Bangalore again.
Bangalore, colloquially known as the AC city. The city of a perennial cool breeze, cloudy skies and a very fine weather. The city where you will never complain that its sweaty, or wet, or freezing. The city where everyday the weather is delightful. The city where every day is like the next. Invariably.
Bangalore, the software hub of the country. The city of an Indianized version of an American dream. The city packed cinema halls and IT professionals with serious money to burn. And auto-rickshaw-wallahs and shopkeepers with an eye for that money.
Bangalore, the city of traffic jams. The city where the long transit hours have meant a family life torn out of context, or an office life forced into absurd timescales. The city that has learnt to live with one-way roads that curve like snakes, and yet bear such clinical names as “18th cross”.
And yet, Bangalore, the city of change.
I am here in Bangalore again, the city that was the beginning and the end of so many changes. I look outside from behind glass walls at the Gulmohur, and notice that it doesn’t have any more flowers. I look around me and notice that there are no longer many friends around me. The table I sat at in the summers, surrounded by so many people a colleague, also a Professor, called it a fish market, is now empty. Terribly so, in fact. Isolated, host to a blank computer screen already in disuse, it stands like a ghost, reminding me of what was, and what isn’t any more.
What was, and what isn’t any more, and what could have been but wasn’t. Wild swamps of buried memories suddenly come to life in this eternally unchanging city, and yet the city that played host to a revolution in my life. A relationship that sprang up way too quickly, and still refuses to die. A sequence of friendships that were never quite there, and that showed up cracks in my life and heart. An attempt to be something I can probably never be. A blossoming of hopes followed by a poignant autumn, a relentless winter and a cautious spring. An eternity of life lived between the summer at Bangalore and the winter at Bangalore, and yet the city is still the same. It’s almost as if the blizzards of change have ravaged my heart and soul, and yet have left the city around me mockingly untouched. The city looks back at me through these same glass walls, through this gulmohur and these clouds, and sniggers ruthlessly. Oh it’s you again, it says, and laughs, as I close my eyes and let the flood of a million memories drown me in their wake.
Bangalore, the AC city, India’s silicon valley, darling of the capitalists and software industries. Bangalore, the city that is too much with my memory, that I want to stay away .
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
On morality
The minors are usually the time for a reality check. Dinner time conversations held over tables in a cafe or over walks to and from SDA, on life, the universe and everything fade away into the background. Philosophy restricts itself to the exam and how to get past it. Ideas of friendships and loyalties get morphed into hideous equations of allegiances and infidelities. Left to itself, mired in the swampy undergrowth of the epsilon's and delta's staring back in the unintelligible handwriting of a colleague of yours you don't probably know, abandoned in the sleepless loneliness of a syllabus that doesn't seem to end, the mind thinks thoughts, discards them, then thinks again.
Well, not exactly, and maybe this is a very gloomy picture of an exam that doesn't matter much, but look around you while the exams are going on and you will find an aura of “using” and “being used”. People who never talked to you ask you for your notes, and people you never wanted to face are sitting with you and studying the same things you are. And you have to bear with them because of course this is an exam right? This is reality.
On a larger scale, sometimes, I wonder how true people are to what people say, and believe, about themselves and about the world. If so often friendships and companionships are forged as temporary allegiances in the race to get better grades, to what extent can other human values survive? When people say they believe in something, (even I myself, to say the truth), to what extent will that belief be borne out by their future behaviour?
Sometimes I feel that belief, and principles, and ideals are nothing but matters of convenience. Your principles are whatever it takes to prove yourselves as right and the other person as wrong. You don't act according to principles, you principle yourself according to your acts. Viewed in this light, value systems are not absolute; they are relative, and they are relative in such a mindboggling, frustating way that to talk of them as anything more than the whims and fancies of a mad man that is the average human is blasphemous overestimation.
And this hypocrisy, this dichotomy, between something that is supposedly as universal as a principle or morality and something that is as personal as a like or dislike, permeates every level of society. If individuals hide behind protective armors of their own code of ethics, so do families operate behind the veils of honor and custom, so do religions battle under the flag of injustice and discrimination, and so do nations scheme and plot in the name of magnanimity and peace. Morality is nothing but what you hurl at the other person to win an argument. It is not that it is moral. It is that you want it to be.
We are all pleased with our own moralities, aren't we? So much so that we find it hard to digest that someone else might have a different view. We like to have nice little “pearls of wisdom”, and strew them on a thread and wear them on our neck. But there are no pearls of wisdom. There is no shining light at the end of the tunnel. There is no white, black and color. The truth, the reality, the unknown, unseen morality that we so unabashedly lay claim to, isn't shining or rounded, or consistent. It is not the pearl, it is that irritating grain of sand, an inconsistency, an abomination, is reality. It is hard, and rough, and difficult to digest, and to protect yourself from it you cover it in layers of ambiguity, the way an oyster covers it with its own secretions, till it hurts no more. We bend our pitifully illogical logic this way and that, back and forth, till it can explain what hurt us and what we cannot explain.
And so we “learn”, and forget, and move on. With a brand new philosophy, a brand new set of beliefs. A brand new pearl of wisdom hanging blithely from the necklace around our neck. This is philosophy. This is morality. And this is the quintessence of this world we live in.
Well, not exactly, and maybe this is a very gloomy picture of an exam that doesn't matter much, but look around you while the exams are going on and you will find an aura of “using” and “being used”. People who never talked to you ask you for your notes, and people you never wanted to face are sitting with you and studying the same things you are. And you have to bear with them because of course this is an exam right? This is reality.
On a larger scale, sometimes, I wonder how true people are to what people say, and believe, about themselves and about the world. If so often friendships and companionships are forged as temporary allegiances in the race to get better grades, to what extent can other human values survive? When people say they believe in something, (even I myself, to say the truth), to what extent will that belief be borne out by their future behaviour?
Sometimes I feel that belief, and principles, and ideals are nothing but matters of convenience. Your principles are whatever it takes to prove yourselves as right and the other person as wrong. You don't act according to principles, you principle yourself according to your acts. Viewed in this light, value systems are not absolute; they are relative, and they are relative in such a mindboggling, frustating way that to talk of them as anything more than the whims and fancies of a mad man that is the average human is blasphemous overestimation.
And this hypocrisy, this dichotomy, between something that is supposedly as universal as a principle or morality and something that is as personal as a like or dislike, permeates every level of society. If individuals hide behind protective armors of their own code of ethics, so do families operate behind the veils of honor and custom, so do religions battle under the flag of injustice and discrimination, and so do nations scheme and plot in the name of magnanimity and peace. Morality is nothing but what you hurl at the other person to win an argument. It is not that it is moral. It is that you want it to be.
We are all pleased with our own moralities, aren't we? So much so that we find it hard to digest that someone else might have a different view. We like to have nice little “pearls of wisdom”, and strew them on a thread and wear them on our neck. But there are no pearls of wisdom. There is no shining light at the end of the tunnel. There is no white, black and color. The truth, the reality, the unknown, unseen morality that we so unabashedly lay claim to, isn't shining or rounded, or consistent. It is not the pearl, it is that irritating grain of sand, an inconsistency, an abomination, is reality. It is hard, and rough, and difficult to digest, and to protect yourself from it you cover it in layers of ambiguity, the way an oyster covers it with its own secretions, till it hurts no more. We bend our pitifully illogical logic this way and that, back and forth, till it can explain what hurt us and what we cannot explain.
And so we “learn”, and forget, and move on. With a brand new philosophy, a brand new set of beliefs. A brand new pearl of wisdom hanging blithely from the necklace around our neck. This is philosophy. This is morality. And this is the quintessence of this world we live in.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Random ramble
Walking shouting running screaming
Talking whispering laughing dreaming
Jumping sleeping smiling crying
Loving, hating; living, dying
Each day the better, each day the worse
Each hope a memory, each memory a hope
Each thought a million emotions in my mind
Each light so powerful it can strike you blind
Each road a circle, each end a road
Each freedom a noose, each noose a rope
To the rope I hang for the breath that ain't mine
To the hope I hang for the dream I can't find
Each moment an hour, each hour gone by
Each minute a painful reminder of life
Each smile a fear of the tears to come
Of what I am, and what I have become
This way is that, and that way, this
Hell is a tear on the cheeks of bliss
And joy must come with a thousand warning signs
But sorrow can sneak in, whenever, into my mind
Endnote: Just a random ramble...
Talking whispering laughing dreaming
Jumping sleeping smiling crying
Loving, hating; living, dying
Each day the better, each day the worse
Each hope a memory, each memory a hope
Each thought a million emotions in my mind
Each light so powerful it can strike you blind
Each road a circle, each end a road
Each freedom a noose, each noose a rope
To the rope I hang for the breath that ain't mine
To the hope I hang for the dream I can't find
Each moment an hour, each hour gone by
Each minute a painful reminder of life
Each smile a fear of the tears to come
Of what I am, and what I have become
This way is that, and that way, this
Hell is a tear on the cheeks of bliss
And joy must come with a thousand warning signs
But sorrow can sneak in, whenever, into my mind
Endnote: Just a random ramble...
Monday, June 15, 2009
The wrong side of the moon
They said take the plunge, dont be afraid to dream
It all seemed so well, as it always seems
I told you all, once, beneath a full moon
Guess I'm looking now at the wrong side of the moon
I never asked for mountains or flowers
I dont think I ever wanted to touch the stars
I wanted, in your heart, but a little bit of room
Guess I dreamt of the wrong side of the moon.
I hold my pen, it quivers as it writes
As do the tears as they stand atop my eyes
Guess it doesnt get better so soon
Guess I was always on the wrong side of the moon
I lay down my head on a pillow at night
I close my eyes and I dream of you in the moonlight
You're holding my hands and I'm looking right at you
And I am dreaming of the wrong side of the moon
I touch your face and you look into my eyes
I wish I could hold on to this moment for my life
But its hardly morning and I wake up all too soon
And I'm still alone and on the wrong side of the moon
I get up, brush and bathe, life must go on
Stare with wistful glances at the growing dawn
At a fading image of you amidst flowers in bloom
I was always, always on the wrong side of the moon.
Endnote: Fictional. :)
It all seemed so well, as it always seems
I told you all, once, beneath a full moon
Guess I'm looking now at the wrong side of the moon
I never asked for mountains or flowers
I dont think I ever wanted to touch the stars
I wanted, in your heart, but a little bit of room
Guess I dreamt of the wrong side of the moon.
I hold my pen, it quivers as it writes
As do the tears as they stand atop my eyes
Guess it doesnt get better so soon
Guess I was always on the wrong side of the moon
I lay down my head on a pillow at night
I close my eyes and I dream of you in the moonlight
You're holding my hands and I'm looking right at you
And I am dreaming of the wrong side of the moon
I touch your face and you look into my eyes
I wish I could hold on to this moment for my life
But its hardly morning and I wake up all too soon
And I'm still alone and on the wrong side of the moon
I get up, brush and bathe, life must go on
Stare with wistful glances at the growing dawn
At a fading image of you amidst flowers in bloom
I was always, always on the wrong side of the moon.
Endnote: Fictional. :)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Reflections
In the beginning was the world.
It was a world, and that's all. An orb floating through the ever-changing continuum of space, a mass of physics revolving around a yellow-gold sphere of flames, biding its time. Like clockwork, it revolved, it rotated, it looked upon the rest of its kin, as they moved, enmasse, through the ether. A million orbs floating in the sky. In the beginning was the world.
In the beginning was the cell. In the poisonous, ruthless sea of the world, it gasped and panted as it negotiated every passing second, every passing day of its existence, counting its time in the revolutions of the world, in the ups and downs of the burning yellow sphere that dominated the sky, or the waxing and wayning of the calm white sphere as it went through its cycles. Day and night, yin and yang, dark and light, but there was no one to look at it. Yet. For in the beginning was just the cell.
In the beginning was fire. Time had flown past like a river in a hurry to meet the sea, or so it would seem hardly a few milleniums hence. For at no time before had the world seen so much change in itself, nor the cell seen so much of its kin. At no time before had the rapid change of the universe been so obvious, so apparent, as when in that blink of a cosmological eye, things changed forever, and suddenly a pair of eyes fell upon the miracle for the first time: in the beginning was fire.
In the beginning was: what? The world never could have thought of the cell. The cell could never have thought of the advent of fire. And fire would scarce believe that in her simple beginnings something as wonderfully profound as the human mind could take seed. That someday this very pair of eyes that stared at it so absolutely today would someday stare at a rocket fly off to space, at a canvas that would fill up with color, stare at a million things, take in, discover, invent.
That someday the first written word would appear. That someday the first painting would be drawn on the stone wall. That someday someone will start to dream. To love. To hate. To think. That someday, this whole mass of coincidence, would collapse into one single thought in someone's head.
So, right, I'll take your leave. Happy life!
It was a world, and that's all. An orb floating through the ever-changing continuum of space, a mass of physics revolving around a yellow-gold sphere of flames, biding its time. Like clockwork, it revolved, it rotated, it looked upon the rest of its kin, as they moved, enmasse, through the ether. A million orbs floating in the sky. In the beginning was the world.
In the beginning was the cell. In the poisonous, ruthless sea of the world, it gasped and panted as it negotiated every passing second, every passing day of its existence, counting its time in the revolutions of the world, in the ups and downs of the burning yellow sphere that dominated the sky, or the waxing and wayning of the calm white sphere as it went through its cycles. Day and night, yin and yang, dark and light, but there was no one to look at it. Yet. For in the beginning was just the cell.
In the beginning was fire. Time had flown past like a river in a hurry to meet the sea, or so it would seem hardly a few milleniums hence. For at no time before had the world seen so much change in itself, nor the cell seen so much of its kin. At no time before had the rapid change of the universe been so obvious, so apparent, as when in that blink of a cosmological eye, things changed forever, and suddenly a pair of eyes fell upon the miracle for the first time: in the beginning was fire.
In the beginning was: what? The world never could have thought of the cell. The cell could never have thought of the advent of fire. And fire would scarce believe that in her simple beginnings something as wonderfully profound as the human mind could take seed. That someday this very pair of eyes that stared at it so absolutely today would someday stare at a rocket fly off to space, at a canvas that would fill up with color, stare at a million things, take in, discover, invent.
That someday the first written word would appear. That someday the first painting would be drawn on the stone wall. That someday someone will start to dream. To love. To hate. To think. That someday, this whole mass of coincidence, would collapse into one single thought in someone's head.
So, right, I'll take your leave. Happy life!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I wish I could make you happy
I wish I could be a butterfly
And alight upon your nose
And fly around your face
Till the happiness shows
I wish I could be a song
And creep into your mind
And fill it all up
So it's only me you find
I wish I could make u happy
But i am just this guy
Who saw your tears for a moment
And wondered why you cry
And alight upon your nose
And fly around your face
Till the happiness shows
I wish I could be a song
And creep into your mind
And fill it all up
So it's only me you find
I wish I could make u happy
But i am just this guy
Who saw your tears for a moment
And wondered why you cry
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The art of storytelling II - Memento
What makes a story a good story?
This question has been plaguing me, in a way, for the past fortnight or so. I started writing as a hobby, you see, and like all conceited idiots in the world I fancied myself a good amateur writer. A marvelous one, in fact.
There is, of course, a limit to the amount of self-deception one is willing to indulge in. So the past few days I have been trying to wade through the net, flounder, rather, trying to find that thing, that defining characteristic, that little magic that good, professional writers have and hobbyists like yours truly don't. I mean, ok, yeah, I have a way with words, but it is, after all, a teeny-weeny, cramped up way, and I would rather I got a little bit more ... writerish?...in my efforts.
So I took it upon myself to watch, and read some nice stories. (nice. talk about banality) I watched Memento. Yeah, all right, all those fans out there. I agree. It is an awesome movie. I have never so enjoyed being so confused in life. I mean, what better way to show "anterograde memory loss" or whatever the hell it was than to just put the audience in a muddle, running events in such an "anti-chronological" order? And what more? It is just such a great way to show memory loss, as in what memory would the audience have of events that haven't even been shown? Really, awesome way of making the audience associate with the protagonist.
And wait. That's not it, is it. The story is not just about a non-linear narrative. It is just so carefully written out, so carefully planned, sowing in the audience's mind the exact same kind of doubt that gets into Leonard's mind, and reaches such a wonderfully well thought out climax: making the audience question whether what Leonard calls "facts" are really so, whether he hasn't been manipulated by someone like Natalie, or Ted, or, in what was, at least to me, a brilliantly crafted revelation, himself.
And therein the story achieves its motive. It brings out anterograde whatever in such striking relief that the guy watching it knows, literally, what it would feel like to be in Leonard's place. Phew. No. I can never really write anything like that.
How the hell do they make such stories??
This question has been plaguing me, in a way, for the past fortnight or so. I started writing as a hobby, you see, and like all conceited idiots in the world I fancied myself a good amateur writer. A marvelous one, in fact.
There is, of course, a limit to the amount of self-deception one is willing to indulge in. So the past few days I have been trying to wade through the net, flounder, rather, trying to find that thing, that defining characteristic, that little magic that good, professional writers have and hobbyists like yours truly don't. I mean, ok, yeah, I have a way with words, but it is, after all, a teeny-weeny, cramped up way, and I would rather I got a little bit more ... writerish?...in my efforts.
So I took it upon myself to watch, and read some nice stories. (nice. talk about banality) I watched Memento. Yeah, all right, all those fans out there. I agree. It is an awesome movie. I have never so enjoyed being so confused in life. I mean, what better way to show "anterograde memory loss" or whatever the hell it was than to just put the audience in a muddle, running events in such an "anti-chronological" order? And what more? It is just such a great way to show memory loss, as in what memory would the audience have of events that haven't even been shown? Really, awesome way of making the audience associate with the protagonist.
And wait. That's not it, is it. The story is not just about a non-linear narrative. It is just so carefully written out, so carefully planned, sowing in the audience's mind the exact same kind of doubt that gets into Leonard's mind, and reaches such a wonderfully well thought out climax: making the audience question whether what Leonard calls "facts" are really so, whether he hasn't been manipulated by someone like Natalie, or Ted, or, in what was, at least to me, a brilliantly crafted revelation, himself.
And therein the story achieves its motive. It brings out anterograde whatever in such striking relief that the guy watching it knows, literally, what it would feel like to be in Leonard's place. Phew. No. I can never really write anything like that.
How the hell do they make such stories??
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