The man who has no time for love

“This time, I really messed it up. Didn’t I?”

“You did well Bruce, very well, but yes now there is no return”

“You? Do I know you? Oh Yes! I have loved you for so long. I still love you!”

“So do I Bruce, so do I”

“Now what happens? Where will you take me?”

“You will figure it out eventually. But for now, there is still time”

“But you never show up earlier or late. You are precise. So why am I seeing you now?”

“I am not early. I do come to see time to time the ones I care about, the ones I love. And I love you Bruce. You have always openly flirted with me. And every time when I thought that I have you, you always found a way out.”

“Not this time. Listen to his laughter. The maniac! He thinks this is funny. I don’t think it is”

“I don’t think he finds it funny. He flirts with me even more than you do. I think I know him”

“Do you love him as well?”

“No, my younger twin sisters do like him though. I don’t find his jokes funny. But yes I like one fact, that he is always pushing you to unite with me”

“You are asking me to come with you. But I can barely walk right now. My lower body is paralyzed it seems.”

“Don’t be coy! You don’t need to walk to be with me”

“Oh yes! But my lady, I want to walk. I have some unfinished business.”

He gets up slowly, panting and sweating on his back to a sitting position. She is watching him with interest. It had been some time now, since the man who laughed shot him in his back with a nerve paralyzer, a grin inducing toxin. It is such an old weapon of his but very potent.

It worked through his spine almost instantaneously. But this girl who is wearing an Ankh, is most beautiful. Her black hair tangled plays with the wind. Her eyes twinkle when she talks. She is wearing a costume; no he thinks she is dressed like one of those punk kids. But she is so beautiful.

He thought she must have opened his belt, found the anti-toxin and shot it through his arms. But why, he thinks he knows.

“You saved me”

“Figured you still don’t love me enough. You are still not ready to walk with me.”

“Don’t bother, one day even I have to walk with you. And I promise, no more tricks then.”

“Good bye Bruce”

“Good bye. I wished that you could have stayed a bit longer. But we both have unfinished business. That man is still laughing. Really what a mess I have created”

Silent Expressions: Understanding Economy in 2011

Silent Expressions: Understanding Economy in 2011: "The economy and trade, two pillars of financeAre easy to understand, if you take close GlanceThe trade becomes low, the economy gets slowThe..."

You

Walk gently on that treacherous path

Step carefully on that soft lush grass

You have to believe in yourself

And trust stories you heard long back

You'll reach a door, open it with eyes

Step inside, and find a room of surprise

You'll see, old as age itself, on her seat

And as young as your next heart beat

Go carefully near her, not looking at door

Step closer, till you hear her voice, no more

Listen to what she tells you and be quite

Don't ask her back even if its not alright

She'll tell you things you didn't know

Things that didn't exist except tomorrow

Things you did, you saw, and forgot in haste

About yourself, that you spend and waste

Don't show her your fear, be brave

She's is more fragile, waiting for a save

She'll show you colors! Splendid charms

Be brave! She means you no harms

But you, you run away, blood on hand

Blood on lawn, blood wherever you stand

You came to her, hearing ancient stories

Stories of those who never saw her glories

You always go back, to pride and comfort

To ways known, paths of your world

But when you sleep, you dream of her

Her beauty, her voice and her murder

Climb up to your library, and find her in books

Climb down to your harem, and find her looks

Smell her rot, see her corpse, visions so true

When will oh fool, you'll realize! You killed you

A long forgotten entry...

I recently tried to clean my Almirah of all the pile of papers that I have been stocking in for some time. Partially I did that because I wanted all of that well sorted for future but mainly because my limited space was blocked for any fresh garbage to pile. I usually don't throw anything because it takes effort, so garbage just keeps on piling in no matter of time. Then one fine day I collect all my spared effort and try to clean everything, almost vindictive and ruthless towards relics of my past. So, when I was cleaning this time I found something interesting, a diary which my father had given me during my 10th standard. That is the only diary I ever possessed, and even that is half full with useless information. Mostly it contains Board exam papers, chemical equations, probability theorem, some old budgets and old phone nos. (some of the friends whom I don't even remember now). But it also contains some of the writings by me during my last 2 years in school, scores of Rahul Dravid, and detailed movelists of chess series between Anand and Cosporov in my father's handwriting. My writings of that time generally are Ghazals and poems but it also contains my failed attempts of converting my thoughts in prose. One of the entries which I wrote during my 11^th standard really intrigued me. It goes like this:-

“I have a god-gift of intelligence. Well for me Intelligence is nothing but the way of thinking. Intelligence to me is the proper, planned & step-by-step method of thinking, just like systems. This method makes your work much faster & almost error free. But as my nature is I always find some or the other thing as drawback, in this case, intelligence doesn’t make you busy, or, in other words, leaves you with lots of spare time when others are busy. And it gives me boring days to battle alone. I can’t find my way out of this boredom…”

In my approach towards social obligations I changed a lot from those days. In fact during my engineering days I had given up on reasoning and intelligence for becoming a socially apt person. It is not to say that I didn’t have friends during my school days. I always had many friends but at the same time I was subject of ridicule, because of my nerdy character. My IQ demanded respect but I and my friends could never relate completely. I was popular because I was good, sober, and genuine, not because I could command respect. The first line I wrote I don’t use that anymore, not only because I am modest now but also because the extra performance pressure that will put on me.

But what is more interesting is to find out that I really could understand understanding at that time, I could understand reasoning itself. And still I don’t remember going through that phase as if somebody else have written it in my handwriting. But I am also happy about the fact that I am right when I tell people that I haven’t changed much in my approach towards reasoning. I was insane back then and I am insane even now…

Writing for the sake of it...

It’s nothing more than pure irony that despite so much motivation I haven't yet started writing. I had calls about writing in every wake of life from individuals as different as chalk and cheese, telling me the same thing that I need to write...I need to write whatever I blabber day in and day out. I guess that is more out of love and affection towards me rather than my ability to kick start as a writer, and also because I dearly wished to start writing some day or another, letting everyone know my perspective, my outlook towards the world that we see. Because of my constant trial of understanding the underlying cause of incidents that we come across everyday and trial to provide myself an explanation which borders on both logic and rationality. But then why can't I write? Reasons are many; in fact I am not even sure if there are many or just one...

Its not that I never tried, I did, but every time I ended up getting lost with poor a sense of direction and a read that disinterested even me, forget pain other have to go through. .I kept comparing myself with writings of Charles Dickens to Oscar Wilde to William S. Burroughs to Chatursen to even Stephen King. I aspired for a magnum opus every time, found myself nonexistent in comparison and left half written pieces. This time I decided I will write, no matter how tiresome the read might be for others or how stupid I might sound or how so much directionless this piece might be. I will still try because I need to know, I need to know my own skill, and there is nothing better than putting and up a work and then scrutinizing rather than only scrutinizing and not working at all. In the past I have left so many of my ideas unattended because the misery I felt while writing for not being able to distinct my style, not in way that I can consider groundbreaking or defining. This is writing for the sake of it...Please bear with me whosoever is reading this and don't forget to put up your most honest comments. Its not that I care for comments but as it might act as a guide for me or else can motivate me.

The other principal reason that people have pointed out is my laze, my ability to make a cocoon of comfort and effortlessness around me and never come out of it. My ability of avoiding any hardships, no matter how so much I might be benefitted and my ability of being able to even shrug away dearest of my hobbies, if they require even an ounce of effort. I love it though and can logically defend till the end of my span but this morning I felt differently. I told myself, that I have nothing better to do, it’s too chilly to venture outside, games I am currently are proving to be increasingly difficult without cheats and there is no good read that I have bought recently. So here I am writing this piece for the sake if it...

What I really believe is that I am an orator, a man of dialect not rhetoric. I'm not sure how many out there have read "Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance", but those who have read will never forget the great book. I felt so much at odd that though I loved the triumph of rhetoric over dialect, I found dialect as my way of learning. I even went on to choose Phaedrus as my alias (which my good friend Abhishek said, is nothing but plagiarism), who in a dialogue written by Plato between Phaedrus and Socrates is tormented by Socrates choosing dialect as his mode of reasoning. Though I felt like playing Socrates in many of my discussions, I identified myself more with Robert M. Pirsig and his former self, Phaedrus. So when I am more of an orator who only responds, reacts and provides rationality, it is difficult for me to scratch my mind alone. And even if I am scratching my mind alone, it’s usually dialogues within me. This piece which I am writing for the sake of it is my first attempt to give my dialogues shape of rhetoric. I hope to follow up more with the same technique...

Housing conundrum in Delhi

After all what do we understand by housing? I certainly feel that at least Delhi's understanding on this matter is beyond my grasping prowess. I couldn't comprehend that is just constructing four wall with a roof enough to call a cave emulator as house? I guess if one looks at the general scenario of housing in Delhi, this comparison wouldn't be lost to many (barring Delhilite of course). I had three distinct house searches in Delhi and to say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. But to look at positives all three searches were enlightening and definitely a reality check. These searches told me that how much I was unwanted in this city and extent of difference between Delhi and Mumbai ideologies(in fact, all other cities as well).

I had lived in Mumbai for 1&1\2 years and I felt so comfortable despite city being overpopulated, hot, humid and lacking in infrastructure. The sheer pleasure of being able to live, travel and enjoyable after office life, weighed much more in comparison to above stated negatives. Though I am from town planning background, Delhi's structure is beyond my comprehension. A structure which was based upon town planners's dreams which they had during sleeps undertaken in courses offered in UK. I would touch on this subject in some later blogs.

Back to my topic of searches, I had my first search when I moved to Delhi in late 2006, fresh from Mumbai. I was looking for one bedroom flats which I believed would have been ideal knowing limited assets that I had at that time. I contacted some of the brokers here in Delhi and was very clear with rent that I was willing to pay as well as the size of the flat that I was looking for. To my amusement I found out that there is no such thing as one bedroom flats in Delhi, it was LIGs, and two bedroom flats were MIGs. There was another category of one room set or two room sets available in builder flats, with landlords acting as vigilantes. These sets were invariably either illegeal construction on the rooftop or garages without any windows or without a proper kitchen with ventilations. These room-sets were much advertized by real-estate agents and according to them they were the best places to live in.

This situation told me about some distinct assumptions of Delhi's mindset. First, economic class guides the housing size not requirements ; second, tenants are inhuman and they don't deserve any human craving for air and natural light ; and third, all stranger are guilty-till-proven-inncoent. This last assumption I would further explore in some other blog.

I am finally settled in a 2BHK flat 35 kms away from office but with a balcony, living room with big window and properly ventilated bedrooms and kitchen. I have to travel a lot but at least I live my life with dignity and comfort.

Symonds and the monkey saga

This is one of the worst cases in recent memory to take place on and off cricket field. Sydney test was moving fine despite India not getting rub of the green, and struggling to match the 11 Australians and 2 very unbiased or incompetent (jury is still out) umpires, Mr. Harbhajan tried to play a deft shot on a searing yorker from Mr. Lee. Of course Mr. Singh made himself made a monkey out of himself, but he revived himelf by acknowledging how good that ball was. Mr. Symonds took an exception and here I am writing what must be a millionth column in past few days. Well if reader would like to know that what is my take, please read on.

One has to look at this incident holistically and unfortunately only two writers have done that, one is Mukul Kesavan and second Harsha Bhogle, both Indians. Now lets look first at the allegations, Australians believed it was racial in nature, may be it was. Harbhajan is no saint, as we all agree, but behind every act of crime, there is a motive, and no act should be taken out of the context and assessed for verdict. If Symonds believed that test match field is no place to be friendly than Harbhajan has all the right to tell Mr. Symonds how savage he is, and it won't be unfair. As for Mr. Ponting, we all have been in school and colleges and even at home where teacher asks us to report every mischief a mate commits. But do we go and report it all, we don;t because there is life beyond such incident and there is relation to tend.

Unfortunately, Mr. Ponting didn't have the vision to realize it. I always believed that captainship in cricket is synonymous with leadership; Mr. ponting had put a doubt to that. A leader has to has this vision, a clarity of thought, which Ponting didn't have. There was a saying in spiderman movie that "great power brings great responsibility", Ponting failed miserably to understand this repsonsibility. Agreed, its a responsibility for a leader to stand up for its team mate, but he failed to understand the game of cricket is worth much more than self invited offense of a savage beast(disclosure:- this use of term is generic and not racial). Now again, by showing his resentment on the decision, which is factual, rational and more legitimate, he has shown a total lack of leadership skill. Knowing where to field his man is great art, but to know when, why and how to field one thoughts is greater.

Mr.Procter also had his share of involvement in this sorry saga. He was the clear evident why Indians and other players from subcontinent have been on the wrong side of law. He refused to see the arguement and context, and we all have to go through this sorry saga. He said, being in south africa he understands what raical slurr is, we can't deny that but, what he could not see was the preceeding incidents and faile to envison suceeding ones. We all should agree that he was inept and raises a question about integrity and aptitudes of match referee. He was no more than Ponting in disguise, taking words of few selected men as they were written laws. If one looks at the history, the most disgusting scenes in the field of cricket has mostly been involving Australians. Incident involving Glenn McGrath and Ramnaresh Sarwan is still fresh in the mind. No. of years Glenn Mcgrath went on to play after that is a representation of where true power lied. Australians must accept this changing time.