Another experimental post

Three reasons for posting this:

1. Lately, I've seen so many blogs with embedded videos that I thought I need to experiment with this too. So, this is a video experiment. YouTube experiment, rather.
2. Ever since I found The Follow by Wong Kar Wai (perhaps the best of the eight films of the BMW film series The Hire) I was simply fascinated. If this is the way a product is promoted, I'm sure I'd want many more of them. The only problem is BMWs come at a price which is beyond my reach.
   
3. I'm still under filmi influence.

Filmi influence

Note: This is a rambling post about a few films that I recently watched and enjoyed. What I am writing are very personal opinions and should not be taken too seriously. And in no way should you let my opinion influence your decision to watch a film.

The Namesake as a whole is not more than its parts. (I mean the film here, not the book.) And if you are a little confused about what I mean by that statement I should say that the film, despite being armed with a universally appealing theme, a decent script, fine performances (though some discerning audience complained about the uneven Bangla accents of Tabu and Irrfan), and the assured touch of a seasoned director, somehow, doesn't quite deliver -- it remains a good film but doesn't go beyond that, it falls short somewhere, it fails to resonate in the heart. It is all the more disappointing because The Namesake is essentially a film about our efforts to rediscover the simple joys of life at the end of all the losses we suffer -- the loss of country, home, family, and the people we love -- and therefore should have walked the extra mile to enforce that message. Also, the inherent melancholy of the story doesn't quite come out as beautifully as I would have liked. Therein lies my disappointment.

The Old Barber is a Chinese film that shows the apparently nondescript life of an old nonagenarian barber living in the cramped and decrepit alleyways (hutong) of Beijing. The film beautifully captures the tranquil lives of Grandpa Jin (the old barber) and other similar old people, as they go about their daily chores, and quite surreptitiously imposes upon us the meaning of life and death, as seen through the eyes of these old people. Acted mostly by non professional actors (Grandpa Jin plays himself in the film), most of whom were found in retirement homes, the film is surprisingly refreshing. There's no trace of cynicism; rather, the film celebrates life in all its beauty.

Krzysztof Kieślowski's The Decalogue is a actually a series of ten independent short films that were originally produced to be shown on Polish television and are loosely based on the Ten Commandments. I only watched the first three parts of this series and was completely spellbound. Never ever have I seen the human fallibility, the moral dilemma, the deep anguish, handled with such deftness. The sparse dialogues and the expressive frames convey the moods much more eloquently. Indeed, as Stanley Kubrick said, "These films have the very real ability to dramatize their ideas rather than just talking about them... They do this with such dazzling skill, you never see the ideas coming and don't realize until much later how profoundly they have reached your heart." I, for one, am still under their influence.

Among other films I watched and find worth mentioning are Kissed by Winter (a story of a female doctor attempting to come to terms with the guilt of losing her only son), Nottam (a Malayalam film about a middle-aged Koodiyattam performer, who, notwithstanding the disappointments in his personal life, seeks solace in his art), and The Little Lieutenant (a French crime drama about the police detectives in Paris, but primarily a story of two human beings -- a middle-aged female chief detective fighting alcoholism and loneliness and a confused rookie recruit who reminds her of her own dead son).

Up among the clouds

Dhanaulti, June 2006

Three reasons for publishing this post:

1. I just wanted to find out how to publish a photo here. So, this is sort of an experimental post.
2. I'm still thinking about the next post that I'll write (without much progress though, I should add). And I don't like it when my thinking yields no result. So, this is also a pseudo-post to make myself feel better.
   
3. I'm longing for a dark cloudy day. Preferably with a drizzle and a chilly wind. The bright sunshine outside the window looks much too cheerful, and I don't like it as well.

After the films are over

It's a little difficult to write after watching eleven films in a weekend -- the words tend to get replaced with images. Moreover, any good film is bound to cast a spell and it requires some time to come out of that. I'll wait a few more days to see how deeply
I got swayed by the films. I'm sure that most of what I've seen will be forgotten. But I'm equally sure that some of the images, characters, and dialogues will continue to haunt me. And I just want to wait and find out which were they. I'll write about them after I find out.

The 5th Pune International Film Festival (where I've been seeing these films) is, however, still on. But, since I've to work for a living, I cannot go on watching films the whole day on weekdays. I'll only catch the last shows from today.

Disconnected

My mobile phone connection is, I find out much to my chagrin, blocked temporarily. I can neither make nor receive calls now. And this has happened because I failed to remember to furnish my fresh residential address proof to the service provider. How utterly disgusting!

However, when I think about it with a calm head, I don't think I'm much affected by this development. Very few people feel the need to talk to me nowadays, and I myself do not call up too many people anyway. There wasn't really much to worry about. The world will go on as usual, I contemplated rather philosophically, even if I remain disconnected for a few days.

So far it was so good. I almost succeeded in convincing myself that being disconnected for a few days is, in fact, quite cool. I accepted it with quite good humor. But then, much though I dislike him, I also have inside me a more practical (and spoilsport, I must say) version of myself who's forever disapproving of all my theories about life and living. Hence, I am accused, once again, of being careless, worthless, and retroactive (I mention only three, there were plenty other unflattering adjectives hurled at me).

Well, sorry for dumping this kind of total trash in the form of a post. But that's something you'll have to bear with when I'm not in the right frame of mind. And right now, my mind is just a little off-balance.

Not quite cricket

For someone who'd once been an avid cricket enthusiast I find myself surprisingly nonchalant about the ongoing World Cup. By this time, till a few years back, I would have glued myself to television -- but not anymore. (Well, it has nothing to do with my not owning a television, though. Given a television today, I'd most likely be watching a movie on it.)

I do not know when exactly my interest in cricket started waning -- the change must have been so gradual that I failed to notice it. And now my knowledge of cricket has dwindled to such an extent that I don't even know the names of all the countries that are playing in this World Cup. Agreed, there are a lot of new teams (minnows, as we are calling them) playing in this World Cup; but even about the seasoned teams, I doubt, I have very little information. But more than not knowing, it is perhaps the unwillingness to know (I've been skipping cricket news in the newspapers for quite some time now) that marks my departure from a cricket enthusiast.

Cricket, to me now, is like an estranged lover -- there's no ill feeling, but there's neither the passionate attachment of yesteryears. There simply lies an unfathomable distance between us now.

I know the teenage me of yesteryears, who grew up playing this game, would not have approved of this. But then, he would not have approved of so many other things about what I'm today, anyway.

Books and memories

I went book-shopping yesterday. I bought a few books, but browsed lot more. It's such a pleasure when you have rows of stacked books and you can pick any of them at random, scan through the pages at unhurried pace, read the blurbs, and sometimes even test-read a few pages. It's very similar to an extravagantly laid out buffet where you can taste a little bit of so many dishes.

Now, I must add here that I'm not a very dedicated reader. And I'm certainly not as voracious a reader as I'd want myself to be. I go book-shopping even when I know that I've not yet finished all the books I had picked up last time. I guess I love book-shopping (or book-browsing) more than reading. I am hopelessly polygamous when it comes to books.

Anyway, one good thing about my yesterday's book-shopping was that I found a book called Making a Mango Whistle. This book is the English translation of the famous Bangla book Aam Anthir Bhenpu (which, in turn, is an abridged version of Pather Panchali that was specially brought out for children) by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay. I remember, in my childhood I read, in original Bangla, one particular chapter from this book. It's a chapter that describes an impromptu picnic that the siblings, Durga and Apu, enjoy in the woods, away from the prying eyes of their mother. I remember how magical the whole adventure looked to me back then. I had carried an image of that picnic all along and I had been looking for this book, if only to reread that particular chapter. I even remembered the original Bangla title of this chapter -- Choduibhati it was called (it's titled A feast in this translation). It's after years that I got to read that chapter yesterday, and I must say the magic remains undiminished.

Reading a translation, specially if you had read the original, can be a dissatisfying experience. But I am glad that this translation retains much of the original flavour and for that the credit must go to Rimli Bhattacharya, the translator. Sample these evoking lines from the blurb of the book:

'Suddenly, towards late afternoon, darkness fell and a monstrous pre-monsoon storm broke loose. Leaves of the bamboo and the jackfruit tree, dust and bits of straw came whirling into their courtyard filling it up in seconds. Durga sped out of the house to pick up falling mangoes and Apu ran after his sister...'

Satyajit Ray may have immortalized Apu and Durga on celluloid, but the book by Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay demands, in it's own right, to be read, enjoyed, and cherished for generations.

A better day

It's a bright sunny day here. I ate and slept well last night. Also, talked to a few friends at random. And this morning, after coming to office I buried myself in work. To be busy with work is the only safeguard against all 'empty' feelings, I guess.

Well, this morning found a song by Runa Laila, the once-famous Bangladeshi singer. It's a song called Ranjish Hi Sahi, penned by Ahmed Faraz, a famous Pakistani poet. I think I have heard Mehdi Hassan sing this song before, but this one by Runa Laila was a revealation. This song toppled the position of Tumhe Ho Na Ho (in the movie Gharonda) from my favourite Runa Laila song.

But more than the voice, it is perhaps the words of Ahmed Faraz that makes it such a beautiful song. A Google search will give you numerous links to the full text of the lyrics. Here I'm just giving the opening lines.

"Ranjish hi sahi dil hi dukhaaney ke liye aa
aa phir se mujhe chhorr ke jaane ke liye aa"

Roughly translated, it means:

"Come to me, even if you are to cause me pain
Come to me, even if you are to leave me again"

A skeptical optimist

The third-floor office is quiet now. I stand up near the big glass window that is behind my seat and watch outside. In the fading daylight it looks beautiful from here. And as I watch outside I wonder if this is what they describe as dusky beauty.

The sky is a riot of colours now. The hills at the distance look like dark, lonely giants. The clouds are smeared with the colours of a dying sun.

Finally, the streetlights are lit. Soon, the lanscape is dotted with lights at all corners. Even the cars on the road below put on their headlights. The evening breeze, although I cannot feel it from inside this enclosed office, rustles the trees below.

And standing here, alone, I try to drive away the emptiness that had been disturbing me for the last few days. In fact, the word 'disturbing' would be an euphemism. What I actually felt was far more excruciating, unbearable, and violent. The feeling was stubborn like a nagging headache, only much more acute.

As I am publishing this post, it's already a full-fledged evening. The view from the glass window is even more beautiful now. But right now I'm too indifferent to appreciate anything. And I really hate myself when this happens.

Anyway, I'm just hoping that tomorrow would be a different day (which in all probability would be worse).

In praise of slowness

Well, what do I do when I cannot find anything new to post? I plagiarise. Now don't give that despising look. I actually copy from the pages of my own old diary and pass it as a new post. That's not such a crime, I presume. So here it goes:

"There's something about slowness that is particularly attractive. And here I'm not just implying physical slowness, but our mental slowness as well. Slowness, often derided as a negative attribute, has its own charm. It resurfaces at unexpected turns and reveal to us a whole new world, a world that moves in its own indifferent way. And those among us, who are more susceptible and sensetive, may even fall in love with this slowness. They may be just as happy to let the world pass them by. There seems to be a beauty in slowness if one pauses to look at it. But, in a sense, slowness is also about the way we perceive things. Indeed, most of us, when confronted by slowness, feel tremendously bored, rather than getting enticed by it. Therefore, slowness is also supposedly a mental state of being. Not everyone is capable of extricating the pleasure out of slowness.

Now, this same slowness also applies to our emotions. There's always an inherent sense of slowness in all our pains, yearnings, and dreams. And it is this slowness that lends poignancy to our feelings and makes us understand them better. Happiness, as we commonly perceive, is a fleeting feeling. It never stays long enough to make us really happy. But our moments of despair, failure, and loneliness never seem to leave us in a hurry. They seem to fit better into the definition of a friend."

Here, I'd like to give just a little background about this piece of writing. I assume this was written on a foggy winter day when I was depressed, confused, and jobless. (I assume because I cannot ascertain the date; my diary entries had always been erratic and haphazard.) That was a dark period of uncertainity and I was almost on the verge of a breakdown. Well, it is again a flawed piece of writing (most of my writings are flawed anyway) but I like the whiff of melancholy and despair it carries -- reminds me of those lonely, desolate days.

Bicycle days

I remember I got my own bicycle, after much coaxing, when I was in Class IX -- a spanking new Hero Ranger. Till then I was using my father's bicycle occasionally, but I hated that bicycle. I would ogle at my friends' new bicycles and would be convinced that life without a bicycle was no life at all. So you can see, to me, to own a bicycle was a matter of immense importance.

Looking back, I wonder how absurdly delighted I felt the day I got my own bicycle. It was a heady feeling as I rode my bicycle and zoomed past everyone. There was much pleasure in maneuvering it. And a shiver would run down me whenever I applied the brakes and the tyres skidded, producing a screeching sound and stopping with a mild shudder. I don't think I ever got the same kick anytime later in my life. It was pure bliss. Almost heavenly.

For years to come, that bicycle would grow into a companion. It would take me to the tuitions, to the school, to the market, to the library, to the unknown little lanes and dusty roads, and sometimes, when I'm particularly upset, to the places far away (as far away as a timid teenager could go, that is). Like a true companion it would see me through my moments of pleasure and pain. It would help me find an escape whenever I needed one.

In those angst-driven teenage years, I must say, I always looked for an escape. With wind in my hair and a song in my heart I would imagine myself cycling to eternity, breaking free of everyone and everything. But, in real life, I could never gather the courage to go anywhere farther than the nearby village roads, the bank of the river, or the highway; I could never think of running away from my familiar environments. I guess, teenage days are a little like that: lots of dreams, imaginations and rebellions, balanced by an equal amount of insecurity and fragility.

Living alone, far away from home, I sometimes wonder what happened to that timid, extremely self-conscious teenager who wanted to escape far away with his bicycle. It seems the bicycle could not keep up with him. But I would like to believe that he still fondly remembers his bicycle days.

You

"I don't understand... ," I hear your voice trail off. There's a pause at your end. I wait. "It's just that," you end the silence, "I don't know how to put it. At times I feel there's a demon inside me who fights against my happiness. When everything seems to be going fine this demon raises its ugly head and starts nibbling away my happiness, leaving a vast gaping hole inside me. It's such a terrible feeling to be defeated over and over again. It keeps me reminding what a big waste my whole life is."

"Maybe you're being a little hyper here," I try to interrupt. "Surely, things are not as bleak as you are trying to portray."

"But they are," you almost shout back. "Everything is so frustratingly bleak that I don't find any reason to continue like this. I don't find anything happy about myself. I don't find anything happy about my whole existence. Everything is so mundane. So boring. So utterly desolate. There's no spark of happiness. Nothing to... "

Here you fumble for words. I don't say anything. The silence lingers between us. I can almost see you now. I can imagine your posture as you talk. I can see you pacing in a lonely room in a faraway city, your face contorted with pain, one hand holding the cellphone to ear and the other moving animatedly, as if trying to grasp the unspoken words out of thin air. I wonder if you are drunk tonight. Or have you smoked a joint? In any case, you are not in your normal self. But I find your voice undistorted and your words still distinct.

"You know the other day I was feeling like this, utterly dejected, and I went out for a walk in the city," you begin again with a surprisingly soft voice. "I roamed around the streets for hours. I like the anonymity the city crowds offer and I often let myself loose like that. Finally, after much aimless walking I sat down on a quiet park bench. It was a beautiful day and as I sat under the shade of this leafy tree, without my knowing, I began feeling happy. Yes, I must say I had been happy. All my worries melted away with the breeze. I don't know how long I was absorbed like this but the moment I began realizing that I was feeling happy something snapped inside me and all my happiness evaporated in a few minutes. I could feel the change taking place in me. Yet I couldn't help it. And afterwards I got so terribly depressed that I went home and shut myself for the rest of the day. It was just one instance, you see. I face this day in and day out -- a fleeting moment of happiness is engulfed by an eternity of dark depressing time."

You again pause for a moment. And your words keep fluttering in my head like a bunch of butterflies.

"Perhaps happiness is overrated," I finally say with as much conviction as I could muster.

None of us speak for the next few seconds. Silence spreads its tentacles again. I take a quick glance at my cellphone screen. The call is on.

"Perhaps," you say finally, "I don't know... "

Books by my bedside

Ever since I moved to this new city I found myself in the company of books again. This happened somewhat out of compulsion though. What possibly could a socially inept person like me do when he lands in an alien city? So these days you are most likely to find me curled up in my bed (yes, that's where I read most of my books) with a book. And it's actually not as bad as it sounds. I'm enjoying it.

Since there's nothing much happening to me otherwise, I thought of writing about the books I'm reading. Presently, there are four (I shuffle the books according to my mood, you see).

Okay now, here's my take on them (please don't expect any serious discussions; these are, at best, a rambling account of a book enthusiast):

1. The Great Indian Novel by Shashi Tharoor

I'm halfway through this book. And so far it's been an absolutely delightful read. The sheer reckless humor of this book has had me in splits. Already, on multiple occasions I've found myself rolling in my bed laughing out uncontrollably. In this book, Shashi Tharoor weaves the story of the Mahabharata with that of recent history of India. And he does it with such elan! Brilliantly conceptualized and masterfully executed.

2. Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl by Roald Dahl

This is the first time I'm reading Roald Dahl. And I am engrossed in the well crafted stories. Roald Dahl builds his short stories gradually, in carefully measured steps, and gives us a typical short story twist at the end, much to our delight. I found the stories clever, witty, and sometimes even bizarre. But I somehow didn't find the stories 'hauntingly beautiful' (like some stories that stay with us long after we've read them) -- they have the feel of a subtly modulated plot at times -- but they are taut, exciting, and immensely readable.

3. Short Stories from Pakistan (Edited), translated by M. Asaduddin

I must say I don't have much idea about the literary scene of our neighboring country, except perhaps Sadat Hasan Manto's short stories and some stray readings of Faiz and the name of Bapsi Sidhwa. Actually, this book was lying unread for quite some time now and I fished it out the other day while I was rummaging through my books. The collection begins with with a translation of a short story by Sadat Hasan Manto, Khol Do. I remember reading this story elsewhere, long back, and feeling disturbed for a long time after I read it. I haven't progressed much with the other stories so far but I'm particularly struck by a story by Hasan Manzar. In this story we find a young couple whiling away some time as they wait outside an abortion clinic. As they wait for the clinic to open, they converse, and the boy narrates the girl a story from his past, about an abandoned infant girl whom he once wanted to adopt. There're only two characters who converse through the story and there's not much movement in the story either. Yet, there's a poignant beauty in it. I liked that.

4. Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman by Richard P. Feynman

Another book which I started long back but hadn't been able to finish. This is the book containing the anecdotes from the life of Richard Feynman, a Nobel Laureate in Physics. And I must say this is an amazing book. For those of us who think that scientists are a crazy bunch of people who're pathetically dressed and horribly clumsy, this book serves as an eye-opener. This is an account of a person whose passion for life runs us over. His humor is infectious and as we progress, each chapter shows the life of a genius who derived ordinary pleasures out of his pranks, adventures, and practical jokes. And he tells us all these in a language that is mischevious in its tone and yet utterly adorable.

So that's all I've by my bedside now. As and when I pick up something new, I'll post about it.

A nonsense rhyme*

Sunday night
No sleep in sight

Had been sleeping the whole day
Now I have to keep awake and pay

So I thought why not make use of this time
Write some nonsense and make them rhyme

This was no easy task, I soon did realize
I was out of practice and the words did not oblige

I found the words drifting carlessly
And I watched them wistfully

I thought of old days when my pen could strike them down
But now they were jeering at me making me look like a clown

As I sat defeated I suddenly had a cue
An old word of acquaintance, by the name of 'Lonely', came to my rescue

Now 'Lonely' was a timid word, always so alone
Nodbody ever saw him talk, even on his cellphone

So, 'Lonely' was sitting alone on my writing pad
And I thought of bringing him a companion, lest it looked very sad

I did not have to wait for too long
A chirpy feminine word, named 'Rain', walked in with a song

'Rain' sat beside 'Lonely', chirping like a bird
But our young man was not amused, he felt rather awkward

Now 'Lonely Rain' sat on my writing pad with wonderful possibilities
And I left them there washing my hands off all responsibilities

There's a world beyond rhyming, you know
I have to wake up in the morning and go to office tomorrow


* This was written as a proof that I could still produce horrible rhymes if only I applied myself sincerely to the task.

Elsewhere

I like this word -- 'elsewhere'. It has an other-worldly ring to it, something illusory and impenetrable. Indeed, however far and wide we go, we never reach 'elsewhere'. It's simply unreachable -- it remains elsewhere, forever away from us.

Last weekend, on Saturday evening to be precise, while sitting at the foot the Gateway of India, the word came upon me fleetingly, almost imperceptibly. It was a perfect evening; before my eyes lay the vast Arabian Sea and behind me the fabled city of Bombay (Mumbai), teeming with life. I tried to absorb the evening with all my senses. But, without my knowing, I felt something amiss, as if something was not quite there, as if something had moved elsewhere.

I felt this way before, I knew. I felt this way when I stood before the majestic Taj Mahal. I felt this way when I saw the awesome snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas. I felt this way when I visited the haunting ruins of history in Delhi. I felt this way when I flew above the clouds for the first time (on an aeroplane, of course!).

It was the same feeling of elsewhere.

Whoever said that wishes were like wild horses, was right. They gallop away all the time, to elsewhere. Everytime I reach a place of my longing I encounter the same feeling -- not here, elsewhere.

Suddenly sleepless

I tossed and turned in my bed trying to get a wink of sleep. But it was one of those sleepless nights. I tried all the sleep-inducing methods I knew -- counted a lot of imaginary sheeps, read Oxford English Dictionary, gave a nice tel-maalish to my head, turned on the radio (yes, I'm a little outdated that way), put the ceiling fan on full speed -- methods that have worked for me in the past. But nothing worked tonight.

Sleep, although one of the most divine experiences, can become a nasty thing when it doesn't obey you. So I lay in my bed, wide awake and deeply irritated, feeling unadultrated jealousy towards all those happy souls who were having a good night's sleep. It was frustrating. I felt like screaming at the top of my voice and waking up everyone. But although eccentric at times, I'm not completely insane. So I dropped the idea of shouting my lungs out and retreated to the cosy orner of my balcony instead.

Outside, the night was startlingly quiet; nothing moved except the faint breeze. Dark silhouettes of trees stood there with a stony silence. The occasional barking of a dog or the flapping of a nocturnal bird only helped deepen the silence. There was nothing I could do but stare blankly at the darkness of the night and feel the silence seep into my body.

I know a dark silent night can lift the lid off different turbulent emotions. But all I felt was rather calm -- my agitation withering away with the passage of time. And standing there on that sleepless night I got to know loneliness all over again.

From a distant afternoon

It was a drowsy summer afternoon. The sun was fierce and the roads were all empty. The air was still and hung like a heavy curtain, not a leaf moved anywhere. The nighbourhood was absolutely silent -- only a faint sound of a radio occassionally wafted from somewhwre.

In the courtyard, under the shade of the mango tree, however, a little activity was going on. Handfuls of earth were being dug up. A young woman was doing the digging while a little boy fetched a mugful of water. She poured the water on the dug-up mound of earth and kneaded them until they became soft clay, ready to be given shape. She rolled one small clay ball and started making a human shape. When the hands and legs were created, she took a smaller ball and made a little head out of it -- complete with a little nose, a tiny mouth, two little button-like eyes, and two protruding ears on each side. The little boy was looking at the procedure intently, hunched on his knees, and insisted that he also tries his hands. He was given a lump of clay and he tried imitating what he saw, but his result was disappointing. So she took his tiny little fingers in her hand and helped him mould the clay balls. And after while there stood another identical little human figure. The boy was thrilled at the result.

"They look beautiful, maa", he said, beaming.

The mother smiled too and said, "Yes. But they are still soft. We'll have to leave them in the sun to dry now. And you can play with them tomorrow."

Then they left the two clay figures in the sun to dry and went inside the house, the little boy trotting happily, his hand clinging to his mother's fingers.

Untitled

And then the evening descends. Neons light up the shops, vehicles crowd the roads, and people race against each other to go home. The roadsides come alive with vendors and hawkers. Bargainings go on. And despite the diesel fumes, dust, and honking vehicles I see people sighing a sense of relief -- the day has come to an end.

Isn't there something festive about the way each day ends?

I watch all these from afar, from the distance of a moving bus. I watch the bustle outside and say to myself, "But I'm in no hurry. I can afford to be late." Since I am not worried about reaching home, while commuting from work, I distract myself with little games -- often with words. I pick up random words and, in my head, arrange them into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into.... Well, it doesn't go beyond that. I lose track.

Thus, when I sometimes pick the pen and paper late at night, I find stray sentences and odd words coming out of my pen. Sometimes they fall in place and a little piece gets written (like this one). But often they don't and remain buried, unfinished.

Two lines

Once in a while, when it becomes too swollen to put it in my back pocket, I have to unburden my wallet of all the junk that are periodically deposited in it -- odd bills, old ATM slips, visiting cards of people whom I have forgotten, papers with indecipherable numbers, photocopies of once important documents and things suchlike. Yesterday, having nothing better to do, I thought of cleaning up my wallet.

While I was digging out worn out, unnecessary bits of paper, a particular piece of paper caught my attention. It was a yellow piece of paper from a stick pad that are so common in offices. This piece of paper was all empty but a couple of lines scribbled in Hindi. As I read it I found out that it was an Urdu couplet, popularly known as shaayari .

I tried hard to remember where I had picked it up. Raking up my memory cells I finally found out that I had picked it up in my last office, where one fine morning I had found this solitary piece of paper lying on my desk. I had no idea who had put it there but something about the written words must have struck me and I had slipped it in my wallet and had carried it since then.

Well, if you are by now a little curious to know what was written on it, I reproduce it below for your benefit.

"Kaif bardosh baadlon ko na dekh
Bekhabar tu kuchal na jaaye kahin"

P.S. These lines must have struck me because I also have this premonition -- like Kaif, the author of this couplet -- that I might get trampled someday while watching the clouds above.

P.P.S. I still don't know whose couplet is this. Googling the lines didn't help. Is it Kaifi Azmi's? Have anyone of you come across this couplet before?

Coming back to life

To those who thought my blog has died a natural death, this post must be disappointing. Yes, this blog is alive - it's trying to mutter a few feeble words again.

I have no reason to defend this long hiatus. Agreed, I was a bit busy travelling - first, to McLeodganj; then, to my hometown Dhubri in Assam; and finally, to Pune (where I'm stationed now and hope to be here for quite some time). Meanwhile, I have also quit my last job and landed up in a new one. But despite all these, I had ample amount of time in my hand. The excuse for not writing is, therefore, nothing but my legendary lazyness.

Anyways, there were a lot of things which I wanted to write and failed - My last few days in Delhi when winter was setting in; The last meetings with friends whom I knew there; The loneliness I felt when I landed in Pune Airport; The few acquaintances I made in a new city. For the kind of nondescript life I am used to, these were all too alien. Moreover, things were happening so fast that by the time something registered in my head, it was already over. In short, I struggled in my new environment, as always.

Now, as I am writing this, things are a little better. I have devised means to keep myself busy. I read to kill time, spend long hours in the office to surf the net, and resort to daydreaming when I am bored. So, you can say I'm gradually getting back to normal life.

Okay, as I close this post, I'm leaving you with these few lines from a Vasko Popa poem, which for some unknown reason had been sitting in my head for the last few days.

"From every pain
We do not mention
Grows a chestnut tree
That stays mysterious behind us

From every hope
We cherish
Sprouts a star
That moves unreachable before us"

- from "Far Within Us # 1"