Monday, February 21, 2011

The World's Tragedy.

Hush!

I go about in search of love: and I find it in unmeasured stores in the bosoms of others. But when I try to ask for it, this horrible shyness strangles me; and I stand dumb or worse than dumb, saying meaningless things: foolish lies. And I see the affection I am longing for given to cats and dogs and pet birds because they come and ask for it.

It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is first spoken to. All the love in the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy! shy! shy!


Candida: George Bernard Shaw.

Monday, November 15, 2010

The 101st. :)

So, this year round, I missed the birthday of my own blog. And realised it 3 months later.

Well, at least it doesn't complain.Also, I hit a century of posts, but this I realised only when I read a co-blogger's 100th post.

Now that we are done with the trivial chronicles, let's move on to things of greater significance. In August, some two years ago, I decided to start a blog- the name of which propped up almost instantaneously in my mind- Chronicling Lyfe. Because that was what I had meant it to be- essentially a chronicle, capturing slices of experiences and thought that would otherwise have just been lost- perhaps it will be lost anyways, as no expression can ever communicate emotion, but I was determined to make an attempt.
Then I dreamt up the 'Y' in the word 'Life'. Majorly to communicate that it was a personal chronicle.And I was fine with it. But the thing about being in a state of.........developing maturity shall we say? is that every perception is always in a state of flux. And the 'Y' in my 'life' has, for quite some time now begun irking me.
I look at it and it disturbs me. Perhaps its the anglophile in me. Perhaps it just has something to do with my obsession for order. If you don't like something about anything- change it. An infinitely better option than cribbing. So, I'm changing the spelling.




Yes, I am conforming.




11:23 pm

Saturday, November 13, 2010

The Ugly Truth.

We are all civilized people. Which essentially means that we are all savages except for the few trappings of refinements that recorded existence has thrust upon us- Clothes would be an example. Bathrooms another.Hypocrisies both of them.

The truth is, dear Readers( yes, I still dare to use the s), that Hypocrisy, for lack of a better word, is good.

Without it we'd be too ugly.










Hypocrisy makes a mother utter in sheer, genuine, disbelief- "my son couldn't have done that" where two and a half decades of upbringing would have surely told her something else. Or , at the most innocent level, it is hypocrisy that makes you  tell that girl she is so definitely not looking fat. ( See the word looking?) We are not as ignorant as we would want ourselves to believe. But the next time, dig deep- if you have the guts enough to be found out.Or tell me that you can look into the eyes of a terminally ill patient and not reassure them that it would all be okay. Hell, even the harsher judgment on yourself than you would have passed on others was hypocrisy. But even more than the individual, hypocrisy is what the society needs- it was one thing to have broken rules in school and quite another to have flaunted it shamelessly- the latter is what revolutions- good and bad, are born of. The thing about truth is that it may hurt too good at times, but you wouldn't want a world of it. Few of us are worth a damn to anyone. Imagine a world where you knew that. Or, imagine a world where satyameva jayate was a lie.


And speaking of truth, there is another thing about it- Truth is arrogant. It is a proclamation of how what we think is more important than what others feel, which, at the end of the day is really not worth it.




I am a hypocrite. And this post is an excersise in my hypocrisy. It's just that as a breather, I seem to keep seeking beauty.

Because I think that I deserve some of it. We all do.

13.11.2010 ( Sat) 11:45pm

Saturday, October 23, 2010

The Pidhi.

At another routine day back after the Pujas in the library today, I was staring off into nothingness, looking back at my research of over two years now, mentally restructuring and simultaneously trying to come up with a world-stopping theory, when I realised that for quite some time now I had been looking out of the window at the astrologer sitting on the pavement, complete with his parrot.

Now I had never quite shared the disdain that quite a few of my peers have for him- overt or covert.Rather, I quite like him. His bread is as much an honest living as any one else's. And it is a hard living. Imagine trying to make perfect strangers believe in obscure, inscrutable forces and unfelt energies in the fragmented, disillusioned and marketed world we live in today.





And as I looked at him again, I realised that but for his very, very benign looks,he could have been a terrifying figure.Would I really want to have his well-trained parrot choose a card for me and me come to know of an insipid or perhaps even painful future? Have the knowledge of the yet-to-come shadow my small beautiful moments? Even if the knowledge comes with the assurance of remedy, really, who in their right minds would want it? Because what really, really worries me is the question of whether we have the power to shape our own futures. Of course, over time I have come to understand that unless we look at it theologically, our answers to this would be directly dependent on the measure of success achieved.

But, again as I saw a man sit down on the pidhi  beside the parrot, I reflected that there is, after all a very fine line between foolishness and bravery, and till I manage to find the courage  to  make my way towards the now occupied pidhi, I remain sitting on a fence.

(Posted at 11:28 pm)

Friday, October 22, 2010

No Poetry Is Poetry Enough.



What I concieve is poetry, what I write is a poem and between them falls a shadow so dark that it seems enough to plunge one into cynicism; A shadow so large that you seem to never reach its edges.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Forever Young.

Today I subjected myself to a reality check. My last post had been on May 9.I have been putting off writing posts for so long I had now begun gliding over all thoughts of blogs - mine or otherwise. Not an unusual phenomenon when something piles up. But back breaking work now finally at a respite I must dive back into the multi-dimensional life that is more usual.

And I was in for a surprise- seems like it wasn't only me who had been putting off stuff. Most of the regular blogs I read( which aren't very many by the way) have litteler than usual posts. And always because of extra workload. And though it feels nice to be included, that is not the point of  my post.

The point of my post is the one advantage of Windows over DOS that was revolutionary : Multitasking.
Many a summer ago I moved from laziness to work. Then came the transition from mere work to hard-work. Then from hard-work to the point where no more work was possible. At this point dawned the realisation that efficiency must be stepped up. Now comes multi tasking.

So in a sense, there are really no reasons for the gaping holes in my blog calendar. Only excuses which seem to sound more and more like cribbing each time you go over it.

Inspiration does not die : Ever. It only gets clouded over by fogs of our own making. And till the time you have the strength to keep clearing those fogs, till then, you remain young and un-disillusioned.


P.S: Out of practice, I took the liberty of coining a couple of words- I am no poet, so forgive me. :)

I wanted to do a mother's day post, but realised that I  wouldn't know what to write.

Of mothers perhaps.

There are loves that we are born into, and there are loves that are born of us. And painfully enough, the loves that are born of us, find, in some strange way, a precedence over the loves that we are born into. Perhaps its the love, perhaps its the responsibility, let greater minds debate on that. But it is the same primeval instinct that
makes a mother love her child.

That is what a mothers love would be. An instinct. And so, in a sense, a mother's love is also tragic.Because, an instinct must wean away from her the object of her love.

And when you dwell on things such as these, better left mingled in your being and uncomprehensive to rationality, you'll realise that the tragedy is heightened when the instinct is pure. Undiluted by learning and education enough to bring an awareness of the emotions undergone.

This is the point where you think of the millions in  your country,  the unsung heroines who haven't heard of a Mother's Day.

And even though you feel an anguish, the pain is washed over by a soothing balm as you watch your child play with the waves.