To you, For you, Of you.

I promised something to her this evening only when i had this idea of writing about the sheer pleasure that the life could experience when she's around and i had this thought doing rounds in my mind and its just like weaving an entire story round a single line or idea or thought or whatever. And its amidst this humid, typical, experienced-yet-alien to me climate, amidst the new-old people who i claim to know quite a bit, amidst dusted furniture, yet with freshly raised hopes about a secluded & satisfied living with her. I know the counter conventional circles i know would not expect a piece of this kind, but you know what? even Carl Marx, once fell in love.

Well, quite a few emotional moments dominating the inner and sublime rationality i believe to possess in me, which almost won my rational side and almost dragged me out of the international terminal at a sub continental airport. Well, the major part turned out to be her. The Liberals again question me about this absurdity of falling over and getting swept away clean off by a woman, within considerably very less time, despite of all the complications I maintain around myself to justify the essence of being, as Sukumar put it this way in a cinema of his, Love does not take a life time to be born, but it does, a moment. Only a moment. So true. At least, implying me in the central theme.

Honestly, i dare not dream of a Hyd Blues- kind of- zindagi, at least, after getting on to the path of less chosen and highly down trodden in the circles of Indian-proclaimed- so called settled life. It had been on the alternative track, for quite sometime, as I chose it to be that way. But then came this girl, crept in gulping me down under her magic and I drowned under her magical shadow. Again, they started paying visits, the good old times of sheer pureness and honesty in my eyes and actions. Whatever I think, talk and do. At least, to sound extremely honest again, only when she's around. I cannot be that way in the diplomatic and capitalistic circles I chose to live in, here in London.

Wait, let me talk about her. Highly academic, unlike me. Its just that she firmly thinks of something and she gets it. Go-getter, Thats the best part. Laughs like a lullaby. This one is not going to fall under the very usual main stream ideological pieces of writings which generally address the abstract things that would possibly appear from nowhere, accordingly with her arrival. Its just that what all I privately advocate about her and could not really confront her saying all this. She isn't an artiste nor possesses any traits of a possibly-turning-out-to-be an artiste. Its just that so miraculous that she admires the simplest and finest pieces of art without any discrimination based on the artists or the genre they belong to. As I already told this somewhere on this platform, many a times, it better to be simple. And i personally believe, admiring art to the fullest unbiasedly is also an art and thereby, she happens out to be an artist too.

I really cannot answer the question 'why her?' and 'why only her?' and I think I am not going to find an answer in the coming times too. To be sincere, one cannot find reasons for disliking something but not liking something. To sound more specific than generalized, this is something madness and extremely of no reason. I am very comfortable by not figuring out the rational factors behind this and I let it be this way. I really don't think I am putting in the efforts of a columnist or writer or whoever while writing this, but you know, I am putting in my heart and that one, makes me feel highly special about this piece.

Well, coming to you Bangaaram, this is for you. And this is of You. It makes no sense sequentially, but as you already know, to feel the immense and priceless pleasure in something that has been gifted, be irrational and its essence already touched your heart, i believe.

Come like He had never come.

As I write this, I loathe I miss a rally. A sharp one. This is a time line post. I keep watching the way two craftsmen pour in everything they have in them, sweat, blood and more importantly Soul, to carve a beautiful & one of those unforgettable crafts which, only we people are lucky enough to witness, belonging to this era. Federer & Nadal. I don't know why I crave so much for class over sweat. Sachin Tendulkar. VVS Laxman. Roger Federer. Kepp aside. Get into the shoes now.

Clay court. Empire of Spain bull. Rafael Nadal. Being played under the bleak shadows of palm trees conveniently grown under the great Eiffel Tower. I switched on the TV and already by then, Champ lost a set on the whole and on the verge of losing another & evenutallly, in 10, lost it. Felt a tinge of high doubtedness in the deepest of my brains, about the sobs that could drop down his cheeks. Undigestable.

There on the white grand bench, sat the champion, sucking in more ORS to fill in more sweat to vomit in the coming set. And it worked. It was 4-2 of Nadal- Federer and the way he broke Bull's serve and came back is once in an era's moment & hence being a champion, swept it off clean & still the same bland face amidst cheers of Swiss enthusiasts.

And again, almost a two minute rally ended up inclining towards the Swiss & right now, its 3-1 keeping the Bull in lead. To fill in, let me address some style. Bull is aggressive, expressive and open. But the Swiss, calm and centered. The only expression that would come out is only when the finale sees a result. That backhand of Federer is like a Greek God romancing Salma Hayek on a full moon night. To draw a parallel comparison, like VVS Laxman's glance on the on side of an off side ball. Elegant. Graceful. Godly. Period.

The Swiss does not breate exasperatedly nor horns dramatically on the court. He makes the sport look simple, just like a child's play. It isn't possible with everybody who holds a racket. And right now, defeat is approaching him/ But the same old sense of stubborn confidence in his gestures. May be, that too is a champion's virtue. Here I say, the world, for few moments, should come to a stop by, watch his game on its way, smile and move forward.

And yes, he's gone now. Officially. But he is going to come again. He's going to come like he had never come. Till then, off from the sport.

Raging up the Reminiscences.

Its been months since I've written something other than myself. Upon close look, one can really say Alas! this guy's so boring & self obsessed and he's got nothing to write or talk or even think about, expect himself. That, being a disgusting notion of being extremely predictable. I kind of didn't like it though. So this thing suddenly flashed in my brains of taking people aback with shock, all in a second.

That's due to flash soon. It fell in days now and would be soon, in hours too. Excited, or rather, shocked faces which would soon burst into laughter (hopefully). This idea struck me, but the usual prospect of the rational part of my brains, forcibly resigned & made me sit back to work. But how about a couple of crazy things? A surprise date with my adolescent crush? The indigenous feel of metal coated race inducer? Seemed fascinating, or to sound predictable perhaps, crazy?

Those half trousered late morning, less likely termed 'breakfasts', more gazing at pale skies for those respite drops, sweat pouring long drives, more sweat pouring smoke, sloshed away alcohol episodes, goose bumpy conversations, overlooked acquaintances, abandoned brotherhoods due to opinion crisis (aah! why does this word 'abandon' fancy me so much?). And look out, I end up writing about myself again, by the way, sweet vengeances sporting hair and beards, exclaiming eternal search ends at serving bars, going green with a time table and on and on and on...

I swear each one of the aforementioned would make absolute sense to each one of the people whom I confess to know & for all those to come, clustered up again, the Real Counting beings.

Hairy Jack! Is going to be back!

To feel full.

Alright. 2.10 AM. Anand Shankar in the years. Switched off the machine and switched myself on. Been ages I thought of myself. Everything around changes too rapid. As they put it this way,"you scale too rapid when you seem too busy to bother about self." That seems to be playing its game ow. Few lines. Suck In. Ash Off. Blow out. Grab pen again.

Unchanged tees for every couple of days, remained minutes in my Berry waiting to be finished, half read Rushdie's dedication to Padma Laxmi. Convinced to be following the divided business gain IPL, where God striking heads on with the luckiest mortal Dhoni, often visiting thoughts of her. May be above lines fulfil the narration of life, thats been going on for few days. Yndi Halda's either Illuminate my Heart or We Flood Empty Lakes often pay visits reminding me of my abandoned side, being normal is the new in thing, and I am one of those people who follow trending ins.

As I write this, Jack's there sleeping, followed by more sleep which came out after saturated episodes of insomnia. Jack got lost himself in documentary footages describing trivial things like Jack Daniel's History or Ancient aliens' pre-mature-ish behaviours on the more ancient planet Earth. Jack's profound and as already said, too profane for his generation.

Surrounded by basic salted, to be called crispy chips from a local store to serve the apatite when bank statements run all time low and a grand, seldom visible, rare piece of antique Baileys, to sound technical, a mixture of Irish coffee and whiskey. I write this piece to feel full. Here comes the abrupt full stop.

P.S : To confess, English breakfast is classic.

&

Pawan Kalyan is back.

Half an Year.

Half an year passed away. I won't say conveniently. Thought, would be a better idea to gather all the events took place, where the protagonist presumed to be me. I was stammered to death with fear, helpless rage and a tinge of confusion for the first time when these ever-killing polar winds hit my chest badly, because of which I had to search for another sweat shirt from my carry bag, outside Heathrow. Tonnes of incidents. Blows. Bouts. They made me composed, which at times make me feel bad for my early approach of adulthood, but most of the times, bore consumable fruits.

Still remember blindly following a known person at Stratford station, sifting through tubes to reach my school for the first time. There are many firsts in this posts. That image never fades away, as a matter of fact. If at all it happens to stay here for longer periods than desired, that image serves as the quotient of survival and existence. Got ditched in the hands of academic money makers. Been through sleepless nights wondering, how more worse this could get. Those sleepless nights also comprised of burnt sticks, empty tins and remained wanting scathered with empty pockets, but one thing, there was no witched linen trouser from which I could steal currency, which never ran out of money to rob, my father's.

But he is now Rs. 80/minute away from me, which can rather buy me a beer tin to get lost in the momentary soothing. The precise application of the idiom which I used to iterate running around people, 'Kal kaa Kal' worked finally. Stopped spending nights worrying about ever-coming tomorrow's deadlines. When I talk about deadlines here, I am compelled to write about my profession in this land or rather i think it deserves to be told.

Knocked doors as a surveying agent in my early days, hitting a new suburb down town the every other working day, in search of deals, which in turn, could feed me, end of the month. But something appealed to me. Marketing is my type. Being so uncertain about the next feeding prospect, bid goodbye to the marketing thingy, forever.

This thing, which I believe I am best at, is feeding me now. Equally on par with people who work 8 hours a day for 5 days a week. Writing. My passion and now, my profession, lately. One thing has been proved again, very strongly, in the history in my case. Power of words. The pace at which they spread and reach the to-be-reached ears and which apparently gets the things done. Words surely are epidemic. Sleepless nights, yet again, but this time occupied with work. Seriously, I run out of time, at times, to make a cup of tea for myself in the middle of nights. And what got proved is 'People come back to you when you deliver the best you can and this time, with two other people along with each one of them.' Projects pouring in, keeping me super busy.

I have gone places, meaning places. Explored the city as far as anyone could, in six months. Contented. Just a jot down about what I am up to, in this, the six most productive months so far. And all I dream about Hyderabad is yet to come, due in some 4 months. Those unconsciously appearing smiles while I drool over the baggage trolley out of arrivals stand.

To get there, here I am. Count down begins!

Schindler's Epitomy.

The epitome of Oskar Schindler is what that suites this or rather i felt it does more than anything else. Been away from all the socialising acts and the latest digest i came to know is all about the shaky news of Japan's pre-doomsday catastrophe. This has got nothing to do with my fears with the arrival of that predicted D day somewhere around in late 2012 or something, nor i do feel that what could be the consequences if that nightmare ever hits back as a reality.

The thought of relating Schindler and his virtues, feeling convinced and confident that I know what Schindler is, from those 30 iterations of that cult 3 hour epic on my new machine, getting better idea of him, the every time, titles rolled up. Schindler toasts up wine for morbid reasons of celebration like tagging eyeball sized Italian buttons to his waist coat, upon which people may feel he, definitely is a cruel moron, and has got no morals or even civilian sympathies towards burning lives. But he has the noblest intentions which are hidden behind his ruthless looks which saved Schindler Jews. And the best and proudest part is there are more Schindler jews now than normal jews. That scene of paying humble and respectful homages, from the later on generations of refugees of Schindler who grew up to become millionaires and more was hair raising. Schindler did many businesses later which failed him badly, but negotiating with red hats in the name of labour migration really did good for these millionaires now. Undeniable.

Had been Schindler now, would have watched the entire devastation, in an high end society club, raising toasts of costliest wine we could ever imagine over Tendulkar's 99th ton against RSA, besides that telivision which displayed the footages of that mud swallowing Tokyo with hunger. Bar tenders who never know about Schindler would feel averted because of his pathetic denials regarding ongoing destroy. But i know from deep inside, Schidler will do something, something a man could ever do at his best, rather than people abandoning the accident with glycerine wet eyes in front of camera.

The man, masculinity personified, Oskar Schindler, has something in him, only Jews know best to say. After all, they are Schindler Jews.

So Charlie, Hail Schindler! (and his boozing capabilites)

At my will.

Well, Will, its all about that, this piece is. Things are being in my control absolutely. Been dreaming about this retrospective aspect since quite a long time, but that always remained as colourless diamond to pursue. But good times too pay visits right? This is not at all about being oozed into materialistic comforts or wall street capitalistic dreams but all about the ideology that, eventually taking a solid shape.

Given ample time to sit, think and grow strong, i can say that the time is being utilised more or less, in a righteous way. Those nights with mild tickle of pain in the chest because of sucking in unacceptable volume of smoke a day, dreaming about cutting them down one day, and to be able to breathe out early morning's breeze to the fullest. It remained as an unscalable height which went onto the extent of questioning self's rushes to suck in more and more volume deep into this machine full of life.

Something undefinable happened and they went down dramatically that i, now hit the bed every night in the dream of waking up for those early breezes, devoid of pollution in my chest. I don't say that I am completely pure yet and i do not at all think that sucking in smoke makes you impure. That is not my version at all. This just served as the addressing concern of the shaping ideology.

The gritting out method to hold my tongue from tasting wine is also bearing fruits. Abandoned late breakfasts at sub continental restaurants, early sessions of wine while cinema, everything is being cut down, to dream of those good days hopefully waiting beyond the horizon, that appears every evening. To go back to my city as a rich early-twenties guy, got to be real miser in spending now.

After all, that's a formula, begin with the end.