Is it a part of life to forever want
even though that's what we did day before
always thinking one more and I'll be happy
is there ever a happily ever after
or just a a mirage of water in hot desert
vanishing the moment we reached the spot
giving us the hope to move forward
yet bringing disappointment all along
is the desire the cause of all distress
or just the very element that makes us human
satisfaction is what we all search for
or just an emotion that will pass us through
eventually making us want it even more
so when does ambition become dangerous
and success a part of next failure
how does one ever find out when
to stop wanting....hoping...asking for more...
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Piano and Amplified Teapot
To understand my utter bewilderment, you must listen first, to this: (it’s not long, don’t worry up to the 1:00 mark should be enough to get the point)
If you were wondering when the music starts, get ready to have your world shaken up: what you heard was the music, composed by John Cage, one of the most influential composers of the 20th century. The music, it doesn’t get any different. It’s plant noises for 8 whole minutes. I’m telling you, people applaud at the end and everything.
That utterly confusing piece is a form of “contemporary music”. If you understood or thoroughly enjoyed it, you can stop reading now, because the rest of this might be total nonsense to you.
Still reading? Okay. I’m going to try and convince you why this form of “music” isn’t so random after all. I experienced it for the first time at a concert by the contemporary music band “Sonic Generator”. They began with a most “interesting” piece called “this(continuity)”. To give you a feel of what it was like, here’s a description of it from a pamphlet we were given:
“Writing this again starting/stuttering location: this location and dislocation, disclosing and this closing … somewhere in the something to do, somewhere in the middle/muddle, a vertex/averting, where the fidgeting begins... using repetition to counteract the dominant culture’s obsessively repetitive state of denial, thus hopefully becoming an input for new and different information...”
Now, the music consisted of the artists breathing into flutes/clarinets, at intervals hissing words like “Begin!” or “This!” and stamping their feet. Towards the end, a section of around half a minute is pure radio static. No, seriously.
I was totally befuddled. I had no clue why anyone would pay to listen to a collection of arbitrary sounds, some of which make you want to jab your ears violently with a fork. So I rushed home, and reached for the nearest fork, when a thought struck me: Has this fork been washed properly? And then, another thought struck me: Isn’t music basically about sounds? Why was this any different?
I took deep breaths, eased the fork out of my hands and thought about it. Music, most people would agree, is anything that sounds “good” to the ears. Of course, people have varying definitions of “good” (just ask your grandparents to listen to Metallica for example). But in spite of differences in tastes, there is one thing common to almost all forms of music:a pattern. Almost any music contains intricate patterns and repetitions: a drumbeat in the background, a rhythm you can tap your foot to.
This contemporary music stuff, however, has no easily recognizable pattern. And no, its not just me saying that, many of my musician friends who attended the concert with me were equally ... er... surprised... by the piece.
The composition that followed this(continuity) was more understandable. It was played using two instruments: a Piano and an Amplified teapot. Yes, you read that correctly.Here’s the pamphlet description of it:
“During this work, fragments are played … The performance is recorded on a cassette tape... the tape is rewound and played back through a small loudspeaker hidden inside a teapot. … the lid of the pot is raised and lowered, changing the resonance characteristics of the pot.”
Essentially, the artist took a part of The Beatles’ Strawberry Fields Forever and modified its sounds in eccentric ways. But there was something about the sounds within that steel teapot that gave the tune a different aura: a hollow, echo, growing and shrivelling through the air, like memories of the past. And that got me thinking: is Music really about patterns, or is it more about the emotions and the images it creates?
Most people associate some emotions and feelings with musical pieces. But emotions can often be triggered by random events, and random noises. The noise of the wind or could fill you with awe, when you remember the first thunderstorm you saw as a child. Birdsong might make you picture a happy sunlit garden. A clang of metal in the dark could fill you with fear, when the last horror movie you watched floats up in your mind.
All of these are random noises, right? What if this piece I’d heard was not meant to sound pleasant, but instead meant to evoke emotion? I thought back and realised I was trying too hard to find patterns. Maybe if I had just listened, I would have understood.
I recalled a phrase from the description: “trying to counteract dominant culture’s obsessively repetitive...”. The description spoke of people constantly trying to conform to standards, trying the same things over and over: patterns. Instead, they wanted you to simply stay in the moment, feel that sense of discomfort as you relish the struggle between wanting to stay here and wanting to move into the future. Now it may not be the standard definition of Music, but it wasn’t as random as I’d thought. It actually made sense.
What if you could go to a concert, not necessarily to listen to something that sounded pleasant, but could bring back memories you never realised you had; evoke in you emotions that you rarely experience; give you something to think about? I think I’d pay for that.
And no, I still didn’t understand the plant noises noises thing :-/
(All of this is just my take on the matter. This is a topic where people’s opinions vary greatly. What do you think? Please post/comment and tell me how ignorant/stupid I am)
Sunday, February 12, 2012
As the day goes by !
DAWN
Just before the golden rays pour in,
Just before a thin sheet of fog becomes evident
Just before dew sets on the blade of grass
Before the birds welcome the dawn sweetly
Before the bats were up on a tree cosily
Before the little one cries its heart out
She slowly woke up and stretched
Smiling at the wonderful part of her life
It was the most beautiful reflection of herself
Using all her conviction she turned away. . . . .
DUSK
A girl in lily white gown,
Waited 'til the sun went down
The moon had become all gold
Just then breeze had become cold
The chirping birds had become few
The green meadow had pearls of dew
Full with hope in eyes she stood
Would wait forever if she could
Being patient had become a must
This was just a test of her trust
Then the sound of horse filled the air
She finally did something very rare
Silently she stared for a while
Then came rolling down a tear and smile....
Just before the golden rays pour in,
Just before a thin sheet of fog becomes evident
Just before dew sets on the blade of grass
Before the birds welcome the dawn sweetly
Before the bats were up on a tree cosily
Before the little one cries its heart out
She slowly woke up and stretched
Smiling at the wonderful part of her life
It was the most beautiful reflection of herself
Using all her conviction she turned away. . . . .
DUSK
A girl in lily white gown,
Waited 'til the sun went down
The moon had become all gold
Just then breeze had become cold
The chirping birds had become few
The green meadow had pearls of dew
Full with hope in eyes she stood
Would wait forever if she could
Being patient had become a must
This was just a test of her trust
Then the sound of horse filled the air
She finally did something very rare
Silently she stared for a while
Then came rolling down a tear and smile....
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Hunter
The golden light of the setting sun gleamed across the wooden spear as it flew gracefully through the air. It found its mark in the neck of the fleeing animal, sending it crashing to the ground.
At long last, a successful hunt.
The hunter looked tired, but relieved as she stood over her treasured prize. The meat on it would feed at least ten of her starving village. This was a sorely needed hunt. Food had become scarce ever since the village had been cursed by...
No! Banish those thoughts, she told herself, focus on this task alone, and return before the sun sets!
As was custom, she whispered an apology to her prey as she began the process of cutting up the meat. The orange disc of the sun was slowly swallowed by the horizon. She had expected to return earlier but game was difficult to come by these days, and she could not return home to her little brother empty handed. An intuition told her she had stayed far beyond safe hours though. Dusk was a dangerous time for work even by usual reckoning, but in recent times it was naught but suicide. Night was fast approaching, which meant so was the creature that haunted them.
It had first visited their village two months ago and carried off a small dog. It had rapidly grown bolder, progressing to infants and children playing near the outskirts, until finally terror had entered the village itself.
Thrice it had struck, on successive nights. Two young boys and an old woman were taken from within their huts themselves, and yet, not a sound was heard even by those that slept right beside the victims. The creature was Silence incarnate. Only the signs remained, a thick trail of blood leading out of the huts, disappearing quickly into mud and dust.
Fences were erected, doors were built. These offered some harbour, but there were whispered reports of rattled doors in the night, and the scratches on the doors were plain for all to see in the following mornings.
But this did not stop it. Hunt was stolen from the traps the hunters set, and those who set out in evenings did not return. Fear had created locks and doors stronger than wood and stone: no one ventured outside the village fence, save in groups in broad daylight. Hunting was much tougher in daylight, and the village had slowly run out of food. They were starving... until she had grown desperate enough to tempt fate.
The sun was now all but devoured and shadows crept forward growing longer, bearing darkness and fear. The hunter briskly set off, following the well-used dirt path, for this was safest. But it was still too late. Twilight quickly faded, shrouding her in cold, absolute darkness.
She knelt and searched her bundle for the oiled torch she always carried. When lit, it burned brightly and lasted long enough to take her home. She uttered a curse: the torch was missing!
It must have fallen out while I packed, too hurriedly. How could I be so careless?
The sounds of night mocked her now: she heard the calls of nameless evils stalking her. That crunch! Were those footsteps landing on dry leaves, or just a branch in the wind? And that rustling: are those merely leaves or did the haunted one approach?
She shut her eyes and collected herself.
Calm yourself. At this point fear will only cloud your instincts.
Her heart trusted her words, and slowed its pace.
Trust your ears, your feet. Make little noise. Follow the path through experience.
The eerie noises died down. Now it was just her and the night, and darkness could not in itself hurt her.
But the creature... the voice of terror said in her mind. She silenced it as well. Staying here is certain death. Proceeding forward is a gamble. In either choice, fear is of no use to me now.
She snapped her eyes open, now determined. There was only one option. She took step after step, rapidly but as silently as possible. Her heart was racing again, but this time out of resolve, not fear. Her ears gave her vision in the night, and her instinct showed her the path home.
Luck was with her, for soon her eyes were greeted by the fires near the village gate burning bright!
I’m home!
“Open the gates!” she screamed, exhausted. “I have come home!”
She beat the wooden door with her hands. There was no reply. She shouted out again and beat upon the gate, her hopelessness growing. After a while she sank to the ground. In the darkness she waited. No one was coming.
And then she heard it. Soft steps, falling on the ground in the night, slow and deliberate, approaching her. With bated breath she waited as the haunted one drew closer.
The footsteps stopped. There was now a scraping sound, as though something heavy were being dragged through the ground. Silence followed.
She waited still, listening intently. She let terror press in around her until it was too much to bear.
I shall not be taken sitting down! If I must be taken, let my spear go with me!
She silently drew her wooden weapon and began crawling on all fours, inching towards the source of the sounds. She crept forward, sticking close to the wooden fence - until her hand missed a step and fell lower then it should have!
A ditch? Right next to the fence?
In the dimming light of the village fires she saw what her hand had felt. A small portion of the ground under wall had been cleared, leaving empty space below.
A tunnel - It has dug a tunnel. The thought hit her like icy water to her face.The image of her little brother formed in her mind. There was no time to lose. Spear in hand, she crawled through.
Inside, the village was as silent as the grave. She ran, moving as fast as her legs could carry her, and halted at her home. The door was ajar. A feeling of dread washed over her. She burst in screaming her brother’s name. Time stood still.
And then she heard a whimper: in the dim light, she saw a tiny figure sitting huddled in a corner of the hut. In a heartbeat, she was near him, with her arms around him. His breathing was heavy, stuttered. His hands were moist to the touch, covered in a sticky liquid.
Blood.
The boy lifted a shivering arm and pointed behind her. She turned.
Behind her, against a wall, lay a mountain of fur, stripes and glittering eyes. She did not know how this had escaped her sight, but she knew it was no longer a problem; for beneath the cold, open eyes, in the white fur of the neck, nestled deep within flesh, was a simple, unassuming kitchen knife.
At long last, a successful hunt.
The hunter looked tired, but relieved as she stood over her treasured prize. The meat on it would feed at least ten of her starving village. This was a sorely needed hunt. Food had become scarce ever since the village had been cursed by...
No! Banish those thoughts, she told herself, focus on this task alone, and return before the sun sets!
As was custom, she whispered an apology to her prey as she began the process of cutting up the meat. The orange disc of the sun was slowly swallowed by the horizon. She had expected to return earlier but game was difficult to come by these days, and she could not return home to her little brother empty handed. An intuition told her she had stayed far beyond safe hours though. Dusk was a dangerous time for work even by usual reckoning, but in recent times it was naught but suicide. Night was fast approaching, which meant so was the creature that haunted them.
It had first visited their village two months ago and carried off a small dog. It had rapidly grown bolder, progressing to infants and children playing near the outskirts, until finally terror had entered the village itself.
Thrice it had struck, on successive nights. Two young boys and an old woman were taken from within their huts themselves, and yet, not a sound was heard even by those that slept right beside the victims. The creature was Silence incarnate. Only the signs remained, a thick trail of blood leading out of the huts, disappearing quickly into mud and dust.
Fences were erected, doors were built. These offered some harbour, but there were whispered reports of rattled doors in the night, and the scratches on the doors were plain for all to see in the following mornings.
But this did not stop it. Hunt was stolen from the traps the hunters set, and those who set out in evenings did not return. Fear had created locks and doors stronger than wood and stone: no one ventured outside the village fence, save in groups in broad daylight. Hunting was much tougher in daylight, and the village had slowly run out of food. They were starving... until she had grown desperate enough to tempt fate.
The sun was now all but devoured and shadows crept forward growing longer, bearing darkness and fear. The hunter briskly set off, following the well-used dirt path, for this was safest. But it was still too late. Twilight quickly faded, shrouding her in cold, absolute darkness.
She knelt and searched her bundle for the oiled torch she always carried. When lit, it burned brightly and lasted long enough to take her home. She uttered a curse: the torch was missing!
It must have fallen out while I packed, too hurriedly. How could I be so careless?
The sounds of night mocked her now: she heard the calls of nameless evils stalking her. That crunch! Were those footsteps landing on dry leaves, or just a branch in the wind? And that rustling: are those merely leaves or did the haunted one approach?
She shut her eyes and collected herself.
Calm yourself. At this point fear will only cloud your instincts.
Her heart trusted her words, and slowed its pace.
Trust your ears, your feet. Make little noise. Follow the path through experience.
The eerie noises died down. Now it was just her and the night, and darkness could not in itself hurt her.
But the creature... the voice of terror said in her mind. She silenced it as well. Staying here is certain death. Proceeding forward is a gamble. In either choice, fear is of no use to me now.
She snapped her eyes open, now determined. There was only one option. She took step after step, rapidly but as silently as possible. Her heart was racing again, but this time out of resolve, not fear. Her ears gave her vision in the night, and her instinct showed her the path home.
Luck was with her, for soon her eyes were greeted by the fires near the village gate burning bright!
I’m home!
“Open the gates!” she screamed, exhausted. “I have come home!”
She beat the wooden door with her hands. There was no reply. She shouted out again and beat upon the gate, her hopelessness growing. After a while she sank to the ground. In the darkness she waited. No one was coming.
And then she heard it. Soft steps, falling on the ground in the night, slow and deliberate, approaching her. With bated breath she waited as the haunted one drew closer.
The footsteps stopped. There was now a scraping sound, as though something heavy were being dragged through the ground. Silence followed.
She waited still, listening intently. She let terror press in around her until it was too much to bear.
I shall not be taken sitting down! If I must be taken, let my spear go with me!
She silently drew her wooden weapon and began crawling on all fours, inching towards the source of the sounds. She crept forward, sticking close to the wooden fence - until her hand missed a step and fell lower then it should have!
A ditch? Right next to the fence?
In the dimming light of the village fires she saw what her hand had felt. A small portion of the ground under wall had been cleared, leaving empty space below.
A tunnel - It has dug a tunnel. The thought hit her like icy water to her face.The image of her little brother formed in her mind. There was no time to lose. Spear in hand, she crawled through.
Inside, the village was as silent as the grave. She ran, moving as fast as her legs could carry her, and halted at her home. The door was ajar. A feeling of dread washed over her. She burst in screaming her brother’s name. Time stood still.
And then she heard a whimper: in the dim light, she saw a tiny figure sitting huddled in a corner of the hut. In a heartbeat, she was near him, with her arms around him. His breathing was heavy, stuttered. His hands were moist to the touch, covered in a sticky liquid.
Blood.
The boy lifted a shivering arm and pointed behind her. She turned.
Behind her, against a wall, lay a mountain of fur, stripes and glittering eyes. She did not know how this had escaped her sight, but she knew it was no longer a problem; for beneath the cold, open eyes, in the white fur of the neck, nestled deep within flesh, was a simple, unassuming kitchen knife.
Monday, January 23, 2012
All after a day's work
Just another day at the office for our heroine Aarthi-an ordinary girl who was busy checking what her friends were up to on facebook. Suddenly she sensed her boss getting agitated in his cabin.She carefully looked in his direction and noticed he was observing everybody. He was getting ready to hunt, or rather dump some of his work on them. In a flash she shut her computer, took her purse and dashed out of the office. She was clever enough not to turn when she thought she heard her name being called. She galloped away like a deer on seeing a lion.Feeling good about herself she started to walk towards the bus stand. Her phone started ringing- it was a reminder! She panicked for a moment that she had forgotten friend’s birthday, saw the screen and she panicked even more. It was about a magician who possessed a rare skill. There are many who claim to practice this witchcraft but most of them are hokum. She had discovered him in a shady galli in one of markets. For some it might have been just another occupation but she knew the magic, he could create an illusion that would make her look slim, in other words he was a great tailor.This was the day she was getting her dress back. She hurried to catch a bus to take her to other part of the town. She got a bus right away and also a seat. She thought it must be her lucky day. After half an hour and having just moved through half a kilometer she decided that she has to get a faster means of transportation. She got down and searched for the three wheeled mystical object which had become digital recently, and so had the rates now drivers only asked in terms of hundreds. She got one and he agreed to come to her destination right away. She felt as though she had drunk a bottle of liquid luck.
This was the fourth time she was going to this tailor. First time, he’d told her his sad life story and was very busy so couldn’t finish the work. The second was he got married so had to stitch blouses for his entire wedding party and fell behind. The third and most adventurous was they played a game of treasure hunt trying to find her material amongst the heaps of cloth. She had yelled at him the third time and warned him that if he hadn’t got it ready she wanted refund on the advance and she was never gonna come to him again. He saw right though her lie, but pretended like he cared.After a bumpy journey and having paid her dues to the "auto"crat ,she prayed to god that it would end today. She went to his shop and he smiled which was a good sign ,he made her sit and told her the dress was ready and was getting pressed and it would arrive soon ,with baited breath she waited as a puny human came down from a ladder kept in the corner most part of the room with her dress .She saw it and decided she would try it so she went to the trial room/cupboard and put it on. Alas he had stitched a size too big, she came out fuming and yelled at the lousy fitting he said he had stitched it according to her measurements .That’s when it struck her all this running around had made her thinner and she asked him to refit it and then came the words that she dreaded the most out of the tailor’s mouth ,”will be done in a week madam!”
--
Lakshmi
This was the fourth time she was going to this tailor. First time, he’d told her his sad life story and was very busy so couldn’t finish the work. The second was he got married so had to stitch blouses for his entire wedding party and fell behind. The third and most adventurous was they played a game of treasure hunt trying to find her material amongst the heaps of cloth. She had yelled at him the third time and warned him that if he hadn’t got it ready she wanted refund on the advance and she was never gonna come to him again. He saw right though her lie, but pretended like he cared.After a bumpy journey and having paid her dues to the "auto"crat ,she prayed to god that it would end today. She went to his shop and he smiled which was a good sign ,he made her sit and told her the dress was ready and was getting pressed and it would arrive soon ,with baited breath she waited as a puny human came down from a ladder kept in the corner most part of the room with her dress .She saw it and decided she would try it so she went to the trial room/cupboard and put it on. Alas he had stitched a size too big, she came out fuming and yelled at the lousy fitting he said he had stitched it according to her measurements .That’s when it struck her all this running around had made her thinner and she asked him to refit it and then came the words that she dreaded the most out of the tailor’s mouth ,”will be done in a week madam!”
--
Lakshmi
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Another Poem, Another Story
Childhood Memories
Rising was the dust as the sun slowly disappeared
seeping into the breeze was the redolence of jasmine
flying past the clouds was a flock of chirping birds
curiously looking were the squirrels on the branches
stomping away bare foot on the strewn dried leaves
scaring the ants to scatter from their long winding line
hands on her hips and nose high up in air
nodding fiercely she heaved a loud sigh
suddenly a sound and she went dashing away
holding tightly , she leaped on the tall gate
bending over,twisting and turning her head
looking far away and hoping to catch a glimpse
of a silhouette that was fast approaching
the clearer it became more stranger it got
broken hearted she slowly started to walk away
two big pearls of tears rolling through her cheeks
going back inside finally she decided to stop waiting
then a familiar creak,a melody she was waiting to hear
spinning on her feet roaring with joy she went running
noticing a tear he hugged her gave her a kiss
his little princess had again fought his fatigue away
--
Lakshmi
The White One With a Blue Stripe
“Umm.. dude? What colour was our bus?” Sourav asked.
“White one with a blue stripe. Only one in the bus-stand with that colour.” came Gopi's reply.
“Okay.. okayokay.. calm down.. deep breaths..” panted Sourav.
“I'm quite calm dude,” panted Gopi.
“I was talking to myself idiot. Why, why, WHY did I leave my watch in my bag?” he asked of the high heavens.
“Forget that now, we have to do something!”
Sourav saw sense in that. They raced to the information booth, and informed the gentleman at the window of their plight in broken words and vigorous actions. The gentleman at the window slowly stirred, got up and left the booth. The two stared as he walked to a spittoon nearby and delivered a stream of red paan to it with vigour. He strolled back into the booth, sat down and stared at them.
“Nothing you can do about it, son.”
“What?! There has to be something, this must happen often, right? Right?!” Sourav squawked.
"There's a proverb about this bus service," the gentleman wisely preached, "once the bus starts moving only the Driver, the Conductor or God can stop it. In decreasing order of authority."
"Please bhai sa'ab, don't joke..."
The gentleman's face grew dark. He beckoned them closer with a finger and spoke. His whisper had a conspiratorial tinge to it.
“There's only one man who can help you now, my son...”
“Who? Who?!”
“His services don't come cheap.”
“We'll pay, damn you, just tell us how to get our bus!”
The gentleman sighed gently and let out a violent shriek.
“OYE PANJU!”
A huge mountain of a man walked up grinning, clad in an auto driver's uniform.
“These two nice boys have missed their bus,” spoke the gentleman, “help them out.” With that, he slammed the booth's window shut.
Panju's grinned widened as he looked at the two. “Only one way sa'ab! Bus will stop at petrol pump two kilometre away! Bus reaches there in twenty minutes in traffic, but Panju will take you there in five! Shortcut!” he exclaimed.
“Let's go!” said Gopi and darted forward.
Sourav caught his collar and pulled him back. He had his bargaining face on. “How much?” he whispered leering at Panju.
“Only two hundred!” declared Panju, rubbing his hands in glee.
Sourav thought about it while Gopi acted. He pointed authoritative fingers and made authoritative statements, the essense of which was we're willing to pay, so will the kind auto-man please lead us to his auto. The three ran to the auto and dove in. Just as the engine spluttered to life, Sourav screamed.
“Stoooop!!”. He jumped out of the vehicle and ran wildly back to the bus stand.
“Dude, its just two hundred rupees-” began Gopi, and then he saw what his friend had seen. The white-one-with-a-blue-stripe was slowly making its way back into the bus stand. Panju and his auto were soon covered in the dust that Gopi's sprint made.
He screeched to a halt beside Sourav who looked confused as he looked at the scene unfolding in front of them. Their bus had halted in the middle of the road leading from the main gate.
In seconds, the passengers of their bus had thrown themselves off it pushing and shouting for mercy. The driver was already standing next to Sourav, looking at his vehicle philosophically.
“Bomb scare,” he said, “two unidentified bags were found on seats thirty-two and thirty-three. One of them was making a ticking noise.”
Sourav and Gopi looked at each other.
“Um, sir.. why don't you come with us, and have some nice idli's while we explain everything...”
They each caught one elbow of the man and pulled him along to the restaurant. The driver, for his part, put up no protest and walked along without a care in the world.
Rising was the dust as the sun slowly disappeared
seeping into the breeze was the redolence of jasmine
flying past the clouds was a flock of chirping birds
curiously looking were the squirrels on the branches
stomping away bare foot on the strewn dried leaves
scaring the ants to scatter from their long winding line
hands on her hips and nose high up in air
nodding fiercely she heaved a loud sigh
suddenly a sound and she went dashing away
holding tightly , she leaped on the tall gate
bending over,twisting and turning her head
looking far away and hoping to catch a glimpse
of a silhouette that was fast approaching
the clearer it became more stranger it got
broken hearted she slowly started to walk away
two big pearls of tears rolling through her cheeks
going back inside finally she decided to stop waiting
then a familiar creak,a melody she was waiting to hear
spinning on her feet roaring with joy she went running
noticing a tear he hugged her gave her a kiss
his little princess had again fought his fatigue away
--
Lakshmi
The White One With a Blue Stripe
“I told you we'd make it in time!” Gopi said, grinning cheerfully. Sourav rolled his eys.
“That's only because I poured half the Bay of Bengal on you to wake you up. Now shut up, and tell me the seat numbers.”
Gopi walloped the back of his friend's head with an empty plastic bottle. “Thirty two and thirty three.” he said. The two were sweating and panting, as they waded their way through the narrow passage of the bus to their seats.
The bus driver had told them they were a good twenty minutes early, for the bus left only at noon. The driver had looked as though he was in no hurry to leave as he calmy smoked his noisome cigarette with disadain. He sat with one leg stuck jauntily out of a window.
They stuffed their bags into the narrow space under their seats by beating them into submission. “Let's go get something to eat,” chimed Gopi, “I'm starving!”
They made their way to the crowded and filthy restaurant that had monopoly over the bus stand. They bravely battled their way to the counter and ordered for idli's and tea. Fighting off the surging mob behind them, they swam the crowd to the “self-service” counter and claimed their food. When they got out of the crowd to a seating area, Gopi had lost half his chutney and an idli, while Sourav feared he was missing an ear.
They gorged their breakfast down, threw their steel plates at the nearest waiter and made their way back to the bus.
“That's only because I poured half the Bay of Bengal on you to wake you up. Now shut up, and tell me the seat numbers.”
Gopi walloped the back of his friend's head with an empty plastic bottle. “Thirty two and thirty three.” he said. The two were sweating and panting, as they waded their way through the narrow passage of the bus to their seats.
The bus driver had told them they were a good twenty minutes early, for the bus left only at noon. The driver had looked as though he was in no hurry to leave as he calmy smoked his noisome cigarette with disadain. He sat with one leg stuck jauntily out of a window.
They stuffed their bags into the narrow space under their seats by beating them into submission. “Let's go get something to eat,” chimed Gopi, “I'm starving!”
They made their way to the crowded and filthy restaurant that had monopoly over the bus stand. They bravely battled their way to the counter and ordered for idli's and tea. Fighting off the surging mob behind them, they swam the crowd to the “self-service” counter and claimed their food. When they got out of the crowd to a seating area, Gopi had lost half his chutney and an idli, while Sourav feared he was missing an ear.
They gorged their breakfast down, threw their steel plates at the nearest waiter and made their way back to the bus.
“Umm.. dude? What colour was our bus?” Sourav asked.
“White one with a blue stripe. Only one in the bus-stand with that colour.” came Gopi's reply.
“So.. does that mean the bus leaving through the main gate right now is ours?”
They stared dumbly as the white-one-with-a-blue-stripe sped through the main gate a hundred metres away. Gopi was the first one to scream. Sourav was the first to run. By the time they had gone ten steps the bus was a speck of dust in the distance.
They stared dumbly as the white-one-with-a-blue-stripe sped through the main gate a hundred metres away. Gopi was the first one to scream. Sourav was the first to run. By the time they had gone ten steps the bus was a speck of dust in the distance.
“Okay.. okayokay.. calm down.. deep breaths..” panted Sourav.
“I'm quite calm dude,” panted Gopi.
“I was talking to myself idiot. Why, why, WHY did I leave my watch in my bag?” he asked of the high heavens.
“Forget that now, we have to do something!”
Sourav saw sense in that. They raced to the information booth, and informed the gentleman at the window of their plight in broken words and vigorous actions. The gentleman at the window slowly stirred, got up and left the booth. The two stared as he walked to a spittoon nearby and delivered a stream of red paan to it with vigour. He strolled back into the booth, sat down and stared at them.
“Nothing you can do about it, son.”
“What?! There has to be something, this must happen often, right? Right?!” Sourav squawked.
"There's a proverb about this bus service," the gentleman wisely preached, "once the bus starts moving only the Driver, the Conductor or God can stop it. In decreasing order of authority."
"Please bhai sa'ab, don't joke..."
The gentleman's face grew dark. He beckoned them closer with a finger and spoke. His whisper had a conspiratorial tinge to it.
“There's only one man who can help you now, my son...”
“Who? Who?!”
“His services don't come cheap.”
“We'll pay, damn you, just tell us how to get our bus!”
The gentleman sighed gently and let out a violent shriek.
“OYE PANJU!”
A huge mountain of a man walked up grinning, clad in an auto driver's uniform.
“These two nice boys have missed their bus,” spoke the gentleman, “help them out.” With that, he slammed the booth's window shut.
Panju's grinned widened as he looked at the two. “Only one way sa'ab! Bus will stop at petrol pump two kilometre away! Bus reaches there in twenty minutes in traffic, but Panju will take you there in five! Shortcut!” he exclaimed.
“Let's go!” said Gopi and darted forward.
Sourav caught his collar and pulled him back. He had his bargaining face on. “How much?” he whispered leering at Panju.
“Only two hundred!” declared Panju, rubbing his hands in glee.
Sourav thought about it while Gopi acted. He pointed authoritative fingers and made authoritative statements, the essense of which was we're willing to pay, so will the kind auto-man please lead us to his auto. The three ran to the auto and dove in. Just as the engine spluttered to life, Sourav screamed.
“Stoooop!!”. He jumped out of the vehicle and ran wildly back to the bus stand.
“Dude, its just two hundred rupees-” began Gopi, and then he saw what his friend had seen. The white-one-with-a-blue-stripe was slowly making its way back into the bus stand. Panju and his auto were soon covered in the dust that Gopi's sprint made.
He screeched to a halt beside Sourav who looked confused as he looked at the scene unfolding in front of them. Their bus had halted in the middle of the road leading from the main gate.
In seconds, the passengers of their bus had thrown themselves off it pushing and shouting for mercy. The driver was already standing next to Sourav, looking at his vehicle philosophically.
“Bomb scare,” he said, “two unidentified bags were found on seats thirty-two and thirty-three. One of them was making a ticking noise.”
Sourav and Gopi looked at each other.
“Um, sir.. why don't you come with us, and have some nice idli's while we explain everything...”
They each caught one elbow of the man and pulled him along to the restaurant. The driver, for his part, put up no protest and walked along without a care in the world.
Monday, January 9, 2012
A Poem And A Story
The Old Book
in the end of the shelf was an old book
covered all over by a thin layer of dust
the smell of leather cover had seeped in
anyone one who opened it would instantly be drawn in
funny as it was the tittle page was torn
author and name both lost in the pages as unknown
but a page or two had names of readers
jotted they had down their thoughts and feelings
appreciated and enjoyed it sure was
somewhere still it was definitely lost
each one had definitely read between the lines
perceived as they wanted those unwritten lines
if book was a person each would have met
contradiction would be the prominent trait
transparent as it was still it had so many secrets
reading it fully was everyone's cup of tea
understanding it completely was not possible at all
--
Lakshmi
The Visitor
The small television set crackled and spit as the storm shook the frail wooden mountaintop cottage. Its owner sat huddled in a blanket on the simple wooden floor, gazing distantly at the screen, as it burst in and out of static. The little man shivered in the cold as he watched the screen twist the images into weird shapes of static. The moth eaten blanket shrouded him from to toe and covering him almost completely, except for the mournful eyes that peered out through a gap in the folds.
The T.V reception settled for a little while, as the storm seemed to pass through a more peaceful state. On it, a bald man with an angry expression was shouting something.
“... and extremely dangerous! This vicious criminal has murdered over thirty people in cold blood. Look at his twisted face, and remember it well!”, he thundered, as a grainy black and white image filled the entire screen.
It depicted a gaunt face with beady little black eyes, that peered out furiously from under thick bushy eyebrows. The thin face was topped by a mop of scraggy black hair. The face would have seemed funny, almost clownish, if it weren't for the moustache: the gigantic, black, hairy beast that crawled out from beneath the thin bony nose, and curved upwards into an ominous spiral, covering the rest of the bony face. It did something terrible to the rest of the face. Its volume seemed to make the already thin features look positively skeletal. But its worst crime was the way it brought out the true anger and hate hidden in the murderer's beady eyes. They bore straight into you from behind the great hairy barrier, drilling so deep, one felt, so as to touch one's very soul.
The spectator in the cottage winced and drew up his blanket closer. He was a mild man. This sort of think jarred his sensitive nerves. He was too cold to get up and switch of the set, so he simply closed his eyes, and started drifting into gentle sleep... or tried to. For the storm found new vigour, and a monstrous crash of thunder shook every item in the house, including its occupant.
He squealed, fell over and frantically clawed at the floor getting up but a second loud crash made him lose his balance again. He sat on the floor, the blanket now completely smothering him, panting. The crash sounded again, twice in quick succession. It was not the thunder, he realised, someone was pounding at the door!
He scrabbled to his feet, pulling his tatters around his head again, and waddled to the door. As he hesitated, three more resounding crashes shook the frail cottage. He yelped and pulled at the handle. In a flash of lightning he saw a tall thin man glaring down at him. Without waiting for an invitation the visitor strode in.
“What took you so long? I was getting drenched to bone out there!” he boomed.
“S-sorry, good sir, I-I was-”
“Asleep? Half dead is more like it! Haven't you a candle in this dump?!”
The little owner's eyes looked fearfully around the dinghy room. The man realised he was in complete darkness, for the thunder must had blown out the lights. Smoke was rising from the T.V set. He shuffled to a drawer in a corner, and lit a candle. In the yellow light, he looked upon his guest. The tall man's head brushed the ceiling of the wooden hut. His long black hair lay damp and wet on his head, dripping streams of water on to the floor. His sunken cheeks were clean shaven, but as the dim candle light fell on them, it showed a number of bruises and scratches on his cheeks and upper lip.
“Good sir, y-your face..”
The visitor uttered a curse. “I shaved badly today morning. Is this the time for such questions, peasant?” he growled.. He was not shouting any more, but even the natural tone of his voice bore the calibre of a small cannon.
“I see you have little enough to share with me little man. Come, you will share my meal.” he ordered.
He drew a small paper parcel out of his pockets and unwrapped it to reveal two loaves of white bread.
“Bring a knife to cut these with if you have one.”
The unwilling host mumbled an affirmative. He went to the little drawer in the corner, and drew out his knife. But in his haste to please his guest, he turned too quickly, and his blanket caught the edge of the stool. The sudden jerk threw the blanket off his head, making him yelp.
The visitor looked up.
“Ah so finally you pick up the courage to show me your face!” His mocking laughter bounced of the thin wooden walls. “Little though you have peasant, you have maintained a fine moustache!”
The little host chuckled through the huge black moustache that curled around his face, thrown into dark contrast by the light of the candle he held.
Chuckling timidly at the joke, he drew closer to his guest. The dim candle light threw a strange glint into his beady eyes. It even made the knife he held look larger, much larger, than it must have been. Blade in hand, he inched closer to the Visitor.
The T.V reception settled for a little while, as the storm seemed to pass through a more peaceful state. On it, a bald man with an angry expression was shouting something.
“... and extremely dangerous! This vicious criminal has murdered over thirty people in cold blood. Look at his twisted face, and remember it well!”, he thundered, as a grainy black and white image filled the entire screen.
It depicted a gaunt face with beady little black eyes, that peered out furiously from under thick bushy eyebrows. The thin face was topped by a mop of scraggy black hair. The face would have seemed funny, almost clownish, if it weren't for the moustache: the gigantic, black, hairy beast that crawled out from beneath the thin bony nose, and curved upwards into an ominous spiral, covering the rest of the bony face. It did something terrible to the rest of the face. Its volume seemed to make the already thin features look positively skeletal. But its worst crime was the way it brought out the true anger and hate hidden in the murderer's beady eyes. They bore straight into you from behind the great hairy barrier, drilling so deep, one felt, so as to touch one's very soul.
The spectator in the cottage winced and drew up his blanket closer. He was a mild man. This sort of think jarred his sensitive nerves. He was too cold to get up and switch of the set, so he simply closed his eyes, and started drifting into gentle sleep... or tried to. For the storm found new vigour, and a monstrous crash of thunder shook every item in the house, including its occupant.
He squealed, fell over and frantically clawed at the floor getting up but a second loud crash made him lose his balance again. He sat on the floor, the blanket now completely smothering him, panting. The crash sounded again, twice in quick succession. It was not the thunder, he realised, someone was pounding at the door!
He scrabbled to his feet, pulling his tatters around his head again, and waddled to the door. As he hesitated, three more resounding crashes shook the frail cottage. He yelped and pulled at the handle. In a flash of lightning he saw a tall thin man glaring down at him. Without waiting for an invitation the visitor strode in.
“What took you so long? I was getting drenched to bone out there!” he boomed.
“S-sorry, good sir, I-I was-”
“Asleep? Half dead is more like it! Haven't you a candle in this dump?!”
The little owner's eyes looked fearfully around the dinghy room. The man realised he was in complete darkness, for the thunder must had blown out the lights. Smoke was rising from the T.V set. He shuffled to a drawer in a corner, and lit a candle. In the yellow light, he looked upon his guest. The tall man's head brushed the ceiling of the wooden hut. His long black hair lay damp and wet on his head, dripping streams of water on to the floor. His sunken cheeks were clean shaven, but as the dim candle light fell on them, it showed a number of bruises and scratches on his cheeks and upper lip.
“Good sir, y-your face..”
The visitor uttered a curse. “I shaved badly today morning. Is this the time for such questions, peasant?” he growled.. He was not shouting any more, but even the natural tone of his voice bore the calibre of a small cannon.
“I see you have little enough to share with me little man. Come, you will share my meal.” he ordered.
He drew a small paper parcel out of his pockets and unwrapped it to reveal two loaves of white bread.
“Bring a knife to cut these with if you have one.”
The unwilling host mumbled an affirmative. He went to the little drawer in the corner, and drew out his knife. But in his haste to please his guest, he turned too quickly, and his blanket caught the edge of the stool. The sudden jerk threw the blanket off his head, making him yelp.
The visitor looked up.
“Ah so finally you pick up the courage to show me your face!” His mocking laughter bounced of the thin wooden walls. “Little though you have peasant, you have maintained a fine moustache!”
The little host chuckled through the huge black moustache that curled around his face, thrown into dark contrast by the light of the candle he held.
Chuckling timidly at the joke, he drew closer to his guest. The dim candle light threw a strange glint into his beady eyes. It even made the knife he held look larger, much larger, than it must have been. Blade in hand, he inched closer to the Visitor.
Outside the cottage, thunder rolled around the hill as the storm slowly grew in the darkness.
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