The Annoying Itch

You are pretty sure
That the room is dark and calm
And you have been laying still

With eyes closed and ears shut
You see glaring lights
And hear deafening noises

When all you pray
Is to get a good night's sleep

As an answer to your prayer
Your head attempts to clear this clutter

It searches for words, replaces them
It strings them together
And recites them over n over
Until it finds the right ones
To allay the annoyance

Now you cannot restrain
But to straighten up and scratch the itch
Lest you lose the pearls you beaded


Dated - Oct 17, 2018

The Gift

If there is one that you would want to give to someone whom you think must get the best in this world. Like say, for instance, your kid. And let's assume that they have the innate sense to take of good care of things that they own and always strive to honor the responsibility given to them--to take good care what you have bestowed them.

What would you gift?

The fact that I started writing on 'the gift' deems me to give it hands down to the blessing of losing yourself to the versatility of music, of the things it can do to you. And like the fusion of two of the best things, it would be the duo of immersing yourself into the moments when the rain god presents herself and augmenting it with the vivacious listening spell that you have bound yourself into.

Addiction and Escapism

I see the poorest of the poor lining up at the liquor store, spending the last few pennies that they had saved up after toiling their self through physical hardship; all for some intoxication and relief. And I wonder: why would someone struggle so much to earn those meagre shillings and waste it upon liquor. What for... For the high and the temporary relief from their current mental and physical state. They yearn for the pleasure they received the first time. Then, it becomes a habit, and then, there kicks in the avalanche effect. That is addiction, and the point is escapism. An escape from the worldly botherations.

And then, I wonder how different we are from these folks. Of course, the modality of addiction and the level of moral degradation varies by a large amount. We tend to overdo stuff, spend excessive time and effort over what is not needed, and obsess over certain aspects that do not deserve so much attention. We are addicted to, and practice escapism. We kill time and pain like those who do so after consumption of liquor. Just that we use food, television, movies, work, and social media as various means of escapism.

At varying intensties, the end point or the areas of intersection between the alcoholics versus non-alcoholics would be addiction, loss of self-worth, lack of self control, mindlessness, recklessness, lack of concern over the first circle of influence (influence both ways), and loads and loads of meandering from the expected and desired path and action.


Dated - Aug 10, 2018

Comfort

You are lying supine 
with your heart thumping loud and hard,
thigh muscles burning, out of intense work,
and your tensed core gets a breather.

Your eyes are closed,
arms resting on the floor,
and knuckles on your brow.

Your feet, which usually rest,
under the weight of your body,
is now resting on the gym floor,
bearing the weight
of just the portion beneath the bent knee.

While you are so,
you think about penning these thoughts
with the title 'comfort'.

That was mental comfort,
after the innumerous dry days of 'un' writing.


Dated - Jul 28, 2018

Between Shades of Gray and Karwaan

How long has it been since I saw a movie as refreshing as the cool breeze on a sweaty evening! It was the Friday evening and my official weekend hours. Yes... weekend, for me, lasts for a few hours, and that is the Friday evening. The weekend is technically work for home. Work is work, isn't it, be it home or office. Anyways, c'est la vie! So, after a long time, I was surfing Amazon Prime to see if there was anything worthwhile, and this one popped up. The movie poster had Dulquer and Irrfan sharing a light moment with another young lady, and with tender coconut in their hands; so, by the first looks, it came across as a good movie to spend time on.

You get to traverse most of the first part with Dulquer's misgiving in his life. But then, it does not come out so on-your-face, like the typical lifeless guy with a beard. He is a guy who had to lose his passion for the sake of his father, who harps on a solid career, rather than dwelling on one's passion. For his father, Dulquer's passion was a mere insecure vocation that vacillated unsteadily, tethered by luck at the binding end. Dulquer is shown desperately seeking the attention of his love interests at a few places, and that is still reasonable for a guy with a single status. There is not much of a background for Irrfan, apart from the fact that he owns a few vehicles, but not the suave kinds, along the lines of his character in Piku; yet, he is a practical, lovable, and a rustic character. He has a brotherly affinity for Dulquer, and this clarifies or convinces us as to why he would take his personal vehicle to help Dulquer; a vehicle styled similar to the Volkswagen Camper.

So, Karwaan refers to a caravan, the vehicle that Irrfan drives to exchange Amala's mom's mortal remains with that of Dulquer's dad. Both their parents had travelled to the Ganges on a pilgrimage and the bus meets with an accident. For a few seconds, I actually could not recognize the beautiful Amala, but then her gait and body language lets you make the guess. Before the exchange act starts, there is a piece on the way the travel company and the courier company handle the demises; it does look a bit stony and dramatic, but I guess that is how it really is... perhaps more like the way George Clooney presents himself when he issues the pink slips in Up in the Air.

The exchange of conversation between Dulquer and the spoilt brat in Amala's daughter, and the situational romantic tragedies when Irrfan's tries to hit on a woman he falls for, form the rest of the movie. The movie evokes memories of Soodhu Kavvum and Neram, in the way it has dealt certain parts of the plot. Now here, I must say that my references to the other movies is certainly an injustice to Karwaan, especially after having had so much fun watching the movie. It certainly has a refreshing appeal and is a must watch. There's no doubt about it.

Karwaan was actually sandwiched between two of the many quick reading sessions of the book, Between Shades of Gray written by Ruta Sepetys. That night, after watching Karwaan, I was extending my weekend hours for a little longer, and I was not too sure if I must continue the emotionally heavy book after seeing such a light-hearted movie. But then, I reasoned it out saying that a good movie stands apart for the lightness it brings, despite the drama contained external to it. And, a good book like Between the Shades of Gray, however tragic it may be, does not dwell in your mind for the horrors endured by the protagonists (Lina and her fellow members), but the positivity and the ray of hope that beams throughout the narration.

Thereon and until the end, there was still a lot more tragedy in Lina's life. There were places in the book that were ghastly, and yet, Karwaan's aura never faded. And, neither did I feel so desolated after I finished the book.

Of course, even though there was a little hope saved at the closing of the book, when the inspecting doctor arrives, it still is not a happy ending. Could be primarily because of the number of years after which the countries surrounding Lithuania, the Baltic countries, got their freedom from the tyranny of Russia. In all, a very good book after a really long time. And it is yet another book that carries values and reinstates the spirit of hope amidst doom and despair.


Dated - Oct 06, 2018

Come Back

The pupils forgot to dilate,

my heart settled to beat slower...

perhaps, my blood got colder?

My senses were rarely alert

and never reached any high.

I was desperate and helpless.

I could not realize what I missed.

I was searching for something

to fill the void, not knowing what.

I was shoved around and
thrown into a perpetual dismay.
With convictions thrown astray
my ship sunk into diffidence.
I felt like I lost my voice
and my power to reason and say.

My constants exclaimed

that I seemed to have aged.

In actual, I was rotting

and indulging in self-sabotage.

Today, realization dawned
and slung me
to heightened consciousness.
Like an ablution 
at the close of a tired day,
like being amidst 
the expanse of a calm blue sea,
like inhaling scentless 
whiff of mist atop a hill.

I notice that it's you.
Am so glad to have gotten you back,
and, most of all, am glad it was you...

Dear Euphoria!

The Unburied

I ask the flowers a reason
For being prodigal
Shedding itself in vain
All its glorious blooms
On the dismal roads

In reply, it says to me
"I weep and pay homage
To all my warriors
The seeds, twigs, and leaves
Who gracefully heeded, and
Gave way to new blood
They are my kith and kin,
My bullets, swords, and shields
Who lay unburied
On the tarred, cold roads
Hapless and nowhere to go
Deprived of their deathright
To lay peacefully
In the womb of Mother Earth

I shed to perform their last rites"

I stood there pained and meek
Before I could say anything
The flower continued to speak

"I question mankind in disdain
About the inaction and imprudence
To let the valorous bodies
Their bones and flesh
Decay in dishonor
The ones that braved and fought
The likes of
Nature, time, and circumstance.

You better explain..."

Pleasure Balloons

It's a pity that
We've trained ourselves
To fly high
Only when we inflate our minds
With pleasure.

Cotton Ball - Redacted

On a dreary and cold day,
I sit in my room 
listening to a song, 
spieled to eternity.

I imagine tearing away
bleached white layers
from the cotton roll.

I fold and refold,
make two small balls
and stuff them into my ears.

My weary mind yields 
to a strange urge 
that comes over me.

I take the song in my hands,
gently make two globs,
and thrust 'em into my ears,
reassured of the warmth
to my cold heart.


Edits Credit: MaheshC

Cotton Ball

It's a cold day.
I imagine tearing away 
white layers of soft, fluffy cotton 
from the bale.

I make two small balls 
and stuff them into my ears.

As I listen to an all-absorbing song, 
an urge comes over me,
and I continue.

I take the song in my hands,
roll it into two chunks, and
thrust them into my ear canal...

To provide comfort and warmth
to my cold heart,
and clear itself
from the over-crowded clutter
caused by the innumerous, unsolved 
problems and troubles of my world.

A Heart-Warming Tale

Eddie the Eagle

Apparently, a tad old review. Be that as it may, I wanna write it anyways.

This one is such a heart-warming true narrative of Eddie, a kid who aspires to be at the Olympics. The movie's director manages to create the endearing feeling for the protagonist by showcasing his zeal to participate in the Olympics, despite his shortcomings. You kinda get a feeling of having won a medal for Eddie when the only thing that he achieves is the minuscule victory of having qualified for the Olympics, and that too when there were hardly any stringent minimum qualifications laid for qualifying for participating in the Olympics.

Most of us are mediocre folks, who live a life of a cigar that is either smoked or trampled, all done too quickly. So, this one eggs us to dream, and go after it. Another remarkable point is about the freedom that Eddie's parents give him, especially his mom who is super-supportive of Eddie's dreams. Consistently, the endearing mom that she is, she puts his aspirations at the top of her list and forgives and encourages that self-motivating lad. And, all of this, despite Eddie's dad who had long given up on him. Wish we could have a person like Eddie's mom in our home team!

And, not really sure why the handsome Hugh Jackman would have wanted to do the role of a prodigal ski jumper. Anyways, good to be seeing him without the metal prongs.

Mirror

Looking in the rear-view mirror of your two-wheeler after you leave the parking lot is almost like the loving ritual of dropping a peck on your loved one when you say goodbye after you reach the destination; of course, when you are in a good and chirpy mood. And yeah, at times when you both are not really doing well after a 'i-beg-to-differ' situation, you have a second or two of gaining composure and you think on how you really want to word your bye--do I scratch and scar the scab, or leave it to rest for it to heal.

Something that I now remember is a quote that establishes a relationship between a person's outlook and what they do in front of a mirror. It goes something like 'you really have a bad sense of humor if you don't smile at yourself in the mirror.' Long live such quotes, because at times, in our dreary lives, those are the only times we smile.

So, I park my vehicle and the rear-view mirror on my two-wheeler invited me as usual. I look at the speckles, on my face and on it. No... I only realize the speckles on it after peering deep into my face for a good one minute. And then, slowly I see those aberrations distracting me. Something like, you instantly are able to realize how you are doing on the outside almost instantly as you see yourself. But then, getting to notice the speckles on the mirror is like realizing how well you are doing in the inside, and it is not on a normal day that the aberrations show up. It actually interferes with what you are seeing—the physical self—your thought that you are doing just fine. However, think about it...

Blessed are those who realize this intervention and set on the act of cleaning the mirror, of getting rid of the distortions. You give the speckles a cursory wipe first; this is that acknowledgement thought on something that is bothering you. And then after the wipe, you see those stubborn speckles, the one that is much deeper that you thought; that's the root cause that you manage to point fingers at. Then you employ your nails, or apply pressure and try hard to wipe things off clean. After the job at the epicenter is done, you work on the inner edges to finish the cleaning. Ta-da! Now you are able to see things really crystal clear. There...! isn’t it obvious that after you mend the inner stuff, you look even better on the outer.

And there are times, when things are going too fast, you know there are specks but then you lose control of things, the mending act gets sidelined, and then you go down the spiraling path! Something like, you are late to a destination and just happened to wipe your mirror after you started the bike, and then realize those speckles. You cannot cleanse when your mind is in a chaos; it is impossible to mend it when you are in haste. You've got to pause, stop, mend, and surge ahead.

From introspection to mending stuff! I wish the realization and the mending act was as easy as realizing the specks on the mirror and cleaning it, partnering with time and priority!

The Growing Neem

About a year ago, at about eight in the night
when I was among the lot after a day's fight,
I saw a sapling in an almost wretched state.

Hardly did I know that I were to seal its fate.

I did see a steel strap beside the stooping sap,
And wanted did I to mend its breaking back.

I choked its neck with this rusted strap.
I was yelling at it, 
'think of yourself steady and strong!'

I fought until I stitched it back to its kin,
Even though I knew I was hurting its skin.

I left it there, hoping to have done a job so fair.

Today, it was just about the same time,
after a day's work not so fine...
I see a strange groove on a growing tree.

Hey...! He's the same dude who was so helpless 
and let to sway until he almost fell.

Now, here he is, grown twenty feet tall.
Proud was I to have seen him done so well.

But then, hold on for a second y'all...

This trough on his trunk that is running around
and about five feet from the ground?

Was I the one who left that scar?

I wonder about the neem's tale to the leaves!
Am I being damned or being thanked,
for the scarred life or for the breath of life?

Your Beautiful Eyes

The steady flicker of your naive eyes
always marked by a carefree candour
that which feast on the world's wonder,
and drenching it
with an imagination so splendour

Is like

The flame of a divine lamp
that which drinks the ether around,
neither too fast nor too slow,
living its fullest life
in each moment of its lustrous glow.

Beautiful, isn't it, to see...
both dancing
to the song of a thanking ode,
for being blessed to just be?

Poison

The point is not just about 
taking the blows or your deftness.
It is about being able to realize 
that you are about to be blown.

But, it is not that easy with words.

You... your mind may be poisoned 
without you being cognizant of it.

That is the difference...

in refusing to take poison
versus realizing 
that you are being poisoned.

We ought to be agile and immune.

Coincidence

How about this for a coincidence?

Long ago, when I had overcome a bout of greediness--OK... let's be a bit positive and call it enthusiasm, or love for books, or... eagerness, for lack of any other word--in buying books that have a good rating... I must talk about my book selection routine a little later; perhaps, that's an entirely different conversation (monologue?) altogether. Too much of meandering... I know. Anyways, the book, 'All the light we cannot see' by Anthony Doerr was one among them. And then, when I start reading it, I enthusiastically pursue the habit of jotting down the stuff that really impresses me, shakes me or whatever kind of emotion it brings out of me. So, of the three pages of ravings about the book, the one praise that I bother to write down is by J. R. Moehringer, author of Sutton and the Tender Bar. 

"Doerr sees the world as a scientist, but feels as a poet. He knows about everything - radios, diamonds, molluscs, birds, flowers, locks, guns, - but he also writes a line so beautiful, creates an image or scene so haunting, it makes you think foerver differenty about the big things - love, fear, cruelty, kindness, the countless facets of the human heart ... Doerr's new novel is that novel, the one you savour, and ponder, and happily lose sleep over, then go around urging all your friends to read - now"

It is indeed an amazing take on the book; no doubt about it. That is the reason why it takes a place in my beloved notebook. Now, the date was 28 Dec 2016. I have entries, more from books that I cared to leave midway, than from those that I bothered to finish. Just a rude reminder to myself that 2017 has been the worst of all the un-self years I have had to deal with so far. Un-self? I mean, not being myself or having very less time for myself. 

The last fews book that I read (in 2016) were 'Wonder' by RJ Palacio, 'When breath becomes air', by Paul Kalanithi, 'The One and Only Ivan' by Katherine Applegate, and in 2017, just one book: 'The Gita for Children', by Roopa Pai. And for the books that I deserted too quickly are Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild, David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, Malala's I am Malala, John Grisham's The Firm, Kiran Desai's Inheritance of Loss, Jennifer Niven's All the Bright Places, Atul Gawande's Being Mortal, Jandy Nelson's I'll Give You the Sun, Harari's Sapiens, Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See, and Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White clouds. I know... Whatever!

And today, in a history of firsts, I manage to finish a book, and that's 'Open' by Andre Agassi. Rarely have books been able to catch my attention early on (he starts off like a wounded soldier and yet having to face the battle with such hate for the battlefield), and have made me read it till the last word. And this is one among such; I finished reading in one week, given my hectic schedule. In the last two pages of the book... a kind of closing statement from Andre, is the 'acknowledgements' section.

It reads, 'This book would not exist without my friend J. R. Moehringer. It was J.R., before we even met, who first made me think seriously about putting my story on paper. During my final U.S. Open, in 2006, I spent all my free time reading J.R.'s staggering memoir, The Tender Bar.'

And then, it is quite obvious that I would not remember that I had written that name a long ago, that too for some other book. I just happened to notice the name when I was about to jot down the difficult words in Andre's book on my notebook, and happened to peruse through the other entries that I had made.

Coincidence, right? I picked Moehringer's name so randomly, which was part of an praise list of some other book, and it comes back after a year in some other context; he is now the pseudo-author of a book that I manage to complete.