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.

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~~

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.)"

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?

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?

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.

Bildungsroman

MARCH,1986: Curtain-raiser.

March,1988: Surprised toddler, trying to explore the limits of his 6'x8'universe.

MARCH,1989: Toddler's first brawl. Opponent: DEATH Duration: 3 rounds lasting a month each. Winner by TKO: Toddler. Rematch pending.

MARCH,1991: Curious kid annoying most, and amusing rest with his relentless efforts to decode the universe.

MARCH,1994: Kid is surprised at how thin the line between LOVE and EXPECTATION is. Confusion

MARCH,1995: Kid has just realised that he is a rat. And that the other rats are trying to win a race. And that he is in the race too! There is just one block of cheese.

MARCH,1997: Kid sees more cheese where the bigger rats won't look. Hope??

MARCH,1999: Young rat with too many explanations and too many ideas. Convinced that he can elaborate.

MARCH,2000: Young rat bleeds. He didn't draw the first blood. Shocked at the passive in activeness of the ones he called "own".

MARCH,2002: Rat being told that other rats are leaving him behind. But the rat feels, if they could just see from the other end, he is really at the front... by a large margin. Violence. Rat is scared.

MARCH,2003: Rat's first major race. Fancy name too... ICSE. But the rat is beginning to doubt he really isn't a rat. A mouse perhaps? Troubled with something else too. The picture on his ID doesn't match the face in his mirror!

MARCH,2004: Rat did win the race. But they won't let him have the cheese. Says the margin was too close. Rat angry. Whether you win by an inch, or by a mile... winning's winning, right? WRONG, they shout! More violence. Fear turns into frustration... frustration breeds anger. But they are so many.

MARCH,2005: Bliss. Met a white mouse! One who is willing to share her cheese. And doesn't care about inches or miles. Says its better to heal his own wounds than fight back. Willing to show how. Another race coming up. Says lets run together! And does. Rat is happy that he is a mouse after all. Feels secure... after years.

MARCH,2006: Mouse is terrified beyond imagination. White Mouse is gone. The one who who promised to be his mentor has banished her. Says White Mice are bad for health. The world laughs. Says there are other mice to meet, that mentors know best. Pain... terror... pain... anger... pain... hatred... pain... helpless... alone...

MARCH,2007: Evolution!!! Mouse is now an angry, violent, outcast schizophrenic. Mourns the death, long ago, of his new-found idol, his Fuhrer. Reads Mein Kampf. Pain turns into hatred... Hatred breeds Violence, and Violence gives birth to Determination. Codes are broken, scruples are abandoned, rules and regulations have no meaning anymore. Mouse is dead. A new breed is created... a ruthless GO-GETTER... with one goal, VENGEANCE!

MARCH,2008: Another one bites the dust. The next stage of his journey begins. Ready to leave home, and start the training that will let him take the best and the worst of the wold and turn it against itself. Resolution. The strongest man is the one who stands most alone. He will fight fire with fire. If the world makes him cry, he will make it cry with him. Yes! He will leave, a mouse, and return, An Angel... The Angel of Retribution... burning down anyone and everyone who stands in his way. Woe be the day the raccoons decided to hunt an innocent mouse. They asked for a demon, they will get a demon. And the day the transition is complete... The Devil may cry.

MARCH,2009: Realisation. If he was pushed, he only allowed himself to be pushed. The picture on the ID card begins to look familiar.

MARCH,2010: There are sharers still. He only had to put down his guard, and stop suspecting people. Of course it was not easy. But then, if it was he wouldn't have been who he is...at last. The first one to share will always be special, like the first bite of your favorite ice cream. But that will not make him through the rest of it away. Not anymore.

EPILOGUE: Six years... and a man has finally left the shit behind. It took a long time, but at last he has put it all behind him... got past the silliness of it all... rats and races, mice and angels. Strength is now a given. He will never be pushed again. But the very assurance of that strength, so hard earned, is a balm in itself. The need to use it is no longer his Moksha. He will no longer seek answers and explanations from those who had tried to move his cheese. No. Doing that would entail going back down those same dirty streets, back into that filthy gutter where the dung-beetles still dwell. No. Not again. Doesn't matter anymore. None of that sorry crap figures here. He will rather walk down the road less taken. The one they tried to keep him from. Head held high, no thorns at his sides, no stolen gold in his pockets ( may be a few thousand Dollars though... :P lol), and his palms to the sky. And when he sits down under an occasional oak, and talks to the travelling Old Monk, or meet his fellow Walker called Johny, or may be see the Grey Goose fly, his heart will be glad that once he was in a race with rats, and that he had met a white mouse who had shared cheese with him, and given him the faith to look out for more sharers. It will be a good life.



What do I know of the cultured ways?
The gilt, the craft, the lie
I, who was born in a naked land,
And bred under the open sky!
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile,
They fail when the broadswords sing.
So, rush in and die dogs,
I was a man before I was a king;
The phoenix on the sword.
---Cimmerian Folksong---