Sand and Sandstone

Just when you thought, you were left fencing it all alone;
to fight this unending darkness, to brave the seething battle
to go - from nowhere,to none, for nothing- a mission forlorn.
A sweeping tale of hopeless trail, a burning desire burnt forever.

That story written for you, you thought that was just a story.
You believed light never comes, never comes something that is gone.
For how wrong you have been, I cant tell you even if I wish to.
Do you remember! there is yet another story I kept to be told.
A tale of another trail. All bright and hopeful, not dark and cold.

Today, on a looney high tide night, riding the pull of silver ball,
my thoughts surf up and beyond- to touch and splash you warm.
Then I recede like a calm wave of saline, only to come back again.
Being million specks of wet sand coming together to sculpt you on.
We are just one-a wave of saline, some wet sand and a sandstone.

Where are you?

It was a cloudy morning. Very cloudy. Raining heavily and no sign of sunshine. I overlooked the weather. Thought of it as just another routine thing. But I did not miss the irony of what was happening. I am looking for you. Cant see you, cant sense your presence. Somewhere you are lurking. Not standing in front of me, no where near even. But definitely not an apparition. You were, you are and you will always be real. These clouds wont live long. Rains will stop and they will fade away. There will be sunlight. We all know it. Seasons change. I am waiting for the next season. I am waiting for the bright day. Together, we can see sun shine. I do not mind going to Egypt then. Pyramids, you know, have always enamored me. Bettered my senses and challenged the within.

You have braved this rain all alone. I am sad I was not there. But this is not the last rain. This is not the last storm. They keep coming. For every sunshine, there always is a dark day. But it does get bright if we hold on. Just tell me where you are. I will come right now. I know you dont like dark days and I know you hate being in clouds. I want to come right now but you choose not to let me in. Next rains, we will be together. even you cant stop me then. We might take a small walk and show you all those places I had promised you. When we will be together, you wont feel clouds and darkness. You wont ever want that to end. We will turn it all bright. Together, for ever.

Taste of Life

I ate bittergourds today. Thought of you while I was eating. I still remember how you forced me into eating bittergourds everyday. Trying to tell me how good it was for me and for my spirit. The child that I was, I would get convinced and try it. But throw it all out very next moment. Did not I use to tell you so often I had a sweet tongue. That I liked sweets. But no! you wont ever listen. Not that it made any difference. I would keep on eating sweets, you would keep on chasing me. I always thought you ate all the sweets yourself and left over bittergourd was meant for me.

Long time since I tasted any of that. Was lucky to find some yesterday. I ordered it made specially. Got it made precisely the way you would have liked it. Ate a plate full. I was surprised. It was sweet in taste. Sweeter then all the sweets you used to hide from me. Sweeter than all the sweets I thought you kept for yourself and ate it when I was not around. They tell me I cant eat sweets anymore. I see it all around. I have enough money to buy it. I do not even need to steal. I earn now. But they tell me I cant eat sweets now. Not good for me and my spirit, they say. I can hear you cry today. Hear myself always ignoring your chides.But don’t cry. I don’t miss eating sweets. These bittergourds taste so good. I wonder why I did not like them years ago? When I had it served and ready everytime. I would throw them and keep on thinking about all the sweets you kept for yourself to eat. Now I doubt if you ever kept those sweets for yourself.

What a fool I was. You liked gourds more than sweets and it took me 20 years to realise this. Today, when they tell me I cant eat sweets, I understand what you meant back then. You were right. There are other things sweeter than sweets. When I come back next summer, will you cook for me again? This time you wont need to convince me. I will eat whatever you cook. Even if it does not taste sweet. Why don’t you let me know when you are cooking again? Make it before summer. Post summer, I will be gone again. For a long time. Traceless in my self created humdrums and labyrinths. Let me taste life once more, before I loose it all again.

Beauty

Today, when you are like a thousand symphonies playing in moonlight
Like an early morning sunshine, shining on a dewdrop so bright.
Each one of them want you today, when you are like a distant dream-
A drunken God's own sonnet, which he wrote for his first theme.

Gone will be the cascading melody, dimmed the lights which were bright.
Gods waking up from their drunken dreams, creating another one like you.
They will now want her. She will sway,like you did once, in her own right.
You'll look back once, to all that was yours, then fade away forever in a slide.

The Verdict

'All Rise' - announced the sentry standing on main door;

"Your'onor" took his place, besides her, and began my sentence.

All this while she tried to even her disbalanced scale

And he scribbled one sentence- sentencing me for a lifetime.

She remained motionless;still trying to balance her scale.

Master and the Disciple

When you have lost sight and lost to life, when you dont see any reason for your own existence and that of the world's and when you are on your last false splurge before you plan to end it all! What could happen then? Possibly, a sad and predictable end. But not if you had Charlie Simms as your companion and you were Col. Frank Slade. It could end starkly different. Hope would never be lost. Power of one capable individual and how he could bare the nakedness of an entire ignorant society, would never cease to exist. Scent of a Woman is a classic story told - of this hope and strong will winning over depression and gloom that pervades our mortal beings.

Al Pacino in his class act as blind colonel Slade and Chris O Donnell as his fateful companion and disciple take you through a journey of lifetime. Only the school is school of life and lessons are from unwritten books of integrity and values. Colonel is a retired, deeply hurt and blind man who has no reasons to live his life. He knows it but he wont confess to it. Too much to swallow for his big ego. In comes Charlie simms. A school going teenager, who needs a few extra bucks to meet his ends. He is appointed babysitter for the blind colonel on his journey to NY. A journey which he has planned to be his last. On the way, Colonel takes to mentoring this "kid" into a man. Trying to teach him about life. And how? By making him understand the essence of Scent of a Woman. How each woman has a different fragrance from other, how each one of them is a fantastic creation of God and how each one of them is an elixir for so many human pains. And not only does he tell him this. He makes him feel it. By dancing tango with a beautiful woman who is very sad and making her smile. By blind driving Ferrari in busy streets and yet not scratching it. By asking hotel manager to fill up stacks of John Daniell's in his room.

Each of these acts - a standing reinforcement to belief called 'life'. But underneath this spirit of him lies a dead soul. Having lost to everything and ready to die. But this is where director Martin Brest paints his masterstroke. The disciple turns into a teacher. Not letting the master die. Very convincingly, Charlie makes Colonel realise how important his life is to him and for everyone around him. He rips through tall walls of his ego and touches the human within. And Colonel's dead soul is reborn. Charlie saves a man from his impending death. He saves his dying soul - enriching it with fulfillment and infusing it with a purpose to live. They come back. The journey is about to end but for an incident. Simms' career is in jeopardy because he wont rat on misdeeds of his classmates. He is about to be thrown out of his school because he is a misfit. Not a Baird Man. A committe meets to decide on the fate of this young boy. But it is almost predecided that he will be expelled. And then Al pacino delivers performance of a lietime. The way he talks about hollowness of the whole process, exposes the meaninglessness of an entire insititution called education and authenticates simple yet most important human value - integrity is an act of a master. An act that still lives fresh in your memory. An act that has immortalised Pacino forever. An act that made a whole generation sit back, stop in their tracks and think about the whole meaning of a gift called human life and purpose of it.

Watch this movie for sheer brilliance of its script, simplicity of execution and force of characters it portrays. Telling, in very powerful yet simple words, the essence of a meaningful life and leaving an imprint forever. Watch it to believe that an individual's values are stronger than a society's crumbling beliefs. And telling all this so effortlessly. While trying to explain how each of the women has a very distinct fragrance and how you could tell one from the other by their smell. How Scent of a Woman tells her character! Only a master could enact it. And a master did it flawlessly.

Dance of Spring

When I thought she would never dance again

In came spring, lifting her depressed dark soul

She no longer felt old; no more drew nothing on

Her spirits lifted, soaring high, she was on a song.

Resurrection

One streak of flickering fading light held by dark night
reflecting itself often on a rippling quiet faroff lagoon.
A loud bark of a dog killing an otherwise errie silence;
unseen wanderers trailing their own unsure lost steps.
Nothing seems sure when it will be as it was before.

But dark is fading,drowning the silence it lived in.
Brightness leading thousand footsteps on a hopeful trail;
Sound growing on its own silence, turning into music.
With a spring in steps & hope in every breathing spirit.
A canvass of colorful light streams out from forlorn,
forever taking away the dark silence that never lived on.

A Lasting Touch

A movie to watch, according to most critics, is one which leaves you with an impression and an unanchored opinion. But what if you watched it long time back? A time when you probably could not even comprehend the level of complexities that critics spin. A time when you probably were still growing up to catch up with the "mature world". The rule is you just do nothing. Leave it. Do not ruminate over. This is precisely I ended up doing with Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa.

Starring sensibly brilliant ( not a very common occurrence anymore) Shahrukh Khan, never seen again Suchitra Krishnamoorty, enchanting Goga Kapoor and others who I dont remember, this movie is a lasting touch on your senses. I was just 15 years old when I saw it for the first time. Never saw it again. But it is still fresh in my mind. Sheer brilliance of script, simplicity of screenplay, natural acting of cast and relevance to real life makes it such a beautiful work. But all this apart, what I love in this movie is its theme. It presents a wonderful tale of aspirations, dreams, desires and envy that comes so natural to every youngster. And all this presented in a very harmless and uncunning manner. Trying to tell all this in such a simple manner and still convey it all is the real kill of this movie. Not to forget the songs which are ageless and hummable till date.

With a band of young boys who are trying to put together a performance so that they get a chance to perform at the local club, this movie picks its pace right at the go. Then meandering through their dreams, aspirations of their families, desires of their lives and quest for romance, this movie does not let you go. Shahrukh Khan stars as a young Mr. X ( I dont remember his name in the movie) who is over ambitious and under rated by all. But he has his own dreams and a dreamworld to live in. Nothing rubs him and he lives for a day which will redeem him. He is in love with a girl who does not understand his love at all. His bandmates do not understand him, his family does not understand him, his neighbours do not understand him. He is a complete non entity. All of them know him but none understands him. Surrounded by everyone, he is all alone. And irony does not end here. Of all the people one who understands his genuineness is a local gangster played by Goga Kapoor. What a subtle sarcasm!

But this guy is not deterred. He is not empty. He is an eternal optimist and ever hopeful. He lives for that one moment which will give him everything. Music, the girl he discreetly loves, appreciation of his parents and a recognised life. He is not afraid and he is not shy. He is just incapable and he is genuine. He is not shrewd, not cunning not envious nor is he conniving. Just full of desires but incapable and genuine. Despite that always cheerful and full of life. A bad combination.

I was reminded of this movie today after an age. While listening to one of its songs. As a child it really touched me somewhere. Something within me changed back than. At that very instance. I dont know what and I dont know why. But it was so close to real. I time travelled. I saw something that was going to be a part of life much later. Everybody's. This movie moves through so many shades of young life called "desire" and ends at a point which I call "redemption". I took a cue.

Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa still lives within me. I dont want to watch it again. First time, I found a treasure. And with time things change. So does your opinion about everything in life. That is a treasure I dont want to touch. I fear, it might evaporate. Engulfed in a haze of commercial life and over zealous sense of rationality that I have painstakingly acquired over these years, it might loose its original sense it made to a kid. But if you have not seen it, go and do it. So far I am concerned, I want it to be as it is. Untouched, beautiful and a lasting touch on my senses.

Circa then untill now

Not a long while When I used to sit there laughing;

Feeling summer's warm loo & dusty chips off the pave

Drawing winter's warmth from last lit lantern's wick

Brushin dragonflies touchin my soarin sweaty dreams.

Not a short while ago when I sat here trying to laugh

Feeling the chill of very cold breeze I flew off with

Pegged to a wooden stool, Gorki in my thoughts beneath

With a cappuchino in my hands,once in a while,I smile.

Colors

Red, blue, green, azure, indigo, eternal black and all encompassing - white. Each of these have a story of their own to tell. These are not dead colors. They live and breathe. Like one of our own. They just dont paint this world and the world beyond. They paint our emotions, give a tint to what already exists within realms and are true manifestations of everything within and without.

Once upon a time, when very first apple was eaten in garden of bliss, the eater got thrown out. He landed up at someplace which was all white. All over the horizon, as far as the vision took thoughts to, it was all colorlessly white. That was when it all began. Walking aimlessly on these snowed terrains, he met pink. Love blossomed. White was about to loose its identity, its virginity. It got sprayed with pink and the terrain gained many more hues. Time elapsed. Many of these shades were still emerging. White was happy. It was no longer alone in this big world. It now had companions. Blue was there to help quench all the desires. Blue was swift, shapeless and supportive. They made a good match. Made for each other. They knew their limitations. White would not venture in blue's territory and blue, like a real child, would come across and play at the feet of white.

Theirs was not the world to keep. As world grew and as more inhabited it, many more shades shaped up. With a desire for white and lust for pink, they started looking for a tool. Lurking in a corner, gaining shape was black. It always existed. It was gaining life now. It needed a reason to come out of hibernation. It started finding some. With increasing species, it had ample. Aided by green and powered by red it began its long march. Green would always make it suspicious. Giving it a reason to disturb the tranquil white. Pepped up by green, red would be black's brother in arm. Black would design and red would strike. More sprays, more betrayals, more anger, more seething, more evil. That was the hallmark of red. Red and black marched on. Stamping the world of white and blue. Pink would watch helplessly and indigo could not do any thing. Once in a while when black would rest, yellow would sprout. Giving an illusion that not all was over. Harmony still existed. Orange will help yellow set up bases and it would try to put life back into all that was almost burnt by seeth of red and march of black. But all that would never live long. Black would rise up again. Like a magic monster. And yellow, orange, pink- each one of these would become groundless.

This was the rule of game. Play of colors. Not as we know it and think it is. But as it actually is. Since the first descent and the first march. Eternal black against all encompassing white. Black was fiery and powerful, aided by green and dead red. White was assimilating and tolerant. All other colors - violet, indigo, blue, orange, pink -would walk arm in arm and merge into white. Giving White a reason to run against crusading march of black and its allies.

The march of black continues till date. Overriding and powerful. A hint of restoration comes up once in a while. With white and its friends gaining ground. But not long enough. Black rises up again and all gets lost.

Even today, White is patiently waiting. Enveloping and protecting so many other colors. Hoping that someday it would put an end to the march of black.

The Big Issue

'You wont find any beggars there!', quipped someone even while I was collecting my boarding pass at Mumbai airport for a Sydney outbound. Over the time I forgot what that person said to me.Untill one fateful day. Untill one flicker of a moment. A true moment of revelation. I will try leading you on to what it led me to. That was a fine monday morning. Clear and azure winter sky. No drizzles, no hair ruffles. While crossing over Darling harbour bridge I was cheked in my stride. By a man who would not be more than 35 years.



" Excuse me brother! Would you want a copy of The Big Issue? This comes free to you and you get a further subscription discount."
I was getting late for my work and politely refused him. He started looking out for someone else and I carried on.



Just other day, while out on my lunch, I met this guy. His name is Sky. Actually Yun Wong. Also known as Sky. A wonderful violin player, I have seen him playing at Martin Place on many afternoons. He plays and people drop coins in his case. I am sure he makes atleast 20 bucks a day. There are others. These two I had a chance to talk to and I know their names. Others are just nameless faces to me. One school guy playing flute, another homeless shoeshine man, a group of hip hop artists trying to collect money for an LA trip and on and on and on. List is endless. And I see them everyday. Same place, same time, doing the same thing. Unaffected by the changing world around them.



Back to what we were talking about. So, one weekend when I was cleaning my room I saw my boarding pass. The sight of it brought on the moment. You wont find any beggars there. It echoed through my senses. And reality struck. How do we define beggars? Who are they? Non entities or existing? Faceless or clueless? Real or dream? I could not find a suitable answer. Because untill today even I knew the wrong meaning of this word. Actually, they are none. They dont exist. We have taken great pains to conjure up this word and its meaning. And through generations it has found examples amongst us. It is just a vent to one of our inferior sides. We want to be superior and placed higher. We want to be better than the best. Looks like we have taken to our heart Darwin's 'Survival of the fittest'. We all need some help, some support or some anchor in our lives. Be it in any form. But most of us dont get obvious. Yet there are a few who are visible to our naked eyes. Because they are not fittest. They are not privileged. Either by their birth, abilities, opportunities or luck. So they come out in open. To ask others for a helping hand. We chose to call them beggars. Most of us dont ask for help because we can survive without being obvious. Some cant. And we draw advantage of our status. A needless pleasure and some self reclaim. We call them beggars, throw alms and get going.



I dont know what this means. I am also clueless. But one thing I know. We are in a symbiotic existence. We need this system and system needs us. Being needy is no shame and being advantaged is no achievement. There is a bigger issue here. The man with copies of Big Issue in his hands is no issue at all. This idea of self deceit is an issue. The complacency, that we are self suffcient, is an issue. Are we capable of deceiving this feeling of self deceit? We need to be equal givers and equal beggars. 'Can we do it?' is the issue.

Rip and Rap

Rip and Rap were born on same date in different parts of the same town. Rip on a rag inside a rain washed clay cottage and Rap was wrapped in a muslin within a sanitation zone.I dont know either of them. Nor do they know each other. But they have so many things in common which always amazes me. When Rip opened his eyes for the first time, he could smell raw tar still being cooked for laying fresh roads. Rap also had a fragrance around him. Jasmine on the boiling water and an ever running temperature controlled cabin. That would never let the jasmine's smell die. Not that smell around Rip died. In fact it got stronger as more roads were laid. They both had their share of fragrance. Rip's strengthened by an ever increasing need for growth and Rap's strengthened by an ever increasing desire for perfection and luxury.

They both grew up. In their own ways but in the same town. Rip went to a school so did Rap to another. Rip used a notebook which Rap's father had donated to the govt. school he went to. Then came the moment of realisation for both of them. Accidentally, that too was the same day. Both of them wanted to be and wanted to become. To achieve and be big. They had this never ending desire that started culminating into a resolve. which they has inherited from their past. Both of them longed to get rid of that label. And they started working hard towards achieving their own goals. Did i tell you their goals? What they dreamt of? Rip dreamt of a big mansion, bigger bank balance and much better life. He wanted to be larger than the life itself. He never wanted to smell that burning tar again when he slept. Rap thought of giving it back to the humanity. To become and elixir that will take away all pains of this world. He was willing to bear all the hardship that came in his way. But he was determined to alleviate those he thought were not so privileged as he had been.

The day came. Their redemption. It all happened again on the same day. Rip was now what he had always wanted to be. He had a big house right adjacent to Rap's father. It smelled of Jasmine when his wife delivered a baby boy. Rap had also done it. He worked for some humanities mission in a far off place. He did not have proper food to eat and proper place to sleep in. It was a cramped clay house with smell of tar burnt in african sun. But he was happy. He was what he wanted to be.Nothing had changed through out their evolution. There still was one Rip and there still was one Rap in this big world.

Across the Sea

Hi, Back after a long time. I am. I will keep it really short. Untill next one when i start going my original way. Long and never ending. It has been six days since I arrived in Sydney. A whirlwind tour of physical presence, emotions, feelings, relations and what not. Thankfully I met quiet a nice bunch of people at work. They know who they are. When you leave a place where you have been anchored to, for past all the years of life, that is a sea change. Precisely what happened to me on 6th of june 2007. And today, on 15th I am feeling at home. Really. A touchodwn at the Sydney airport, Walk along the Pyrmont bridge overlooking Sydney Towers, number one Martin Place, a long one to Newcastle, Y on the Hyde Park. The list is endless. What I mean is, all this has been amazing. Bringing me slowly and smoothly into the system and putting me right where I would have thought myself to be in. It is 7 PM. Everyone is gone. 10 minutes and after I finish reading one of the report, even I will be. All I know is, it has been a nice beginning. Sydney, kind of drwas you in and does not let you go off. it is such an easy city on you. Not burdened by the weight of expectations and also not lost in an identity crisis. A rare feat to find in a city of burgeoning aspirations and one which is tipped to be second best to none. Untill next time mate.

Serious Players & Silent Spectators

The match was about to begin. A critical one for all the billion plus players and some eleven odd spectators. Though spectators were confined to the bounds of playground, players were strayed all over the world. They had been preparing for this eagerly awaited game for long. And these were people of all kind, creed, ethnicity and origin. Fully devoted to the game. This devotion only to be exceeded by their interests in the game's speculated outcome or its controversial past.

They were all getting ready for the game. In one silent coerner of his house, one of these billion plus palyers had consoles of telephone lines ranked up. Evidently he needed to keep in touch with others for minute by minute account. Then there was this one who called himself President of The Board. He was busy talking to the journalists. Very confidently analysing each and everybody's weaknesses and strengths. How one was good at catching the ball and other at staying indefinitley at the crease. Notwithstanding his clueless background and absolute ignorance, he thought he was the best thing to have ever happened to the game. All the past presidents also thought the same. Till they were sent packing by a dissenting panel of voters.

Then there was this lady. She used to work in daily soaps before realising her true calling one fine day. Sorry! my bad here. It was not she who realised her true calling. It was a TV Channel which realised it and then made her also realise the same. The channel had been awarded the contract of live coverage of the game. Thy needed to add some element of glamour.

The hunt began. Finally zeroing in on this lady. She did qualify to be an expert of the game.Did she? Why not! She could spell some the palyers' names. And found some of them handsome too. Her dressing sense was also amazing. Deep neck lines, gelled and perfectly streaked hair, a fevicol smile on the face and an innate ability of trying to adjust her falling shoulder drapes infinitely. Then there was this learned panel which will sit with her and talk during the break. They were these smartest people of the game on this earth. Atleast, they thought so. Otherwise totally parochial and self contained. They would talk about the game and she would continuously smile at them, taking turns. So as not to offend anyone. And when she is not smiling, she would get back to adjusting her drapes.

Then there were other players on the ground. Sitting in stands. Full house. Each one to his or her own. There was this family with some twenty odd members. Hopelessly buying all the available food and bottled water. As if they were here for family eatout. Then an old man. Reading his serious novel in a seriously enclosed airconditioned stand. There were some film stars also. They had a day off. And they were trying their hard to grab attention of the camera and press. Parrying any eager intruder who could not add to their publicity campaign. Not to forget gangs of college students and some well dressed chicks. Fighting all the way to pin up their handheld posters and contoured countenances in the face of camera. It was a huge ocean.

Last but not the least. Amidst this ocean of players, we saw those poor eleven spectators standing on the ground. Today, like every other day, they would be mute spectators. Everyone playing with their existence. Demanding a quality of game which had to be unreal. Expected to do things that crown shouted. They had to stand upto everyone's expectations. They had to meet all the demands. Of the president, of the panel of experts, of the anchor lady, of the family and of the old man. Even those who were not in stands. Like the one sitting with his telephone consoles. Glued to the TV Screen. And they were not allowed to complain. They have to seek permission for that beforehand. Even paroxysm is punishable. If it is not notified in advance.

Now the game begins. These spectators will take the field and try to entertain all these players. Players have paid for this circus. These poor souls will try their hard and give it all they have. But they are only human. And if they loose things could turn bad. Their effigies burnt, their houses vandalised, their life threatened. But that is how game is played here. Someone rightly said , " Game is just for the players, not for the spectators". And for the sake of these billion plus players, the game must go on.

A Woodpecker's Story

When I was a kid, I was introduced to this tree by my father. And I was amazed. Looking at this giant I realised for the fist time that dad's beak was not the longest thing on this earth. This tree was much larger. Forget the tree. Even its branches were longer. Then one fine morning he told me the secret of our home. He said he pecked this tree with his long one to make this home. I laughed. I did not believe him. He also laughed me off. He said I will learn with time. He also added that he had pecked one too many in his lifetime and now he was growing old. One day I will have to be doing all this. Still in comfort of my existing home, I conveniently forgot all that he had said.

I grew up so did my beak. It was getting longer and stronger. One afternoon I perched and pecked. A berch came off. Big deal. He had talked about an entire home. Not one but too many. I pecked again. I could see a deep scratch. After three days my father was proven right. His laughing face flashed across my eyes. Awakening me to a sudden realisation of the truth which will stick to my fundamentals all through.

Things moved on. We shifted home. Me and him working together to create new ones. Oh, did I tell you why we needed to create new ones? Not that other woodpeckers were forcing us out of our old homes. They were also moving. Reason was something strange. I had seen him many a times. With an iron axe in hand. Two or three of them. They would chop off these big trees. Our homes. And then drag those to be loaded on a trailor. Not a single woodpecker in our locality has been able to figure out why they did this to our homes. Nevertheless, it always happened. They came, they fell our homes, they dragged those and then they were gone. We would fly to next one, peck again endlessly, create a new one. And then they would come again. We did not understand why!!!

One day an intelligent woodpecker came from town. He had been in a zoo. We all thought he would know the reason. We asked him. He was as clueless. All he knew was that these were also creatures of god and called themselves human. He knew one more thing. These humans would exchange our homes for a few pieces of paper with others like them. As sad as we were at the loss of our homes, we all laughed at this. We thought this was foolish. Why work so much for a few pieces of paper? The intelligent woodpecker hushed us. He had seen the world. Paper pieces were very important to these human beings. They could get anything by exchanging these paper pieces. They would fight and kill for these paper pieces. We again laughed and flew off. God gave us everything for free. Why bother felling homes of others and exchanging?

We saw a few more human beings coming. Time to make new home. These human wont ever change. My father was laughing again. This time at them. For a few silly pieces of paper!!! He was still not able to believe the intelligent woodpecker from town.

As Time Goes By

Art forms or cinema either go vintage wherein they loose their context or they go outdated when none cares anymore. But there always are exceptions. And that romantic classic by the name of Casablanca was an exception. It still is.

A timeless beauty, a man who defined and defied conventions, a nigger's voice which made everyone stop in their tracks, a gripping human tale woven around trade lands of morocco and the way Bogart looked into Ingrid Bergmann's eyes and said "Here is looking at you kid". Casablanca is all this and much more. Set in the backdrop of Nazi pervasion of Vichy's french settlements and eager migrants hoping against hope to cross over to safer lands, this eternally romantic movie is a viewer's delight. There has not been a better protrayal of love and lovers' desires torn apart by circumstances than this one. you live an entire lifetime sitting two and half hours through this masterpiece. you get lost in it. and when it ends you are still thinking about Illsa Lund's beautiful vulnerable smile or Rick blaine's terse manners, the only way he knew it.

Directed by Michael Curtiz in 1942 it starred Humphrey Bogart (what a man!) and Ingrid Bergmann( priceless beautiful pair of eyes) in the lead role of rick and Illsa Lund. Their onscreen chemistry started a cult back then which continues even today. They together defined "love" all over again. Their inner tussles and conflicts arising out of call for duty and their endless love for each other was finely printed all across. Rick looking at her, she walking unannounced into his gin joint, they going out for a drive, she promising him to return back never to fulfill that promise, Sam singing for them. All this had romance etched on. The last scene when Rick asks her to fly out with Laslow is painfully sweet. Even while she is drifting towards the plane, she is looking continuously at Bogart. Her eyes full of tear and him aware of the fact that he will never see her again. They keep moving away, she trying to hold on to him till everything gets lost in the mist. A purr of plane engine and Love of his life is gone. For ever. He is sad. But he does not show it. The conformist and rebel that he was in real life and onscreen, he hides his emotions well. He walks out with Captain Louis as if nothing happened. But he knows it from within that he has lost her and lost it all.

Claude Rains as captain Louis and Sydney Greenstreet as Ferrari were amazing. But my favourite show stealer was Dooley Wilson as Sam. I cant forget the way he sings for Bergmann when she comes to Rick's for the first time.

"...A kiss is still a kiss, A sigh is just a sigh.

The fundamental things apply, As time goes by..."

Bergmann almost on the verge of tears, seeing her long lost love. Her eyes meet Rick's and the world stops. Validating the fact that true love never ceases to breath full. And all this while, fully aware of what is happening around him, he plays non chalantly as if nothing happened. That was not acting. That was something real. And Dooley Wilson was unreal. Not more than ten minutes in all the frames cmbned together, he is etched in memories of Casablanca lovers forever.Like these people, everything abut movie was great without being grand. It was very basic, very simple but it touched you so many places. And you could watch it everytime you wanted to. The portrayal of human emotions, lovers' dilemma and uncertainties that surrounded those times will grip you. I would refrain from talking the finer details coz' there might be a few who are reading this blog right now and have been pure plain unlucky not to have watched this movie. And I dont want to be a culprit who steals this feeling of living Casablanca as long as you watch it.

All I can say about this movie is that things like this are rare. And artists like these coming together is rarer. Watch it or do it again to believe me. It is timeless and it does not grow old As time Goes By.

Lovers, Owners and the Evil

Things change, usually loosing their value and price in an ever appreciating world.Most of what we have today is not as useful or important to us tomorrow. We want an exchange or a bin for them. New and better ones fast replace old and not so efficient. But there always have been,to this theory of timebound value erosion, a few antiquotes. Old casked bottles of merlot or Chiraz,Single Malts, King George's first Mintout, Philatellists's Delights and many more. Thanks heaven they exist. These things let you cherish the good side of life.

But we do not realise that there is a problem here. A grave one at that. All these materialised moments of past have travelled into present not on their own. These have been preserved, bartered at times, sold may be and then owned by an individual or many of them.They have not ridden into our times on their own charters. For they never had wings or paddles. They have been brought down to us. Held, labelled and transferred through layers of time and stretches of lands. Every change of circumstance and ownership that they saw increased their value. And with this enhancement came their posession. By a few only, Who had been blessed either by legacy, luck, bequeath or a level of cunning that could not be matched even in wilds. Not for all. Classified - restricted access or affordability. Hallmark of greatness or exclusivity so overpowering that it eludes common man and his common sense. As much as they still remained a delight, they were just owner's delight. So what does this world gain from all these good things which exist. Not for a second I doubt their goodness. For they are really wonderful in their own and special way. But how and where does this goodness seem to work for everyone? I fail to see that.

Even if it stopped at that, one could care less. But it was nurturing an evil in its arm. An evil of greed, want, vandalism and all those feelings which were ill. Not humane. These priceless beauties had evolved over the ages. And in its course they had acquired countless lovers and counted few owners. They brought upon themselves and their lovers a feeling of belonging to just a few. Once seeded, they slept under a cover. Silent, waiting for another age to come by and another transfer to happen. But they left their lovers seething and owners frowning. Lovers thought that it had to be shared. The whole bounty. It belonged to them also. Owners thought it was only theirs. Between these lovers and owners there erupted a battle. War of sorts. The silent evil was waiting on a chance like this since an age. Lurking around sniffing out any opportunity to disrupt this abode of peace. And precisely that started happening. All these things kept on growing, taking on dimensions and numbers. We started valuing land, water, woods, air and what not. The list of posessions was ever growing and spiralling out of control. The things we desired never ended. Lovers were always more than the owners and owners always thought they have not had enough. The tug ensued. Owners holding on to all they had and lovers pulling onto all that owners had. Evil was finally breathing happy. It came out in open. It had ben nurtured in the very hearts of these owners and lovers. It was happy with this concept of ownership and inequitability. Lovers tried to be unwary or seductive sometimes. They thought of luring or engaging. But when they failed they turned. From seductive to seditious. They became insurgent and mounted a charge to snatch. Battles were drawn and fought. Evil was the free attendent to this whole drama. It would clean it all after every battle. Just to ensure that past woes and subverse is forgotten and it could drink on the frsh spill of venom. So continued the ageless and timeless mutiny, clash for rights, demand for ownerships,greed for more, disregard for parity. All in the meanwhile these priceless and immortal beauties looked on and wondered - " Are we really worth all this?".

Why have we stopped thinking? Could we borrow some brain from these non living things or animals. Why do not they have so many wants? Even if they want, their desires have been need based all through. Is this the price we are paying for our brain and evolution? From neanderthals to homo sapiens then to supermen. At each stage , we have made it worse than it was earlier. How is a cross different from a green quartered moon and star or a saffron perch? How is one 786 different from another 108? What could we not make with iron or wood which we make with a tusk? We really know the answers. Not a single affirmative. But it is getting harder for us by the day. We cant kick out the evil we have nurtured since unwhen. It wants its spill and we are giving it plenty. Around the globe. Hope we awaken early before it is spilling flood. And then if it does flood, there will not be a Noah. He is long dead.

I dont believe this

Allright!

So what is it that I dont believe? This whole idea of me finally blogging. Writing I have always been. It began way back. I could never understand why nor did i ever care to. I simply picked up pen and paper and started writing beyond what my play school teacher asked me to. I started making sense to myself, not to others necessarily. Then came a fateful day when i was gifted a colorful diary by some friendly friend of my dad's. i wrote my first poem back then. I was seven. And language was Hindi. Hindi because my mother was a master's in Hindi. and I always envied her literary understanding and capacity. I always wanted to catch up. Catch and hold on to. But like all of us we are definitely ridiculed by our own potentials. And as a seven year old I had only as much. But that itch was always there. Socrates said once, " Human race always wants a little more". I was one of this race and I wanted to catch up with my mother's potential. And only way, my feelings could find their manifestation, was through pen and paper. For that was the only recognisable way.

Hence came my first poem. I still remember it. About a child wanting new shoes so that he can go out to play with his friends. Then came another about a parrot and then I started growing up. Diaries got replaced. New ones came in and so did new thoughts. New manifestations. Couple of publications, countless acknowledgements, transition to english language, many awards, recognition from international library of poets and so many more things. And add to it a seven year old becoming eight then 10 then 15 then 20 and it was not stopping. He was growing up every second. and each one of those seconds had a story to tell. many stroies cumulated. Poems started dying gradually. May be not much romance left in pen as seconds of life accumulated and the fact that " life is never a little romance" dawned. Here i mean the dictionary meaning of "romance". Poems being replaced by stories felt like something was leaving me. Something very dear but I had to let it go for its and my own good. And it did not leave me all alone. Verses did go away but Paragraphs replaced those.

Regardless of whatever has been transitioning in this small self contained world of my writing, there always remained one common bridge between the stopovers. The bridge was medium of my expression. It was all through pen and paper. Intially those Chelpark ink fountain pen and loosely unbound yellowish white sheet of paper or diary and later ball pen and pad.

Then one day this bridge broke. It had lived its life and was ready to give way to technology. I lamented like all old timers or nostalgics do. But techonlogy does sweep you off your senses and emotions. For is not it all logic? I got webbed in logic and got lost. I bought a laptop and i started typing whatever my feelings were. Manifestations they were still, but not littered with ink drops. My fingers did not get blue anymore. My papers did not fly at the whirl of wind.

As if this was not enough. Thence came mother of all inventions, defying all logics invented till date. we called it WWW or worldwide web. I liked it for I was always sure about one thing. It wont enter my writing. It wont web my pen in. But I did not know web was not only about hotmails or yahoos. There was to be a Blogger. I resisted it as hard as I could. Always ostriching myself. That Blogger will not touch my writing. Some originality and writer's sense had to be retained. I let go Chelpark, diaries, paper binds and ball pens. But I atleast would like to retain my writing to myself. Till I give it to someone like International Library of Poets who had published my work almost seven years back. I would not give in to temptation of writing a blog and sharing my precious writing time for these one off write ups. I would rather work on my book fulltime. All these were my initial thought.

But nothing like this happened. WWW gradually and slowly crawled in. It overpowered my own senses and judgements. And here I am. Writing my first blog ever. To be followed by many. Little less initially so as not to do any injustice to my current and continuing writing endeavours. Nonetheless, I am here now. Totally absorbed and into the system. I am in and I am happy about it in a way I cant express. For once, I dont regret or mourn another change in the way I have been writing.And at the same time I dont believe this is happening. I really dont. This is first of so many Whirled Manifestations to come by. Untill next time.