the only one with Guns, B***H", as well as, "Let us show them that they cannot have all that they want!" Of course, this could apply to any reigning and faulting military power, but it definitely is more conspirational thinking the US was in the crossfire.

The 3D was something of a disappointment. It was almost completely absent in the latter part of the movie, and only figured in passive scenes. My expectation of in-your-face action was sadly unfounded. But again, the part that was in 3D, was amazing. The floating-people scene rightin the beginning is probably the best shot, 3D wise.

Succinctly, watch this movie. Because you would be missing an experience. Just don't expect to watch a film-making marvel, but to experience a film-maker's dream. Yet, like Jack muses, "We have to wake up sometime."

Personally, I would LOVE to see a series of books set in Pandora. Let us hope!

The.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 19:43:00 +0000

This is my 50th post on this blog.

I've come a long way I guess... to look back on the first few posts is a rather painful realization that despite my best efforts, I have grown up. There is a touch of disdain in humor, where there was carefree ruckus. There is an attempt at class, where before there was unbridled joy. There are poems where before there were alter-egos, and there is sentiment where before there was none.

But some things remain the same. There is still that passion to write, to express, and to, above all else, entertain! A small speck of responsibility towards invisible, quiet yet completely real readers - family, friends and the occasional stumbler. But thankfully, there also is a sense of tedium associated with the passion, which acknowledges the effort to log on from the throes of rusticity and hence prevents long, post-less blackouts like those so frequently seen before.

I thought it would be a good idea to dedicate this post to my readers. Yes, even the ones that don't comment, because it feels good to hear people say "I read your Blog", and even better to say, "Oh yeah, I know you love food. It's on your blog!" or something similar.

I also thought it would be good to dedicate this, specifically, to one reader. Who makes it a point to get the blog address, read every post, trudge through long-winded speech and abstract nonsense which he doesn't like, guffaw at all attempts of humor proudly, and promptly forget the address before the next post. Oh, and he was born somewhere around this time, around half a century back. Thank you Appa! :)

The story of the article heading. Well, apart from being deadly and mysterious, it's an experiment. Blogger cuts off the 'The' in the blog title (The Hunt becomes Hunt, for eg.), so I wanted to know how it would save this post.

Note that the blog posts add up to 48 right now. Thats because I have two posts, in drafts, that I wrote and never published. Both are completely context-based, so there's no point putting them up now. Take my word for it, they're not controversial and I didn't chicken out :)

The hunt.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 17:11:00 +0000

I went to a Vijay movie today.

I really think, we've got him wrong. I mean, all we people who look at his movies like they're third grade nonsense. I really, truly think that the guy has talent. As in... some of his scenes... the walk... the towel-like thing around his neck, the choice of costume.... At some points, I was like, "Dude! This is almost a Rajini movie!".

At most other points in time, I was awake, and the nightmare was still unfolding.

People rarely ever review a Vijay movie because, well, you can't really talk about the story. These literary types, they like circumlocution. They these wordy, prolix articles that show off their vocabulary. Trust me on this one. So anyway, lets see what an average review would be.

Start Review
The movie was terrible. The heroine's dresses were shorter than this article.
End Review

But I shall be brave. I shall dare to do what no reviewer has done, go where no review has gone before. I shall try to think from the other side of the prism. The side where hordes of citizens crown him as the next superstar, where kids grow up to Dandanakara beats, where girls are taught to fall, fantasize and subsequently wed the most macho guy on the road. Who also helps old people cross the road, directs traffic, beats up Baddies and as a special holiday offer, comes toilet trained. I'm gonna write a favorable review for "Vettaikaaran".

Of course, I was just kidding.

The movie was terrible. It wasn't crude, just terrible. It wasn't amateurish, just terrible. It wasn't boring. Just. Plain. Terrible.

Highlights:

Everyone in the movie stammers. I can imagine them teaching their kids the alphabet. A..A...A...A for... Aaaaple! B...B...B...B for... Boooomb da! C...C for Come and get your ass kicked machan!
The heroine is like this tall, curvy, mannequin. She looks beautiful in some scenes, and terrible in others. The make-up people went berserk and gave her all 'looks' humanly possible. Poor thing... since she won't do another movie, might as well have fun in this one.
The heroine is from Alaska. So forgive her if she doesn't cover up.
Tamil Nadu hates Chemistry. I have company. How else would you describe this exchange when the hero inhales alcohol, lights a fire, blows, and sets the villian on fire. "Sir... He is no ordinary man... he is... he is something else!" You *BEEP*, he paid attention to chemistry class and you didn't!
When it ended.

I do believe, though, that there is some silver lining here. Vijay movies give me what, my friends who spurn sobriety, call the BUZZ. You feel, after coming out, that you can face anything in life. That you should enjoy, that the worst is behind you. That you will come face to face with the hounds of hell, look them in the eye, and utter, as thunder claps, the wind howls, fire crackles, the earth groans and the love your life watches you with awestruck, loving, "My man bigger biceps than yours and can fly" look...

Do..Do...Do your Worst da.... naaaaaaaaaye!

Lets spice things up a bit...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 20:58:00 +0000

How meretricious this must seem to you
You, of beauty, of inveterate light!
The cloying harps of an obsequious tune
Feeble courtiers in black and white

Most poems, they espouse mendacity
Where frizzy barbs are tousled manes
One about you, in modest veracity
Would put them all to misery and shame

Pray tell me! Milady! Speak now!
'ere long this obstreperous heart will burst
Break your obdurate vow right now!
These furtive glances sate no mortal's thirst

Speak, milady! Speak now!
I have run out of words abstruse
Turn that upturned nose to the ground
Can we now declare a truce?

Well... maybe a little romance is what will do the trick. Our foolish knight has obviously done something typical and foolish, so the fair maiden says, and I quote, "Hmph!" and leaves, turning her nose to the skies. Our knight, though well meaning and romantic, is inarticulate. Luckily for him, there happens to be a thick book with an aura of iridescent hues right on the table. Opening the curiously titled 'Barrons', he picks out a few words at random, and garbles them in a pleasant meter, in the hopes of cheering up the fickle minded young lady. I leave it to you to determine the answer to that knightly proposition.

Before you get ideas, the role of yours truly is strictly of a bard. Galloping around on horses wearing metal underwear while wooing asphyxiated (and as a consequence) buxom babes never has appealed (or even occurred) to me.

A matter of great Import...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 21:04:00 +0000

To what shall I this sibling impute
Second in the family of rhyme
The first child to many ears seems cute
The younger a waste of time?

Ah! But the Book has me indentured!
The hour unsuited to put up fight.
But please, spare me your unkind censure
It is for need that I indite.

I am, veritably, in the house of I
Where Insularity seems to play with me
Too big this place for my narrow grasp,
I am too long interloping! Help me flee!

Today, Creativity gambols with Intransigence
While Inimical is herself to me
I could perhaps for your dint indemnify?
Are you free for coffee?

Okay... first off, sorry.
Second... I'm desperate... Clearly
Third... the theme of this one is how the words in 'I' are a bit too tough for me to digest. Ergo, this second in hopefully a short series of poems... And though you people really should blame Barron's for doing this to me, I understand it IS a bit less creative than usual, so I'm more than happy to make it up to you. Coffee? :)

A Bohemian Rhapsody...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 20:01:00 +0000

"Pray tell me, what's an idiosyncracy"
"Something, in quotes, "Typically Me!"
Swallowing oil from the Eucalyptus tree,
Excessive use of a single Smiley,
Or, (As dad calls it)
Going through a day, duty-free!

These words are lovely, dark and deep."
"No! They make me barf and weep!
I'll do this on the morrow, I want to go sleep..."
"Don't delay, hup to it, on your feet!
Lugubrious swine! Or the rewards you'll reap
Of Procrastination, insolent *beep* !"

Elysian are words to some of us,
Elegiac perhaps, for the boisterous
(Who, by the way, are cantankerous
In majority, loud, and popular thus)
Yet the rules are lain, stop all this fuss!
And I too, before I whimsically digress
Will practice a word I learned today
And Egress.

The "State" of affairs in popular media...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 13:31:00 +0000

I had taken a conscious decision, after "3 mistakes of my life", to not make a mistake of my own, and stay off Chetan Bhagat. As revealing as 5-Point someone was, and the veritable starting point of a flood of IIT/IIM centered books, it was only going downhill form there. Even God couldn't save "One night @..." and "3 Mistakes" was surely one one them... Yet, when stuck in the TamilNadu express (whose pantry, incidentally, has deteriorated) with 15 people playing ' Mafia', you don't have the privilege of being fussy over popular literature. So it came to be, my second innings with India's not-so-modestly-self-styled "Most loved Author".

"2-States, a story of my marriage" is a not-so shy account of the author's marriage. The author is an average Joe @ IIM-A, and a chance meeting with a beautiful girl leads to an unsteady friendship always on the brink of romance, which is where it leads. One-and-a-half years and numerous sleepovers later, the couple decide to break the news to their Loud, Greedy Punjabi and Prudish, Conservative TamBrahm parents. Thats the Groom and Bride sides respecitvely... Obviously, they don't exact;l hit it off, and the rest of the story foucses on the Guy wooing the girl's family (quite literally) and vice versa. Throw in a mystic Guruji, a callous psychiatrist and a ton of Tamil/Punjabi stereotypes, and you've got a hit.

The book was entertaining, and I admit that besides the circumstances, it held my attention of two hours straight. However, the setting is disturbing. The author, as is his usual style, presents it as a fictional take on real life events. Which, i presume, is to soothe the ruffled feathers of certain family members.

However, I find it disturbing that rudeness and downright mockery of a caste or a practice is the way to India's heart. Include here the 'humor' depicted in numerous Tamil and Hindi movies, and the provokative attacks of various politicians playing vote-bank ballot master. 2-States is a case in study. The only truly gut-wrenching parts of the novel were the accounts of the Dad-Mum violence, and the protagonist pining away towards the end. The rest, to me, felt like calculated exaggeration (which is what the author admits to in his prolugue) fashioned to appeal to a majority of people unaccustomed to neither Punjabi nor TamBrahms. Lofty ideas of 'National Integration' served only to deepen my skepticism... I seriously doubt if Afterglow manifests itself as Patriotism, and please don't get me started on the idiocy of the epilogue.

Maybe I'm biased, but I felt that Tamilians in general were dealt a very bad hand. The author's progeniture no doubt blinds him to certain quirks of his own state. While you have unscrupulous auto drivers, the chaos in North-Indian trains finds no mention. While you have the Tamil obsession with education and conservatism, it is forgotten that '5-Pt Someone' was not an extraordinary piece of literature, but merely an insight into India's biggest obsession, IIT. Repeated references to Dark, Ugly madrasis were overkill - having established the jaundice in Northern Eyes, the author could have let it rest. Throw in "Dr.Iyer" who laughs at her patient and prescribes pills disintrestedly, and the non-veg eating, beer drinking Ananya, born into the 'purest of pure upper castes'.

The only sins of his punjabi family were gossip and dowry. Both, again, were alluded to when dealing with TamBrahms.

Mr. Bhaghat, realize that your idealism is misplaced. If indeed your aim was to reduce the regionalisms in India today, you have failed terribly. I can assure you that a majority of the people will enjoy this book only because it reinforces their stereotypes of stuck up, Tamil, Brahmins (yes, Tamil as an adjective) and overbearing, fat Punjabis.

On a side note, I've realised really how close Chennai is to me. Ten days away from home and this book. Need i say more?

Back home!

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 03:14:00 +0000

Yippeeee!

Back home for the hols, for a day :) A north-india tour beckons, so too do twenty fellow animals who want to see Corbett.

Jan's engagement went off well... the food was awesome, and so were the groom's side... both hallmarks of a great pair-up :D

Sigh... Early (well... its 8.30) morning Bournvita from amma, My mug reads, "World's greatest SON!" and i glow with recognition that this is home. I go inside to put this for washing, when I see a long-untouched mug that reads, "World's greatest DAUGHTER!" and suddenly realize, not quite.

*wrestles with March 25th*

The importance of being Earnest...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 14:11:00 +0000

Everyone has his taste, his poison... some have more than one, but those are the exotic ones, the ones that crave spice, the elusive variety, everything life has to offer. Everyone's entitled to his poison.

I've never understood people having to justify themselves to me. Granted, my tone s severe when the topic veers towards vice, of any degree, and especially the one that allows escapism. To do what you please and blame it on something else, retreat into the shadow of a harmless, inanimate thing which picks up the flak for all that you do. Alcohol is so bad! Too bad he's come under the influence.

Anything you do, do it bravely. It's your life... its yours to live. The only time you know you shouldn't be doing something, is when you know you cant look yourself in the eye and say it.

Or, close enough, when you can't look a friend in the eye and tell him.

A thought...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 20:51:00 +0000

Isn't it simpler to lead life for yourself, rather than for another, and expect reciprocation?

That I am opposed to interference is no new thing. Every person has a life to lead, a set of principles to live them by, and some small, perhaps whimsical goals in mind. Yet ever so often, we lose these goals to rectified thought, born from the factories of education, and the suffocating comfort of belief.

Children do not reason. They do not research nor plan. Children do not lead a life, they live it. Adults grow up, and forget the sound of their own voice, drowned under an incessant storm of expectation. Adults reason, they live. Children dream.

What use is a life without a dream? Will you, ten, twenty or thirty years down the line, sit up in bed one day, as a childhood dream comes back to you? Will your world then seem unfamiliar, strange, almost manufactured? Will you feel like you're leading another person's life? And maybe in the midst of all that, you will hear a small, accusing voice that asks you where its dream went...

When I was a child, I had a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look, but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child has grown
The dream is gone

Wouldn't you rather risk being a child a few years longer, than lose your dream in the hurry to grow up, to please, and to be accepted? Just a thought...

And then there were none...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 20:28:00 +0000

One by one
They filtered out
Duty called, Time pressed, and Life retreat'd
One by one they left
And then there was one

He smiled
For in leaving
They left loneliness behind and its touch
Was friendlier, he felt
It carried no lie, no spite

Wings unfurled
Time flew past, and he
His dear friend spent their nights together
Till higher company called
But yet then there was one.

Loneliness
Sighed, stood, his black
Cape billowed in the wind now, yet he
Walked on uncaring, unyeilding
And then there were none

That awful feeling...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 18:03:00 +0000

*incohence warning*

In some truly bizzare contradiction of relative velocity, I find that the more the world around me grows older, the older I get.

Mischief and noise are the guardians of childhood, quiescence is the forebearer of adolescence, while responsibility wrestles with youth, and selfishness consumes adulthood.

So it is, the rule of this world, and indubitably that of many others, where squishy green aliens with antennas probably gather in a small hall and face distinct directions.

Sadly, however young ou may be at heart, you will know youth has given up on yo when you look up at the night sky before Diwali, and see only light, nothin mroe.

Stifling Conservatism

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 16:34:00 +0000

This may offend friend and foe alike, but hey... at least I'm being honest...

It sometimes surprises me that people can be so out of touch with their own youth. I mean... I look around, and see myself surrounded by these pseudo-moral hypocrites. For them, the point is to raise issue, the issue itself.

I can understand family questioning my morals, or that of my friend's. Rather, I can understand them WANTING to question my friend's. The point is that a college lecturer (usually) takes no interest in your well being whatsoever, but is always there to gossip about your social life. The public will speak, because the public likes to and its too big for anyone to monitor. These academic jokers are a smaller group, but with power in hand. The unfairness of life hits you like the early morning stench of last night's dinner.

Seriously, stupidity is India's greatest resource. A friend remarked that if only stupidity was made a fuel, we'd have electricity to spare, and that it was unfortunate that we couldnt harness it. I riposted that she was wrong... Our entertainment industry has been running on that for a really long time.

But in conclusion, it is such people living in the 18th century who formulate rules that allow the torchbearers of the 21st century to grow. Without them, we would be using flashbulbs.

Rewind, Press Play, Unwi... Oh sorry thats not allowed.

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 11:33:00 +0000

Festember was here, actually happened, and is over. I'm pretty sure a lot of people here, not least my friends in the core, would be perfectly surprised. For one, it's a cultural festival. The cauldron of the dregs of morality, and what not. Next, there are those blasted corporates. Always hatching some weird, evil plan to take over the campus. Guess we have an oil field hidden away somewhere...

Seriously, the only word that comes to mind is IRRITATING. To be perfectly frank, thats the only word tat comes to mind and can go to press. Spending countless night outs, bunking classes, battling with an absolutely unhelpful, almost harmful admin and last, and maybe the least, losing cash on Dhabha dinners. All for a crazed midget with an oversized sense of responsibility caught in a time warp to pull down in an unreasonable fit of anger.

After a point of time, talk is cheap. We crossed that point a long time ago.

Yet, talk is cheap. But inaction is cheaper.

It's about Time...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 06:14:00 +0000

Tick tock tick tock

Are you looking at the clock?

Are you wishing that the clock

Stops its slow, sure tick tock.

Where is She, the one behind it all?

The flakes of winter, the leaves of fall!

Where is She, the ruler of seasons?

The silent assayer of patience!

Will She reach out a slender hand

Help you realize, understand

The thread of time, fabric of the worlds

The soft, glittering, fine golden folds

Will She laugh and move slowly away

While you continue your futile stay?

Will the hourglass crack with a shiver

And sand trickle in a golden river

Will thus fate then shimmer and flow

With the its aura and mysterious glow

Where is She, the one behind it all?

The flakes of winter, the leaves of fall

Where is She, the cause of this rime

The queen of shadows, the Mistress of Time!

Sweet mistress, let me relive, rewind

Sit back, be kind, unwind

Probably Pertaining to Prose and Poetry

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 20:10:00 +0000

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

A poem should not mean
But be.

If those lines, apart from being absolutely brilliant, evoke a sense of deja vu, or brought back memories from school, that's probably because most of us have read this in uniform. Ars Poetica, by Archibald MacLeish.

Yes, you recall now, don't you. Depending on who you were, you probably remember because of the stifled giggles about reading a poem about an Arse, or because of the unforgettable (though not, IMO, accurate) start...

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

I remember, quite vividly, balking and jumping at that line. A poem is not palpable, a poem is not mute, and a poem is certainly not a globed fruit. Unless, of course, you're holding a Mango. Now THAT is poetry in motion, even if the only motion involved is from my hand to my mouth.

But again, the poet does make up for this personal gaffe, by going on to pen those absolutely brilliant lines, as have been described above.

The reason I'm so involved in these lines is because I believe life can be lived fullest on the lines of a good poem. I look around, and see paragraphs of terse, boring prose walking around. People are so concise, so formal, so unbearably correct. Don't take me wrong, I'm all for good communication, lacking so much of it myself. Yet, you could do with a couple lines of poetry offsetting all those lines of prose. Get those feet tapping again, you know? Deep breath, cracking knuckles, stretched limbs, that sorta thing. Except that this stuff goes to your stress-busting organ, whichever that is for you.

Don't be surprised, I know people who claim they relax by using their Brain, Heart, Stomach, or even lower down,... their bladder.

Anyway, overact, exaggerate, lie to please, sing, dance, let loose, break stuff you haven't dusted for over a year, just unwind. Then go back to your dull life, armed with the knowledge that the poetry will return. I'm no philosopher, saint, or botox-enchanced, wrinkle-free, beyond sell-date celebrity. But still, lend me a ear. Do you trudge through lines of prose for a romantic couplet, or is the music in you so well and truly dead.

Author's Note: By no means is one form of living much more beneficial than the other. In fact, there are a lot of stuff you can do, whichever camp you belong to! That's right! Say, commenting on this post for example. Does that little button saying 'Publish' know if you're prose, poetry, or yesterday's pizza? I'll leave that as a practical exercise.

Night...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 21:13:00 +0000

How many of you feel that the evening sets you free, sorta. As in, the trials of the day are past, the worries have melted away, and a big, wide, near-plastic grin is painted on your face. You know that the day has ended, yet it has only begun. The night is the playground of the revelers, and revelry is a reflection of the child inside.

On the canvas of darkness,
That guards the eternal abyss,
God once painted a picture
That still unmatched is.

It is unmatched in beauty,
Splendor, and wonder alike
But above all unmatched
In depth, the depth of life

The night speaks to me, whispers even
While the day favors action and haste
The darker sibling tells tales of life
Of love, anger, and feelings likewise base

The smooth, silken voice of the midnight breeze
Carries heaven's words that the wise stars partake
(They watch over us, didn't you know?
The grid of life, doth this truth show)
Words of wisdom, pearls of the night
When the world sleeps, my soul awakes

~Night, shining bright.

An Excerpt...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 21:00:00 +0000

I think the best part about writing poems is the extrapolation, the exaggeration, the imagination. Prose very often restricts us, in that it forces us into details, methodically, albeit thoroughly. Poetry in essence gives a peek into the soul of the poet, at least the part of the soul that lived the poem. I for one am convinced that 'faking' it is easy, meaning, with a little imagination and loads of RomComs, you could write a pretty realistic poem of pining away in love.

The following lines are excerpts from a poem I wrote a few months back. If this is 'faked' or not, I'll let you people decide. What's the fun, otherwise! :P

From "Dawn and Dusk at the gates of Noon"

...
She walked past, nay floated,
Took my will with her
The lock broke, Emotion sprung forth,
She let my will wither
...
Three blinks hence, the moment passed
The sun too began to retreat
...
That she was like a sun, not the poet's moo
Would to some seem strange
To Ignorance I say, even the Moon's beauty
Sometimes waxes and wanes
...
Yet it was over, all too soon
Dawn and dusk at the gates of noon
...

This is one of my favourites, actually. The title is inspired by the Floyd album title, "The piper at the gates of dawn". The imagery of the line is beautiful. You can just imagine a huge, ornate door thati guards the dawn, opening with a small crack that then blows the door wide open. The crack of dawn, furthermore.

The Gladiator

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 18:18:00 +0000

It is peculiar that in the story of great battles, the loser attains a level of heroism and fanfare that is matched only by that of the winner. In other words, great battles may have only one winner, but they have no losers, for the glory of the fight is what, like the gladiators of yore, most of the battlers fight for.

The deed is done, the hour is nigh
Blood and sweat, spilled in equal measure
Your words belie what spake your eye(s)
When the prize was lost, gone was the treasure

When Gladiators walk out, the world doth watch
In respect, in boredom, but mostly in awe
For they wear on their sleeve brave hearts
And fight for honor, to be the bravest Caeser saw

But Gladiators are lucky, in that they
Go quickly; a sword, spear or similar bane
Ignominy sits heavier than Armour they say,
Fittingly, they live not long in shame

But you, the world will not swallow whole
(Offer you escape from a battle fought hard,
Offer you escape from a battle lost hard,
And so it is fated, that you pick yourself up)
Go out, as a proud Gladiator once more.

~The Gladiator

Breathe, man! Breathe!

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 14:45:00 +0000

The blood is pounding, pounding in your ear
Truly astounding, it bangs so loud
Yet without, it does not show
It's iron will desires to make you bow.
Promising, daring, to break through
Sneering, threatening to show!

Your heart rebels, demands to leave
Demands to rest, to relieve heave
It pounds too, like the child begot\
Joins own blood to register revolt

Outside, the world in oblivious bliss
Inside, the idea seems ludicrous
The calm divide seems to bubble
Your pulse registers ineffable tremble
Sweat breaks out above the brow,
Inside your palms, the nose below.

The world bends and curves viciously
Periphery shrinks and bloats assiduously
The seas where never this violent before
Suddenly now, revolt wherefore?
Suddenly now, why this sweat
Why this reminder, to this demi-god of legions)
That Mortality takes unkindly to neglect

Then the solution, it doth seem silly
But the silliest things dawn most slowly
Thus it dawns, and with it light breaks
This dense, thick blanket you shake
When emotion overwhelms, through your pores
Through your every fibre seethes,
All you need to do, is just breathe.

And the world is back to linear normalcy
The blood flows downward, the limbs revive
Thankfully, the delay proves not too costly
And the life in you was never so alive

(But you to me this point must cede
You had forgotten the need to breathe)

~Breathe

Tsk tsk tsk... too much tension, mister Roger Federer :)

The rain falls slow...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 19:14:00 +0000

Pink Floyd has the best lyrics ever. It goes so well with their vocals. Dreamy... puts me in a creative mood right away...

This particular one was kick started by Poles Apart, from The Division Bell... and like all inspirations, the role that this has played is shrouded under layers and layers of conscious thought...

[Note: The layers of conscious thought are peeled away ;) The words below sound better when set to the tune of the song mentioned above.]

The rain falls slow,
We don't realize who we've become
The beads are light,
Skim the surface, there's nowhere to run

Slowly and surely now,
The grime and dirt come loose,
The anger gives way to love
We can see the truth, again......

The rain falls slow,
We can feel the soft, heavy beads
They sparkle and glow,
The beauty of life is back, one more

Why did we get this way,
What have we done in a fit of rage
Why do we need the rain to stay,
What have we killed that can never come back....

But the rain falls free
And all our worries, aren't meant to be
The rain falls fast
In this moment of rapture, we realize
This is what we were born to be
This is what we were born to be
As the rain falls free.

Well.. i dunno why i wrote all that. I believe the Rain is a watershed of emotion, when something that we've built up for so long breaks loose, a small trickle at first, then a proper flood. It washes away the barriers we've put up for ourselves, designed to hide what we believe from us and everyone else. So by agreeing to 'feel' once again, we can live life on our terms, deal with whatever comes, and just enjoy the emotions washing over us.

I have absolutely no idea what prompted me to say something so perfectly removed form the quaint and unassuming life that I lead. Either the four walls of my home encourage creative tthought, or I was a hippie in my previous birth.

Don't worry, be happy. Peace :)

Quid Pro Quo and Equivalent Trade

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 16:57:00 +0000

Get out of my head! That's right! I know what you're trying, you sneaky, adroit pseudo-psychiatrist.. you're trying to peek between the lines and into my head aren't you?

Oh... you're not my Mom? Still... can never be too careful.

My mother claims that a lot of things are revealed in a person's blog. As in apart from his/her vocabulary. Personal things. Like how many crazy ideas you get, your reading material in the loo, how much of a sociopath you are... if she's to be believed, those blokes at NSA and ISI and CBI and the VO2IA's (Various Other Overpaid Investigating Agencies) can trade in their cool black suits for beachwear, kick back and just monitor Blogger.com.

But that, of course, is for another day. Today we shall concern ourselves with the concept, an admittedly strange one, of equivalent trade. Rather, I shall concern myself with this singular, utopian dream and its impracticality, while you shall concern yourself with twiddling your thumbs while I ramble.

Any exchange, and by extention relationship, is ideally equivalent. Works both ways... you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Don't like it? Lets go our seperate ways, scratching our own backs till we find someone else to. Something like that. The problem, of course, is when one person prefers a pat on the head to a scratch. Understandable, really. There are as many types of humans as at least the number of canines, and I know at least one canine that calls each of those types his alma matter.

Anyway, who is to say how many pats makes a scratch. Or alternatively, how many scratches makes a pat. And then there's the question of the weather. You'd prefer a scratch in summer and a pat in winter. Or even a nice big hug. Sigh. Too confusing.

Anyway, the point being, that when two dissimilar people get close to each other, the concept of equivalent trade is as logical as this semester's Trical grading. Which, my roomie will tell you, is as logical as selling marked-up-then-discounted ice to an eskimo. A clever man will ripost that that's exactly what foriegn brands have been doing in Tiripur for the last fifteen years. But we Indians aren't exactly logical in matters of the west. Some vaasthu problem, probably.

Some people are made to talk, and others to listen. Like some are cheery and other glum. In such a case, you really wonder sometimes what keeps such people on talking terms. Shoudlnt they first be pulled towards each other, whiz to and fro under Inertia's idlying hand and finally explode in a brilliant white light? Not to mention give out gamma rays...

Some argue that the problem with equivalent trade is that it's too childish. Emotions, likes and dislikes are far from normalised. To say this is good and this is bad is positively kindergarden. The truth, though, is that everything IS equivalent trade. The cost of course, is defined by you, and you alone. Nothing path breaking or revealing, but it'll do us all a world of good to remember this. In the end, the most simple thing to remember is that you put something positive into a relationship and you'll get something positive out of it. As you sow, so you reap. Quid Pro Quo.

To cut through all the crap, don't be an idealistic little kid and complain that you always cheer up the other person when they're down, why can't you be dealt a bit of that hand. Remember that somwhere else, when you didn't notice, you were allowed the long end of the stick. In the end, it all evens out. Quid Pro Quo. Equivalent Trade. But only if you can look at the larger picture.

Of latex chudidhars and flailing hands...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 17:49:00 +0000

Some guy just moved the high court to ban medical college students from wearing Chudidhars.
And he wasn't talking about the guys.

Welcome to Chennai.

Now, before speculating what insanity prompted a media-person to cover an event of such intangibly minuscule magnitude, led me proceed to reason the reasons behind this waste of a citizen's F evening. Besides, the insanity in question isn't really surprising. After all, he was a Sun TV media-person. They tend to be a bit off in summer. Must be the weather. Usually they're off by a mile.

The first thing that struck my flailing hands was my Dad's nose. But having assured him that I was flailing them for a reason, rather, the reason, and stepping a few arms lengths away, the second thing that struck me was that I was an idiot. Not only to have tuned into a channel tat reminded me why people called TV the idiot box, but to actually recall my 8th std lessons and read the strip that scrolls at a rather brisk pace at the bottom of the screen. Predictably, it required 4 cycles of the strip for me to read the entire thing. An absolute waste of ten minutes that could have been spent counting sheep, whistling or taking a bathroom break, twice.

The third thing that struck me was that the noble citizen in question was probably a miffed cinema-goer. Trisha, a terribly attractive pediatrician (in the movie Sarvam), makes a fashion statement with asphyxiatingly tight chudidhars thro' the entirety of her screen time. A pretty clever comment by your's truly that she was liable to cause more deaths than prevent got more applause than the entire second half and half the first combined. Not too random a comment, considering the Geriatric wing is pretty close to the Toddler area, and an old man's heart cant bear watching a lissome lass like herself walk past in latex chudidhars every now and then.

T'was when I was grappling with this thoroughly confusing problem that another snuck up and got me right on the head. That of course, was Sleep, desirous of my merry company, (But equally could equally likely have been my Mom, sick of the same) and while I seemed to have given him the slip for now, I'd rather not risk him restoring the symmetry of my cranium. It is thus, with some slight difficulty of balance, and tottering like an alchoholic in an earthquake, that I grant you freedom. Ciao!

The importance of being honest...

noreply@blogger.com (Sharu) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 13:41:00 +0000

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation"

Thus spake Oscar Wilde, one of the most multi-talented literary minds to grace the world, with a wit so ready, dry and vicious that, had his residence not been a nation where sarcasm was (and is) the national pastime, might have been outlowed. In fact, the Brits may have actually debated it over high tea (and on higher moral horses)

"I say! That chap Oscar... mighty indecent with his tongue!"

"Spot on, old boy... I would put that down to his Irish blood!"

"Well said, old chap, well said. Such high-handedness and condescency... no Englishman would indulge in it"

But well, the English are forgiven their ego, for they've given the world Cricket, English, Machester United, and Kiera Knightley.

Anyway, Oscar Wilde was referring, probably, to the oldest religion that mankind has been burdened with, that which installs another mortal as god. Imitation, they say, is the best form of flattery. Somehow the word flattery seems out of place when not in a romantic novel.

Or so popular perception goes. c'est la mode!

Who can claim here to be wholly genuine? What is man if not a product of his surroundings, and what are surroundings if not the product of the man that came before this one? In parts, everything is but a copy. This is particularly true of art, or anything creative in fact...

Of course, this doesn't excuse the multitude of Indian directors who say their winter releases are inspired by certain Hollywood blasts of the summer past. Or the prime time shows on Sun TV of which about the only safe assumption we can make is that they have worse costume designers than the ones on Vijay. Faithful reproducers all, but something always seems lost in translation.

That something, of course, is Inspiration. That is the proverbial spark to the cauldron of swimming, murky colors that is experience. We see, we imbibe, we not fully understand. Some things affect us more than others, and those are the first to go aflame. Any person, who in all innocence believes an idea to be genuine, says only because he cannot remember where he has seen its numerous, interwined parts before. The masterpiece, the piece de resistance - it is nothing but the most optimal permutation of ages past.

I believe that people are better off knowing they are not creators, but improvers. To do so takes a great deal of pressure off you, and gives you the freedom to experiment without limitations. The truly creative is one who has genuinely forgotten from where his work is inspired, for only by forgetting who we aren't, can we discover who we are.