Indulgence, Triumphalism and Art amidst them.

Bourgeoisie people: Sky high ambitions; grounded reality. Few look at education as a bridging gulf but it ain't in all cases. Social media platforms do their truculent part in capturing the brightest parts of people's lives as thumbnails to keep their bourgeoisie nature alive  & perpetually in despair & an inexplicable angst. With outrunning incidents on a kaleidoscope called life, each frame that passes by leaves a fresh scar which already is old & sluggish as the next frame passes by. Humans get stomped with memories: killing, befitting & forgettable.

Few envision to possess houses to their names; few want their passports' leaves to be stamped with G8 nations' immigration stamps. Everything constitutes to indulgence. The former one treads the path of ownership. The latter - enlightenment.

Life & Meaning are two distinct entities that comprise the two elongated corrugated bars of iron of a railway track running into infinity; they never intersect. If meaninglessness comes any closer to the convincing meaning of Indulgence, then it's on the periphery of a sphere called Life.

People sport khakis which let unfitting shifts half into them & they call it Fashion. However, I sweetly despise it for its nature of taking away unchangeable gloom from one's mind for a minute or two. Or am I supposed to welcome it with no indignation because of the virtual redemption it offers from the enduring ennui? Gadgets, films, automobiles imitate Fashion while inadvertently comprising it with an unapologetic & unacknowledged enthusiasm.

Triumphalism, as a failed destitute & a theater dilettante in New York remarked with a sour spirit on a celebrated, indigenous website of New York, is (and it always has been) the wave this world follows. They are taking pride in participating in clearance deals while experts are endlessly yet unsuccessfully advocating the cascade of consumerism into abyss. Possession is gradually replacing the core essence of triumphalism. The sold middle-class is infesting the unsafe harbours of oceans filled with indulgence, philistinism and organized chaos.

While the optimists rejoice in the rise of entrepreneurial souls from working class coterie, realists see the faltering nobility behind the failing enterprises.

Amid all this, there is art, as it always has been. Silently noting down the squander. It is one for which people like Evelyn Waugh lived, chasing purpose (if discovered) in utter despair & boredom. They give a glimpse of what awaits. (Here's what happened to the genius who wrote The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold - Mr. Evelyn Waugh)


And yet again, art is a sweet, beguiling epicarp on the face of indulgence, what we call Life.

A quick peep and gone again.

It has been more than 2 months I've written something here. I don't think the 70 odd days have fed me with any longing to actually write. I think this part's dead. I feel sad a day might come when this blog dies an unforeseen death. Death, unlike for the living, can be predicted for blog at the least. But this may as well die an uninformed death with no mourners.

If there is anything that I've been doing if we can call that 'consistently', then it is Reading. There's nothing apart from reading which seeks some place here; in the next sentence.

So, I call it a piece.

The Song of Sparrows

"You bought them to let them free" - this line ran across my mind until the end titles of The Song of Sparrows rolled up. I treated myself to this classic film recently only to discover the traces of middle east cinema. 

The opening line takes me back to that scene where a school of goldfish is bought by the protagonist's 8 year old son to cultivate his dream fishery so that they can be "millionaires" - the term the boy dreams  of with sparkling eyes, quite often in the film. 

Ill fate comes in to break the drum carrying the purchased horde of goldfish. When that drum is finally brought onto the ground from the vehicle to think of Plan B, no Plan B is apparent. The fishes are on the ground suffocating due to lack of water. The kids get onto their knees with watery eyes & with no resort around, they will sway away the fishes into a passing drainage canal nearby. Goldfish from fresh water into sewage water. 

I can't remember the lines that follow except I remember our hero singing tunes of hope to his son on their way back home; because that self-coined opening line was ringing in my ears. I found myself huskily saying that line to myself. 

When I look back at it after 24 hours, it's a great metaphor I realize. Assimilating it to our existence, we all acquire things to let them elude us. Don't we?

We buy education & let it elude us while we keep ourselves busy complaining how lame our education is. We acquire freedom at the cost of people & relationships only to let that freedom crush us due to its unsolicited exploitation. It leaves us behind in desperation & ruckus and eludes away. 

The movie finely depicted human greed at the cost of our feet rising above the ground beneath; which my friend is potent enough to challenge our existence. 

2000 Iranian Tomans. That's what it took for our hero in the movie to forget where he belonged to. And to run behind the flashiness of fast money. Tehran played the stage for all the drama. While ostrich eggs that he brought home from the ostrich farm he earlier worked at, made good omelettes, Tomans won over the deliciousness of the ostrich egg omelettes. 

Many of you may argue that he was just advancing in his life. Although he was a walking example of an under-privileged lower middle class man, he had his ideals to walk on. None beats this film in gradually shaping his character to walk away towards money & that walk, I say, is on the broken rose petals we call Morals. 

If that's what it takes to be rich, do you want the riches? If it costs you your soul, wouldn't you bother being sold out? 

My Fiza

Will I ever find my Fiza? She has always remained an illusion for me. Too good to be real. As ethereal as a soap bubble. As ephemeral as the bubble's life.

They say people are imperfect. The only way seemed out was to make peace with the imperfections. Trying perpetually to derive a meaning out of a meaningless collage of random people. While loving the perplexity of meaninglessness. Embracing the nothingness while digging deep with clasped nails & gritty jaws to find something out of the nothing.

Days roll by. Events take place. Significant ones. Not so significant ones. Blasphemies condemned & eventually embraced out of choicelessness. It has always been a choice to be endlessly panicked by the darkness or to come to terms with the surprises I might grope in the darkness. Something that might prick in the dark can only be a thorn of a rose waiting to be cherished for its beauty. Post-adolescent rebellion that ran its course without a cause rooted for the silent indignation against the dark but aging is irresistibly obsequious to fondle the gropings of the dark.

Along with the events, people came. Few memorable ones. Many forgettable ones. It's ironic only the memorable ones caused the irony but is it just the vice? Are they remembered only for the irony they induced?

But because of inherited penchant for the darkness, the memorable ones remained back in the darkened backstreets of life. They jauntily walk around to create a fear in me - the horde in which my Fiza tactfully escapes my sight?

But my Fiza would never leave me. She knows I will be lost without her. She'll wait through the darkened alleys, blackened faces & obfuscating & wicked grins of the 'many forgettable ones'.

I have embraced the darkness for life & she'll embrace me for that.

Dot.

Lethargy. Diligence. Physical exertion. Stares. Aggravated exertion. More stares. Break. Early hour ponder. Preparation. Imposed diet. Guns n Roses. Sugarman lost & found. 9 miles apart. Corporate penitentiary. Longing. Lethargy. Grit. Diet anomaly. Adherence. Longing. Fleeing. Mike Rosenberg. Snow Patrol. 9 mile journey. Soap operas. Wee hour ponder. Lovelorn. Sighs. More sighs. Hope. Endless optimism. Striking reality. More stares. Sighs. Under the duvet. Piercing darkness. There You Go. Endless loop of Tautology. Eyes shut. Misogyny. Cannibalism. Eyes wide open. Water. Eyes shut. Slap. Turn. Sway. Sleep. Killing. Rampage. Mitigation. Dawn. Lethargy. Diligence. Physical exertion.

Nice Guys might not finish

I wasn't sure whether labeling would be of any help but I can't help but shrug now & label myself as a Nice Guy. I am a Nice Guy. I have my own set of insecurities, inhibitions, fears & strengths but on the whole, I don't intend to harm anybody out of vengeance, if not help the needy if the need is within my capability. No crooked thoughts about anything that seems fishy. I believe solely in being a better (informed & wise) person tomorrow than what I have been today.

Fortunately or unfortunately, they say Nice Guys Finish Last. I don't know who they are. I am yet again unsure to label 'them' - those who said the above adage. When somebody no longer seems to be a 'known person', he/she involuntarily gets categorized as Strangers & they demand all the respect from me like you & me usually treat strangers. Be courteous to them.

When such courteousness is often being mistaken for my defeat & resignation, I again don't feel the surge to momentarily dump my niceness & bring out the bad balls. Because not feeling such surge genuinely to prove your balls keeping aside the niceness actually is the primary quality of Nice Guys.

The reason I am afraid Nice Guys might no longer finish, keep aside finishing last is Nice Guys are taken for granted. You women fall for those who cheat on you, turn you philistine & make you crave for things that hardly matter. Nice ones remember what color of tulips you always wanted to hold on that magical evening on the beach side.

Yet the color of tulips will soon be forgotten. Favorite beaches will be abandoned. Dreams will be disregarded. Sun may be washed by the sea; old will be lost in the new sung Michael Rosenberg. Nice Guys remain behind as despised memories in the hearts of philistine women. They will be dismissed for reasons 1,2 & 3 but the women will always be loved by us for the same reasons.

Just like Ana Scott shouts "Newspapers are everything. They tell the world what I've done all my life & how far I've made it" to which our dear William Thacker responds with a perplexed face "Today's newspaper will be tomorrow's scrap." 

Garden State blew in some hope.

On the last Sunday which turned out to be a homely Sunday, Garden State happened. I watched it for an umpteenth time and I fell in love with it, yet again. It dabs the sensibilities of life while it invents its own language, flavour and landscape. Going back to the titles of the movie felt like I was home. However, I felt few lines really needed to be up here on my blog. I have never been a cinephile and so is why, immortal lines from immortal movies never made their way to my blog. Garden State however stands out as an exception.

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But you know what? That’s all ego. None of that really matters. If I get to be with you right here and our beautiful baby, that’s all I need. - Albert

This necklace reminds me of a really random memory of my mother. I was a little kid, and I was crying for one reason or another. She was just like, you know, cradling me and rocking me back and forth. And I can remember seeing the little balls on this thing floating back and forth. And there was snot dripping down my nose. And she gave me her sleeve, and she told me to blow my nose into it. And I remember thinking even as a little kid, like…this is love. This is love. - Andrew

When I’m with you, I feel so safe. Like I’m home. - Andrew

I’m really messed up right now, and I’ve got a whole lot of stuff I gotta work out, but I don’t want to waste anymore of my life without you in it. -  Andrew 

Pact of Trade

When writing was just about to grab the front seat,
She entered into my life.
With love that ignited my senses & put me on heat,
Writing took a back seat 'cos I wanted to make her my wife. 


That one who can love me & write about it
was the one who I looked forward to.
She confessed she cannot write a shit;
I was convinced I'd tame her to.

We made a pact of trade.
I give her writing & she give me love.
But I didn't know it was meant to fade
Just like an autumn took away from us a dry clove. 

She decided to keep love for herself.
but I never wondered that she'd instead teach me how to hate.
I am stuck here with 'love rebuttal' as my motif.
She moved on to write a brand new LOVE on her slate.

I cross paths with strangers to accidentally discover her all over again.
But all I discover is a whole new bunch of faces.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be loved. 




Deekshith

The one-third shucks.

The world has seen Gandhis and Mandelas. With ll due respect, hats go off to their ulterior motives that changes the courses of mankind on a grotesque level. However, when it comes to the worldliness, the whole concept of 'work' & a man's definition that's conceded on the work he does & the way his life revolves around the work he does always eludes me.

1/3 - all it boils down to that fraction. 8 hours a day. All our lives. 1/3rd life a man lives, he works. To win his bread. His existence. Survival. Things might have been good if those were the only ones that could have been bought by work. It just has gone beyond. Overboard. Suffocatingly overwhelming.

Peer-peer relations are rather plasticized I would say. This thought struck me as I was coming back home from work & Mike Rosenberg sang in all his glory - "I walk past the businessmen, sleeping like babies in their cars." While the song always made me nostalgic for where I chose to emigrate from in search of love; London will always be special to me. That lyric depicted a London night succinctly.

First things first - coming back to 'work' & its correlation with a man's presence and his toke of being acknowledged by his peers, I find it absurd to determine the amount of respect he is entitled to receive stays directly proportional to the multi-national presence of his employer and the number of zeroes that are expected to be added endlessly on his pay cheque. I honestly didn't understand the gist but sadly, I live in a world where making peace with incomprehensible things makes life livable.

The thing that my chest was swollen with pride when a nameless commercial Telugu movie had its protagonist shouting out witty one liners about Dignity of Labor. Rebellion without a cause always gets bolstered by wit, I say. It does & so it did back then. But when Dignity of Labor is looked back at with rationale now, it enlivens a hope for Utopia.

I consider its the approach of a man to the incidents he gets subjected to, directly or indirectly - shapes him into what he actually is. His reaction to all such incidents. Each incident like a snow of flake being deposited on the mount of snow on a snowy London afternoon. Tonnes of it together forms a berg - A Man.

Let me save nobility for Gandhis & Mandelas. For us, the mere beings, the common men, lets welcome our hearts, gut & substance define us. Not the one-third of our lives. We acquire education, skill to prepare ourselves to work to make a living. Not to earn one. To make a life, work's plenty I suppose. To earn one, hearts should enter the ring.

Work is work & we are not always what we do. We are what we think we are too. 

Ignorance is Bliss

Mainstream has become mainstream because of all the sad elements it managed to attract while it always divulges from the river to cascade into the sea called World. When the good old men yelled that Good is Always Less in Number, it just seemed as a rant out of despair to see a sensible world, or what we call it in new age as Utopia.

When pictures are clicked only to etch onto the walls of facebook but infrequently eschew in the folders of dust bitten albums which can be viewed years later fondly to kindle such memories, 'memory' seems to have acquired a new definition & escalate the new age dictionaries as something that goes like this: "an event from the past which wins others' praise".

A tablet no longer means a pill for an ailment anymore but it reminds us of an oddly rectangular slate digitized to rob our privacy. The smell of an old book opened after years has got replaced by tapping fingers & scrolling text.

When social credentials make it opulently to wedding cards, hearts long stopped crying out love. The vastness of a groom's heart is measured by the vastness of a barren land he owns just around the corner around the city's ghetto.

The Green Card issued by American Embassy probes the underprivileged to go green with jealousy. When people are redefining love by stating that it's an "in-definitive symbiosis", old school chaps sulk into the unreachable depths of pallor.

The simplicity of a walk into the town down your street hold you up for your financial ineligibility to attain a better mode of transport. Blame the third world country and its subsequent problems. Royally.

Fake smiles decorate the profile pictures on facebook but they ridicule me every time I term their smiles indeed fake. When ignorance is blossoming smiles on their faces & if smiles are all that denote happiness, am I being compelled here to be Ignorant?

If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won

Apathy. Self loathing - probably the shortest way to destruction. Listening to somebody who sings about 'Apathy' when driving to office seems to establish the connect. But on the darker side, it has terrible aftermath. Ask me.

The guy who's on a pause on the stereo in my car was paused at 'If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.' Or must I say I chose to pause him right after that line? To add meaning to the menace I was about to go through. To define namelessness of existence. to decipher the burden of freedom as the 'soul' (or at least I thought it was soul) eluded my being.

I look back & figure out that it's not even a week things changed. Changed in an incomprehensible manner.

While the 'soul' seeks the spirit of liberty few miles away from me, apathy somehow finds it way back to me.

The good ol' brother (people call him Ashok) once said to chase meaning than method. God knows I've failed but He knows I have tried.

While this piece remains to be the spit of self loathing, I struggle to keep calm. Though I know all this would barely constitute to a particle some years down the lane, particles are all you're made up of - reminds my naive heart.

As I move on from this with an angst unbeknownst to me earlier that breeds loathing, I walk back into the smudged alleys of future singing 'If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.'

And thus the door clung in..

The guy lazily escalated three floors on the staircase when he knew the overburdened elevator would take a good 5 minutes to take him to his desk. As he made his way to the ground floor for his usual post-lunch smoke, he left his lunch box upstairs in the pantry. He asked his colleague to take it down to his desk. So he could directly go down for his smoke. 

He was right at the door that opened him to his floor when he realized he forgot his ID card that upon a wipe would let him in. He haughtily pushed the door, turned his head away from it in resentment. It was then his ears caught the pleasant creaking sound of the door opening. The door's swipe machine didn't work & it was like any other door then; not a door that led to corporate penitentiary anymore. 

Days passed & his smoke breaks increased - both in count & duration. The swipe machine fail made the door a pathway to his liberty. Liberation from imposed confinement of corporate etiquette. He jollily swung it in & out to make his way in & out. 

It was a bleak day when sun was lazily hiding behind the unseen curtains. Dusk was setting its scene. He swayed off the hovering mosquitoes over his head while he crushed his cigarette under his left foot. He made his way back to his desk and in habit, he pushed in the door without swiping. It didn't open. Through the glass that was encapsulated in the wooden borders of the door, he saw a carpenter holding a wired drilling machine in a brandished way. He realized that the swipe machine was fine & he had to take out his ID card from his wallet.

He swiped it, the door clung open & he trudged to his desk in melancholy. 

Tryin' to hang in there.

I have seen people letting people slip away from their clutches. When the slipped blamed the inertia towards personal success, my heart went with the defeated. I cursed on behalf of the defeated for bad timing they were subjected to.

When this thing comfortably slipped away from the folds of my brain almost 3 years ago, I suddenly recollected it the other day at noontime when I saw one of the 'defeated' drive past me on his bike. Everything came back in a frenzy.

Today I sit here with this stupid phone in my hand waiting for a response from her. I just realized how I have calmed down. In a way I feel lucky: to let myself grow with the relationship. To evolve as a person while evolving as a part of 'us'. I zero it down to this: who just don't grow old with their relations will encounter problems.

Three years ago, I used to wait for her reply with petulance. I now wait in a hushed way. Million things flash across my mind but they successfully fail to affect the existence. The knowledge that any wrong channeled emotions redirected at a wrong person might just get it all wrong - keeps me calm.

If they don't grow up with it, they proved they will perish. I am just trying to hang in there. 

How things can suck you in & you strive to stay indigestible.

On the last day of the first month of the New Year, I'm coming up with this piece. 2013 took its toll in teaching me Self Indulgence. Everything else was bred by the self indulgence. Rationale, reason & logic.

It's so amusing i,m unable to pick up words for this piece. I guess i maybe too sucked in by professional writing & the personal side almost turned dead. I have gradually imbibed all the virtues to be an acceptable person. Though I place myself at a convenient distances from the virtual herds of people fighting among themselves for attention on the internet, I figured out 'how much' connection seems sufficed.

There is this arguably strange thing that the universe throws at you; a little unambitious people call it Destiny; I am one among them, as a matter of fact. It seems like it defies the laws & leaves you naked; testing your mettle.

Being bred in an industrious environment, I believed 'Striving' as an elemental virtue that demonstrates one's character. Because of aging, like it did what it usually does to men, I've become unassuming; and the change in definition: I believe its 'hanging around' that truly tests one.

I barbed about the smart, had problems with personal success. I no longer do. When there's a hot mug of coffee placed in front of you & somebody's saying words behind you, I nurtured the capability to press things (words) remain behind.

The little consciousness that aesthetics deserve, I devote; though not more that what they deserve. I can take it now when somebody quotes a rosy line from a long forgotten movie though it seems inconsequential.

Like a jinx, I am writing this & my pen seems to cooperate only in breaks and pieces. No petulance, mind you. I scribble. It resumes its flow and I write.

While pressure to make peace with peers is overwhelmingly consuming at times, I somehow manage to stay intact.