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.