Ed,
I guess you're keeping busy. Too busy perhaps, even for the old "Bryan Adams Cousins in Music"! Funny... how life can change since high school, isn't it? A bit heart-breaking too. But I guess there's nothing anyone can do. Times change... people change... life goes on.
In your first surprise email, in six years, you had expressed a desire to catch up, and an interest as to when I leave. I was surprised, pleasantly of course, to hear from my old 'cousin'. I was even excited at the prospect of a probable reunion. The only one I would have agreed to since 2006. I have been waiting for your response to set up the appointment... for the last two months. I still am... against all hopes. Hoping against hope seems to be an incorrigible habit of mine. Nevertheless, I felt I should at least keep up my end of the bargain, and let you know of what's going on at my end. Why, if you ask... well, one thing I've learned during the last six years is that goodbyes always hurt. But a goodbye hurts the most when you don't get to say it. That teaching has only recently been reinforced, rather painfully. And I for one, will NOT do that to anyone again. Not even to those whom I utterly despise, and I despise very few people. Hence the next few paragraphs.
I will be leaving on the 22nd of December, 2011. I don't know if we will get a chance to meet again. But, I wanted to tell you that, in spite of our falling apart, you were one of the most amazing persons I've ever met. The two years we were friends... well... lets just say, they have given me a lifetime of memories. I always hoped we will continue like we used to be... 'cousins', if only 'in music'. It was actually heart- breaking when you left. Then I lost the love of my life, too. Well, that one was my mistake. I left her... she didn't leave me. But the directionality of a mistake, as I keep realizing, has very little to do with the damage they cause in terms of heart-breaks, and the price you pay, in terms of tears. I have kept awake many a nights, wondering what happened to our good old days, thinking about the night the three of us walked back from Mrs.Srivastav's house, down the road by that old lake... heaven's lake, as I have pitifully come to call it. I have searched and searched for a way to bring those days back... to relive those feelings all over, till I finally realized that some times you can't pick up the threads of a life gone by. It hasn't been easy, but I think I am coming to terms with it slowly. My years in Hyderabad taught me that sometimes, even as Life takes away a 'cousin', it also gives you a brother. But I will not pretend it has lessened the trauma at all. Losing her, and you going away were two of the most painful experiences of my life. But what could I have done differently? Where did we go wrong? I don't have any answers to that one, mate! It was great while it lasted... divine and blissful... That is my only consolation, if there can be any consolation at all. I guess time ran out.
As I look forward to my days in Auckland, I feel a strange sensation of pain, resignation, mixed with apprehension and excitement. What lies ahead? What kind of life will it be? There will be new people to meet, new experiences to go through... and a remembrance of what was, what is, and what could have been...
I have never been much for goodbyes. No. Not me. Perhaps it's a weakness. A folly, may be? What else can you call this incorrigible tendency to fight the inevitable? And is it not justified too... is it anything but utterly proper? All good things must end, they say. Then, by extension, perhaps, so much the more for all things 'great'. As Oscar Wilde would have put it, had he been alive and chanced upon my letters ;
"Oh! The tragedy of the youth... They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever."
So, goodbye then, my long lost friend, my estranged 'cousin'. I will hope, since I've long ago found myself incapable of praying, that you find life as you wanted it to be, that you make it big, and that wherever you go you might bring a fraction of the joy you brought to my life during those years of trials and tribulations, to whoever might have a need for them as I once did. I will always remember you fondly, and hope that the feeling is reciprocated. For in those memories, we, as 'we' used to be, will live on.
Best
Sam
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Sunday, July 31, 2011
of writers, writings and romantics
Dear S,
Taking off from your last lines, the fact that you are simply 'glad' that you bring a positive effect to some lives, however big or small, is what enables you to be that person. I have always had trouble relating to full-time 'gurus'. And now I understand, that is because if being 'helpful' is your profession or even vocation, then you are not being helpful or comforting for the sake of bringing relief... you are doing it for the same reason a Harvard Law School topper would defend a raped woman against a billionaire convict- not because he feels any kind of empathy (although he most certainly can), but because that is what he paid $60,000 a year to earn the license to do. It's his job, and he is neck deep in student loan. But when you pick up a kid from the playground, wipe her tears, wash the skinned knee, and then suddenly blurt out, "shit! I'm late...", and run off to wherever you were headed, you are acting out of genuine concern, and good will. That's what makes you that person. As Ali once said, " A champion never forgets where he is going. But a legend never forgets where he is from".
Yes, you are right. I am an incurable romantic. Much like you. And perhaps I am much more too. But, as romanticism goes, lets just say while I chose to roar and thunder, you have chosen to look up at the moon and quietly sigh, not in desperation, but in silent appreciation of its beauty without craving it. No, I am not epitomizing you. Both kinds have their uses. While romanticism, I believe, benefited from Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth alike, the romantics concerned experienced life in very different ways. One should not be foolhardy enough to try a qualitative analysis here. But it is undeniable that the way they composed and the way they experienced life, at some level, fed each other. I guess, this is why you and I react so very differently in certain situations, while sharing very similar experiences and philosophies, and a much alike emotional constituency.
You say people tell you that you write very well. I think they are right. That is being very condescending, coming from me to you, I realize it even as my fingers work the keyboard. But you are not the kind who would like to read an encyclopaedia entitled " Life and Times of S++++v+s S++++th+++ar: A Look Back in Gratitude", are you? So I guess I would do better to leave out the details. But you ARE extremely fluid while painting with words. I'm sure you've had your suspicions. If I were you, and I do not feel I am half as good ( not with words, certainly not with Linguistics, and work ethics is a far cry), I wouldn't. But that's why we are different. That's why while I choose to stand against the waves, and challenge there might, and then look around and realize I'm neither victorious nor vanquished, but simply by myself, alone and solitary, all the while still fuming with pent up aggression, you can afford to turn yourself into the liquid, and change shape and find your way in and out of all the snares, and be at peace. When you write, or at least when people read what you write, it feels like listening to a lore-master recount stories and experiences of a lifetime. You write to speak. You are, like James Joyce, the artist who has chosen exile and solitude to express himself in utter freedom, unrestrained and unaffected by what he writes. "Ars gratia artis".
I, on the other hand, get involved with what I write. Writing, for me, is a safety-valve that lets out the excess pressure and prevents the dam from rupturing. I get so utterly involved with what I write, so emotionally attached, that the text and the author becomes alter-egos. My texts are like my own doppelgangers. I have to rely utterly on my limited ability to get along with words to maintain my identity. I am afraid, that if my writings do not tell about the place inside me, where I am all by myself surrounded by my angels and demons, as they wage a war to claim me for their own, I will forever lose my way and be lost in my own personal Neverland. Perhaps you are too generous. Perhaps you have at some time, long ago when you were young and unwise like me, have felt the same emotions, and can still recall what it's like to live a double-life- one in the world around that has no sense, one in the Neverland inside the 'self' that you can't make sense out of, yet. But be that as it may, the artist in you has long reached maturity and found that truth and beauty seldom co-exist. The aspiring one in me, is still getting used to the joy of being able to handle the pencil without breaking the lead.
Taking off from your last lines, the fact that you are simply 'glad' that you bring a positive effect to some lives, however big or small, is what enables you to be that person. I have always had trouble relating to full-time 'gurus'. And now I understand, that is because if being 'helpful' is your profession or even vocation, then you are not being helpful or comforting for the sake of bringing relief... you are doing it for the same reason a Harvard Law School topper would defend a raped woman against a billionaire convict- not because he feels any kind of empathy (although he most certainly can), but because that is what he paid $60,000 a year to earn the license to do. It's his job, and he is neck deep in student loan. But when you pick up a kid from the playground, wipe her tears, wash the skinned knee, and then suddenly blurt out, "shit! I'm late...", and run off to wherever you were headed, you are acting out of genuine concern, and good will. That's what makes you that person. As Ali once said, " A champion never forgets where he is going. But a legend never forgets where he is from".
Yes, you are right. I am an incurable romantic. Much like you. And perhaps I am much more too. But, as romanticism goes, lets just say while I chose to roar and thunder, you have chosen to look up at the moon and quietly sigh, not in desperation, but in silent appreciation of its beauty without craving it. No, I am not epitomizing you. Both kinds have their uses. While romanticism, I believe, benefited from Shelley, Keats and Wordsworth alike, the romantics concerned experienced life in very different ways. One should not be foolhardy enough to try a qualitative analysis here. But it is undeniable that the way they composed and the way they experienced life, at some level, fed each other. I guess, this is why you and I react so very differently in certain situations, while sharing very similar experiences and philosophies, and a much alike emotional constituency.
You say people tell you that you write very well. I think they are right. That is being very condescending, coming from me to you, I realize it even as my fingers work the keyboard. But you are not the kind who would like to read an encyclopaedia entitled " Life and Times of S++++v+s S++++th+++ar: A Look Back in Gratitude", are you? So I guess I would do better to leave out the details. But you ARE extremely fluid while painting with words. I'm sure you've had your suspicions. If I were you, and I do not feel I am half as good ( not with words, certainly not with Linguistics, and work ethics is a far cry), I wouldn't. But that's why we are different. That's why while I choose to stand against the waves, and challenge there might, and then look around and realize I'm neither victorious nor vanquished, but simply by myself, alone and solitary, all the while still fuming with pent up aggression, you can afford to turn yourself into the liquid, and change shape and find your way in and out of all the snares, and be at peace. When you write, or at least when people read what you write, it feels like listening to a lore-master recount stories and experiences of a lifetime. You write to speak. You are, like James Joyce, the artist who has chosen exile and solitude to express himself in utter freedom, unrestrained and unaffected by what he writes. "Ars gratia artis".
I, on the other hand, get involved with what I write. Writing, for me, is a safety-valve that lets out the excess pressure and prevents the dam from rupturing. I get so utterly involved with what I write, so emotionally attached, that the text and the author becomes alter-egos. My texts are like my own doppelgangers. I have to rely utterly on my limited ability to get along with words to maintain my identity. I am afraid, that if my writings do not tell about the place inside me, where I am all by myself surrounded by my angels and demons, as they wage a war to claim me for their own, I will forever lose my way and be lost in my own personal Neverland. Perhaps you are too generous. Perhaps you have at some time, long ago when you were young and unwise like me, have felt the same emotions, and can still recall what it's like to live a double-life- one in the world around that has no sense, one in the Neverland inside the 'self' that you can't make sense out of, yet. But be that as it may, the artist in you has long reached maturity and found that truth and beauty seldom co-exist. The aspiring one in me, is still getting used to the joy of being able to handle the pencil without breaking the lead.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
never been a right time to say goodbye (2)
I have always known this day will come, sooner or later. Known it for the last six years. Every waking moment of my consciousness have reminded me of this one absolutely unavoidable certainty. Yet, as life teaches me yet again, and perhaps for the millionth time too, knowledge and acceptance are two very different things.And today, when I stand before my own reflection, staring into the eyes of the all so familiar stranger, full of regrets, questions and a hint of despair and rejection, somewhere there is also a sense of vindication... of one long dreaded event. The eyes stare out, as if trying to make sense of the endless void around... and somewhere, as a certain flight takes off, carrying a certain person across the ocean, it all feels so damn empty- an endless void... a vacuum filled with silence... not even the strength left for a sigh. As the heart grapples and wrestles with memories lurking in the shadowy corners of the subconscious, the mind vaguely repeats to itself...
"He tries to peel the image from the sticky yellow backing, to show her the next time he sees her, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to detach cleanly from the past."
~~J.Lahiri~~
"I will not say do not weep... for not all tears are evil"
~~ J.R.R.Tolkien~~
“It's the too huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
~~~Jack Kerouac~~
and finally, in somewhat of a pathetic self-mocking tone,
" ... it's only words
and words are all I have.."
~~ Boyzone; Words~~
"He tries to peel the image from the sticky yellow backing, to show her the next time he sees her, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to detach cleanly from the past."
~~J.Lahiri~~
"I will not say do not weep... for not all tears are evil"
~~ J.R.R.Tolkien~~
“It's the too huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
~~~Jack Kerouac~~
and finally, in somewhat of a pathetic self-mocking tone,
" ... it's only words
and words are all I have.."
~~ Boyzone; Words~~
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
MAD GIRL'S LOVE SONG : Sylvia Plath
[note: I thought, given the days of utter lack of creative inspirations and literary barrenness on my part, it might be a good idea to share one of my favorite pieces of poetic work with everyone. So, here it is... an unbelievably touching poem by one of the most breathtakingly beautiful and awe-inspiringly talented female poets of all times... Sylvia Plath]
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
Friday, April 8, 2011
parasomnia
Is it now, really?
Better drunk, than angry?
Bitterness is too much of a nuisance;
I would rather this bitter aroma
take over. Like a sweet love-child!
Doe-eyed, full of promises...
Unfulfilled words, and forgotten kisses;
Like the evening light, and
A naked moonshine.
Did we really run out of time?
Too busy
Working on those dreams I never planned.
Failed to notice you weren't around.
Girl! It's a harrow feeling'
Now that it's come to dealing
With facts, and I know you're missing.
I keep waking up... hoping
I was dreaming.
Six years of dreaming, Girl!
But do I have to?
Please tell me,
Do I have to keep realizing?
Better drunk, than angry?
Bitterness is too much of a nuisance;
I would rather this bitter aroma
take over. Like a sweet love-child!
Doe-eyed, full of promises...
Unfulfilled words, and forgotten kisses;
Like the evening light, and
A naked moonshine.
Did we really run out of time?
Too busy
Working on those dreams I never planned.
Failed to notice you weren't around.
Girl! It's a harrow feeling'
Now that it's come to dealing
With facts, and I know you're missing.
I keep waking up... hoping
I was dreaming.
Six years of dreaming, Girl!
But do I have to?
Please tell me,
Do I have to keep realizing?
Friday, March 4, 2011
Riddles
Hint of cedar and oak
As I sip on...
Grain blended, single malt and what not!
Matured mead and whiskey
The gulp of fire running down my chest;
I can't help thinking... I know this wooden aroma,
Why does the whiskey smack of that old tree "We" stood under?
Am I drinking out of my old friend’s corpse?
Ah! Hell.. what does it matter?
“Eat of His flesh, Drink of His blood”...Communion... Salvation
It's all so confusing.
Does the truth even matter?
Can there be a right at all?
Or is it just the whiskey getting to me?
I don't know?
But should I care?
As I sip on...
Grain blended, single malt and what not!
Matured mead and whiskey
The gulp of fire running down my chest;
I can't help thinking... I know this wooden aroma,
Why does the whiskey smack of that old tree "We" stood under?
Am I drinking out of my old friend’s corpse?
Ah! Hell.. what does it matter?
“Eat of His flesh, Drink of His blood”...Communion... Salvation
It's all so confusing.
Does the truth even matter?
Can there be a right at all?
Or is it just the whiskey getting to me?
I don't know?
But should I care?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
because someone asked me...
So, someone asked me, "When you meet that adamant phantom, and he points his finger right at you and says,'ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee', and you know it's time to write that last page of your diary, what will your last wish be?" Nice question. I can't deny that I've never thought of it. And still it was a bit baffling. Really now, what will it be? I've never really answered that thought before, always having asked it to myself. But now I had to give an answer to someone else. What would it be really?
As I tried to gather my thoughts together, it occurred to me that Death, personified, would really be our oldest friend. That 'adamant phantom' as one aptly put it, is there right from the moment we utter our first cry, promising never to go away. And no matter who you become, what you do with your life, he is one friend who will never judge you, who will never tell you he is too good for you. That's one promise that is never broken, one friend who Will be by your side at the darkest moment of your existence, even if no one else is. So, that way, if we are to believe 'a friend in need is a friend indeed', who can be a better friend? So if I had to ask One thing to my oldest friend, had to make one wish, what would mine be? It was difficult. But once I had put it together, it wasn't so baffling anymore!
What can I say? I guess I will ask Death to show me my whole life in one big slideshow... that way, just before I exit, I will know exactly why it isn't at all unjustified! And be reminded of what exactly made living so worthwhile, all the little memories... savor them all, just before I kiss them goodbye. One last breath to skim through what was, what wasn't and what could have been... hear the old laughters, taste the old tears... one deep breath... one hefty sigh... one last twitch at the corners of my lips. And then exhale. Look death right in the eyes, and smile, "It was great while it lasted. I'm all yours." And then like good old friends, reunited, we shall walk out, shoulder to shoulder, step beside step.
As I tried to gather my thoughts together, it occurred to me that Death, personified, would really be our oldest friend. That 'adamant phantom' as one aptly put it, is there right from the moment we utter our first cry, promising never to go away. And no matter who you become, what you do with your life, he is one friend who will never judge you, who will never tell you he is too good for you. That's one promise that is never broken, one friend who Will be by your side at the darkest moment of your existence, even if no one else is. So, that way, if we are to believe 'a friend in need is a friend indeed', who can be a better friend? So if I had to ask One thing to my oldest friend, had to make one wish, what would mine be? It was difficult. But once I had put it together, it wasn't so baffling anymore!
What can I say? I guess I will ask Death to show me my whole life in one big slideshow... that way, just before I exit, I will know exactly why it isn't at all unjustified! And be reminded of what exactly made living so worthwhile, all the little memories... savor them all, just before I kiss them goodbye. One last breath to skim through what was, what wasn't and what could have been... hear the old laughters, taste the old tears... one deep breath... one hefty sigh... one last twitch at the corners of my lips. And then exhale. Look death right in the eyes, and smile, "It was great while it lasted. I'm all yours." And then like good old friends, reunited, we shall walk out, shoulder to shoulder, step beside step.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)