In anonymity

He just likes to paint a picture

one that never has two sides

He's not known in books of History

of men who fought for people and rights

Few know him more than just his name

for he leads a solitary life

He knows not how to talk of freedom

and things which could ignite a light

He just likes to paint a picture

one that never has two sides

He cannot make people laugh
nor can he forge their tears

He seldom laughs, he never whines

but knows that he rejoices inside

He knows not how to sing a melody

or songs which could turn to anthems

He just likes to paint a picture

one that never has two sides

He'd never want a swarm of ties

that'd make him flutter in futility

He couldn't ever shake the world

or make it the better place to live

Yet I see him live for greatness

for I know him more than his name

We know not how to talk of it

and things which could inspire a write

We just like to paint a picture

one that never has two sides.

Look Pal, the Bill sucks.

All this time, I have opted to concede to my naivety and to sit back and muse over the current Indian tamasha, for I only found myself between a rock and a hard place, in the context of the Anna Hazare movement. I still do not find myself taking a stance as far as the intricacies of the Jan Lokpal Bill are concerned; for a simple reason that I do not consider myself breastfed on such cerebral superiority, that I should dispute a topic of legal domains, outside the realms of my interest or expertise. And which is why, rather than committing myself to buffoonery and stepping out, crying "I am Anna", I have tried to keep mum.

And after reading this article published in The Hindu by one Prabhat Patnaik, I only intend to go on with my oral fast. Frankly, the eloquence with which this article has been put to words voices most of what I had inside me, in wordless sentences; which surfaced once in a while in the form of a deja vu, or a distant thought in the back of my mind. And now, having read this article, I do not think I could add anything to raise the bar of the national debate even a trifle.

So, without feeling any guilt of sorts, I'm going to continue staying out from the rains, and the out pour; for now I know, why as an Indian John Doe, or Mr. Sharma if you please, I should not support the Jan Lokpal Bill. Not to mention, I love India as much as you do.

Also refer to: I'd rather not be Anna by Arundhati Roy.

nomenclature yet?

I've been sleeping a lot of lately and it might have culminated into a century, which is why I ask this. Have we, Indians, reached that stage of development where we can shrug at the basic amenities and start delving into the aesthetics? Have we reached that stage where a state ought to be named Paschimbanga (read: Poschimbonga) for its relevance to the culture it embodies than worry about the pathetic standard of life there? Or a phase in our lives where statues of a chief minister could be erected and venerated than ruminate over the illiteracy and rural-ism in that state? Forgive me, if I am wrong, for I really seem to have overslept a century or two. And I'll probably talk about an Indian dream that I knew of when I was last awake.

That was an India that had lived 64 independent years. Freedom was still more than just Independence. It was a state of mind. They said India was a growing superpower, the fastest growing economy, an IT giant, and such epithets which did appear incredible. Yes, the problems were enormous too. Of ignorance and corruption, social evils and vices, of crimes against women and infanticides, of reservations and the-joy-of-being-born-a-backward biases. But at least this was what we talked about! There was this Anna Hazare in those days who took up a cause and fought a Freed-aissance, as they said. Though I never went to those youth rallies for the sake of my own convictions, I did feel happy that this country acted like a free nation, and people were neither forced to join those rallies nor were their voices plugged. India was not a golden bird anymore but it definitely was a free bird that had caught the eyes of many with its plumage.

In those years, changing Bangalore to Bengaluru, or Bhopal to Bhojpal was immaterial. For the need of that hour was development, in sports, education, nutrition et al. We adored Shakespeare for his What-lies-in-a-name? [a lie!] quote. We had gotten up from a mighty Blighty assault and were running fast and furious. Kolkata? or Calcutta? Who cared? Eradicating communism from the state was a bigger achievement and getting West Bengal back on the road to development, the immediate goal. A statue? Of some dimwit Maya-wit? Oh for Christ's, there were roads to be tarred and lights to be erected - which was the real beautification of a city, than some ugly Mayawati-pillar - before one could move on to ostentation. There were Rajas to be sentenced and Kasabs to be hanged. There were Vadras to be identified who were eating Sonia-filtered money of the country. Who had time for renames and statues? We didn't! We hadn't reached that stage where we could opt between maroon and magenta for we still had a long way to go before we could paint the town red. We were living an Indian dream where every child could wake up to a day full of possibilities and contemplations. Where dreams found grounds if not sustenance. Where the road to development had potholes aplenty but there were people fighting for it, freely, if not successfully. And where the only name that mattered was India, which kept us together, inseparably.

ਮੇਰਾ ਪਿੰਡ

At the entrance sat a model of a Sikh, clad in traditional robes, coloured and glossy. The place had everything Punjabi; the waiters wore kurta-pajamas and had a turban on their manes, the music was forever Gurdaas Mann, the glasses of water were steel-made and heavy, there was a dummy of a huge tree with kites entangled on its branches. Some traditional Punjabi artifacts adorned the shelves. The room was coloured heavily yet somehow, it did not lose its grace and nobility while portraying the essence of Punjab, colour. The service was warm and congenial. The glass of lassi did lack the original flavour but with a different breed of cows in Madhya Pradesh, one should not be too finicky. The food was what eventually took me back home, miles away, to my place, mera pind, Punjab. As a part of the Diaspora, this was the closest one could get to our Desi food. With every nibble, I could see myself flying kites back home, eating food that is more than just delectable, savouring those crisp, snoozy glasses of lassi that my mother makes so deftly and above all, the scent of Punjab, the soil that evokes an ode from my heart, every time I think about its majesty and crave for its love. What could have been another-casual-Saturday-dinner turned out to be a nostalgic reminiscence, at Pind Balluchi.

to own the buck

Well, you could say that on the 4th of August, at the stroke of 4 in the afternoon, when the sluggish boys' hostel slept, I made a tryst with destiny. You could also say that Headstrong is a woman, because she gave me a job! You could but not stop talking and with poetic justifications tell, how it feels to have a job under your belt after 21 years of life; each year of varying durations. Some long and perpetual, others whizzing past you in the blink of an eye. Some as mute as to hear a mouse fart, while others as loud as to, well, not hear that mouse fart. You could go on and on (and not let me hear that mouse fart this year again) but the fact remains; the first job is special. It evokes that gush of masculinity that makes you feel more man than ever. It gives you an idea of what money shall look like when it's your earned money. (Of course, there's still a year before I begin, but poetry is time travel, oft)

But more than anything, the first job is a harbinger of change. A new avatar of life that heralds the end of past. A new beginning. A change. One grows and outgrows oneself to reach a stage like this. It promises to be difficult, filled with bad-hair days, with rare field days, but it would still be what you'd want from life; nomadic, struggling like the Old man in that sea, and at the end of the day, one, that makes you sleep so numb that you forget to dream, or you forget the dream; that which I like to call a near-death experience; when even your brain wants to cut itself some slack at night and wake up to to a new life, everyday.

True, life might be a lot less poetic than this, once I get down to work. But everyday, somewhere in the sub-conscious, after a day's toil, I would know -and I would try to hold my horses on it- that my life makes me, if not the rest, happy. And many many years hence, when I hang my boots, and I chew the cud over what my life has seen, I'd smile at the irony, for my time at work shall appear the most poetic, like a songbird that sings.

I ruminate over the prospects of opening my own publishing house one day, but with the web-prophecies knelling the death of print media in the hands of e-crap, I now contemplate opening my own beer-shack on a beach someday, when I hang my boots and work barefoot on sand. And since I had my first job at 21, I would know, when Death comes, that I deserved every inch of it.

The following lines are the closest to a song, as to how I feel in the final year of college, with a job in hand:

Wind of Change - By Scorpions

an omelette of unbroken eggs

Times have changed. A stitch in time now saves five. Researches entail cutting it down to three by 2015 and by 2025, a stitch in time might in fact lend you nine. All that glitters might turn gold: Alchemists propose to belittle the proverbial sophistry soon. A picture might actually paint a thousand words: Optical Illusionists are confident of a breakthrough after the recent 3-D surge. They believe that Mona Lisa might smile just the way you think, subconsciously, she should. To hell with Vinci et al. Rolling stones now gather moss and Mick Jagger could thus manage seven more genetically engineered adult babies. In doing so, he shall reap what he hath not sowed. And since you need not sow anymore to reap, Rome can in fact get built in a day. So when in Rome, do what the Indians do: pee in the open. For that shall never change in the eons to come. Gospel Truth.

the geographical reflex

The US reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: Oh great! Who's the father?


The Indian reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: It better be a boy or I'll kill you.


The Chinese reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: You kidding me? One more plops out of your tunnel and we're dead.


The Aussie reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: It better run in the Olympics, mate!


The Arab reflex:

Wife #15: I'm pregnant.
Husband: Ya habibi!, You're one of my wives? Third Wednesday?


The Iraqi reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: Of course! My missiles never miss targets!


The African reflex:

Midwife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: What am I going to tell my wife?
Midwife: That she be the mid one this time.


The Somali reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband(an hour later): Here! I got a little eye-patch for my sonny Jack.


The Italian reflex:

Wife: Tony! I'm pregnant.
Husband: Oh! So pastas don't work as condoms, eh?


The English reflex:

Wife: I'm pregnant.
Husband: And Lady, I believe I'm the human whose essence you've stolen?

pulp humour

What an !dea 3G:

Abhi Bachchan on knocking up wife
said the irony was no ordinary rife,
For only when Idea
had 3G in India
could his sperm speed past her bee-hive.

----X----X----

A Misguided Missile:

Boy (exasperated): What am I, a shoe?
Girl (offended): You know, (feigns a tear) Marilyn Monroe once said, "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." *scoffs*
Boy (pauses): Are you Marilyn Monroe?

Halfing chances

I dreamt the earth was flat as a coin
with a side up and a side down
the repelling poles were made to join
and people were up, people were down

The earth was a place, a tad too simple
the uppers blissfully hit the hay
the lowers always kicked the bucket
fell off from earth, away, away

Things were either black or white
nothing was in shades of gray
puns could never fog the language
metaphors seldom won the play

The sun shone and burned the top
and uppers tanned themselves in day
lowers froze in ice galore
the deads had to die this way

The earth might have been a tad too simple
and prejudice, its price to pay
but what went around still came around
as earth tossed like a coin in fray

Only this season, the heads had lost
and tails now held the swaying forte
the uppers fell down, broke their crown
and lowers kissed the sunny fay

This earth was a place, now a tad too fair
where heads and tails had equal say
when happiness crossed hedonistic realms
a season change went underway

If not for Columbus and his voyage
my dream could have had found a sleigh
A flat earth and rounded coins
might have had made this untread way

to soar beyond sores

If it were about unspoken lines
or unpronounced vibes and virgin words.
If these were to flee, a place untouched
as a virgin's honeypot, patrolled
by a man's aversion to speak free
from a soul made to wrest in peace.
If this soul were to escape someday
the chains and chides of an aura
so tyrannical, that it flew without wings
and danced without a motif.
If but his soul could be just free
and not free to all, for chaos
was never finer than tyranny, and
freedom for grabs is freedom denied.
If love was then neither unrequited
nor was it a public display,
I'd say life is beautiful...