The difference to being different?

What is it that drives a man to try and stand out amongst his peers?
That seems to be the flavour of this week. I don't know why, all of a sudden I have had a deluge of people this week who were trying so hard to stand out that they almost fell over. And the funniest part is that almost all of them are so plain run-of-the-mill that it isn't even funny. Maybe that is the point. If you are really a stand-out person then you don't have to try to stand out! But returning to why.
Why this urge to be different that makes people, normal ones like you and me (????), to make a mess of their lives, their health, their relationships and whatever else that may matter. I mean, if you have to believe Darwin then the wilderbeast that conform to the herd have the greatest chance of surviving as against the 'hero' who decides to stand apart. If I were to apply that logic to humans I would be making the generalization that humans are a herding people. But we are, aren't we?
So then why do we want to stand out of this herd? Why are we so upset when life gets boring and monotonous? Why does the mundane always draw groans and sighs? Why do we want to find a meaning to living? Why do we have to think that there is a greater purpose to life than the crass one of just being? Why?
Any answers?

To write is to right!

No dramatic opening lines. No interesting topics to write of. Nothing! No! not even nothing or emptiness or a sickening hollow that I may turn into words. No! only the absence of anything, the absence even of 'nothing.' That is what today has me bothered.

I have always thought a world of my abilities to write. What was it that I used to say to the ladies - "my words will always be magic!" was it? And today? Today I fork out the lantern hidden in my satchel and try to light the fire that burnt out in it long ago for the sole purpose that I may set forth along some path in search of those elusive words of mine. But is that the answer? Or is it even the right question?

Its just not my words that have lost the magic, you see. Its all words that seem to have lost their magic to me. Earlier I'd read a piece of prose/poetry and I'd have images dancing in front of my eyes, would have thoughts running through them neurons of mine at such speeds that if I started writing I would stop only for the lack of paper or because an overzealous friend wanted to have a consultation. But today I read a piece, thought-provoking or otherwise, a beautiful play of words, of inflections and tones and of images and emotions and what do I feel? Nothing! (again that absence of even nothingness that I was talking about.)

Why has this happened I question. An earlier me would have gone up to roof (I dont even know what the roof of my apartment looks like and I have been living here for 6 months now) and raged against the heavens and the sky and the elements until I had the answer. I would have gone on silently or screaming or both until I had the answer. But now? Now I dont even know how the roof looks. Why? I ask this question to a placid computer screen and I expect a response. Brilliant!!

I dont even remember how I found inspiration those days. I mean, I never had to look. That lantern in the satchel burnt bright but never needed to be used. And today I need it and it has died out. I didnt write ever for others' sake, I know that for sure. And often I didnt write for myself. Seldom I wrote for writing's self itself but most often I just wrote. No hows, No whys, No whats and certainly no ifs. Then what changed? What went wrong? When did I start traversing the path to today?

I thought maybe I was trying too hard to find the answers. Maybe all I needed was to walk away from it for a while and I would be able to do it again. But it didnt help. I walked away but I failed to reach anywhere.

And suddenly, voila! As I violently strike the keys on the keyboard it strikes me - that maybe I didnt walk away at all. Maybe I have been writing in my head all the time but have been rejecting my words everytime. Maybe what really is happening that while in the past I wrote I didnt judge, I wrote but didnt criticise while today I judge what I write, I criticise and I then again search for the very words that I have just rejected.

The roof it needs my presence today I suddenly am aware, not to rant against the elements but to rant against my ownself. Oh world please pity me for I have started to write, not for myself, but for you!

She's got that look in her eyes!

It is a cloudy morning. Really lazy weather – when you wake up from sleep, get your cup of tea/coffee, stretch out on your couch and read your newspaper. It is a morning when you do not think of work. And to top it, it is a Saturday morning. But the poor (financially and otherwise) resident in the poor (nothing financial about it!) hospital doesn’t have the Saturday off. So the wife decides she doesn’t want to work and being entitled to a compensatory off she really has no troubles. Afterall she earned it by working on the last public holiday that people enjoyed. So what does the poor (again f&o) husband do? Change into his bright livery, pack his bag and drag himself to work and sick people while the wife sits back unhappily because she no longer has company on this beautiful morning and no one to nag?

But what does our eternally conflicted and perennially confused hero actually do? He calls his boss, comes up with some classic excuse, chucks his bag into the dark recesses of the cupboard his wife’s been nagging him to clean and puts his feet up to enjoy the weather and the undescribable pleasure of time stolen from work when he realises that his wife has that look on her face! Now for the benefit of the unmarried or the uninitiated or that non-existent brand of creatures who have never experienced ‘that look’ from the wife let us digress and attempt to do what no man has ever done, to boldly go where no man has ever gone before, or atleast returned back sane after going there. Lets go into the psyche of the woman, lets talk about ‘that look.’ What we are talking about here is a sudden change in the body language of a woman. You can never pinpoint what/where this change is. Is it the eyes? Do they have a special effervescence in them all of a sudden? Or is it the colour in her face which suddenly seems brighter? Or is it just the spring in her step and all else that she may be doing? Whatever it is, it is something that is perceptibly there and can be felt by even the most amateur of men. So she seems happy! Then wherein lies the problem? It lies at the cause of this ‘look’(or was it that look?) because not even the most experienced of men can honestly claim to know what that cause might be? Initially when the woman is a new concept to the boy-man this look causes him the greatest excitement. It sends a surge of pure joy through his sinews to see his woman in a state that he in his inexperience can attribute only to pleasure. He tries to find the cause for it and rejoices in its discovery. He wishes for this state to last forever, for this joy to be all pervading so much so that he believes that he may have found something that can put an end to all misery in this world. Some may even send their nominations for the nobel prize (esp. considering the way its handed out on a platter these days). And once our nobel hero has found this cause, which on most occasions is some of kind of longing on the behalf of his fair maiden, he sets out on a voyage to get it for her. The dangers that this enterprise may be fraught with he doesn’t care for, the price(again f&o) he may have to pay for it is inconsequential, all that matters is ‘that look’ in his lady’s eye. It is the same look that engulfed Paris, that set sail to a thousand ships and that led to the ultimate destruction of Troy. But in that carnage it gave fame to many – to Helen, to Achilles and to Homer.

But with time everything will rot! [There are the ones who will argue that with time wine matures but eventually what it actually does is rotting or fermenting or whatever (potato/potaato)]. The boy-man who has rotted/matured into the man now is well versed with this look. He has learnt, with the slightest of glances, to recognise it and his instincts have taught him to keep his eyes off it. But it is ‘that look’! The one that has changed the course of history so many times that history itself has lost count. It is ‘that look’ which cannot be ignored, one that should not (actually cannot) be named. So despite the little sane man in his head crying danger and ringing all kinds of bells he eventually looks and he does not stop at that. He enquires! All the time the alarm bells ringing louder! And although the foolhardiness of his once-upon-a-time nobel aspirations are by now clear to him he still finds the cause, all the while knowing that the consequences are more likely than not, to be troublesome. And whence the cause is found, still most likely a longing from the now not-as-fair maiden, he sets out on a voyage to get it for her. The dangers that this enterprise may be fraught with he now knows but still doesn’t care for, the price(again f&o) he may have to pay for it is no longer inconsequential but still all that matters is ‘that look’ in his lady’s eye. Because with time he has now realized that ‘that look’ too rots. And nothing speeds up the rot like inaction on the part of our gallant knight! What this by now famous look rots into is something best left for a later date. For now just trust our hero’s setting out on his tedious enterprise despite the clanging of his instinctual alarm bells as enough proof of its horror.

Wake up and ??

Life's been busy and I've been bitchy. I've spent almost a month now bitching about this or that. But enough is enough! No more bitching! Well...maybe just one more time. Maybe I will be a movie critic yet i.e. criticize one to the best of my abilities. So here goes...

So what happens is - I get one day free after a gruelling fortnight and I am wondering what I may do with this great boon God decided to bestow upon this humble (lol) being when I realise Diwali is here and I have no lights! So I buy some and some diyas and a kandil and I also hook them up. Quick job! Good job! They look great.(see the humble part, don't you?) Will post photos as soon as I can find that damned appendage that connects my phone to the computer. Now that's done, so what to do next? Relax and enjoy God's gift? No! I decide on a movie. Against my wife's best intuitions I decide on it! Wake Up Sid! Rave reviews, a thousand friends' recommendations. Lets go I say!

And at the end of it all it was 'wake up jester'? I mean why was that movie made? To preach from a high pedestal? But preach what? The acting was good, the movie was shot classily and all that but what was it all about. And why the rave reviews? Because Bombay, oops Mumbai rules the nation? Because it touched the chords of some of Mumbai's aam janta? Or just because it reminded people of their own need to wake up after college. Maybe that but the movie was alarmingly impotent.

Things happen too easily and too quickly(i mean the movie is slow paced at best but in the characters' life...). Has the director ever looked for a flat in Mumbai? And then decked it up designer style and looked at the bill? And did he find a job and make his bones that quick? (I guess yes!)

So maybe the protagonists are super talented and all but its still a little hard to swallow all the sleeping and then waking up and then the maturity and immaturity and jazzy referential frames. Really there wasn't much that made me feel I wanted to continue watching the movie (maybe the hope that the protagonists would not predictably fall for each other). Kashmira Shah's eggs did hold my attention for a while but that was that. Anupam Kher had one good scene when he kicks his son out (maybe he should have done that like 10 yrs ago instead).

And then they went and did it! Why did they go and fall in love? Because the child in them was still alive and willing to get wet in a jiffy? Dunno! Don't want to know either. Maybe I have lost my abilities to feel and maybe it was indeed a great movie but I certainly didn't enjoy it, least of all my wife's 'I told you so' look at the end. So I wonder what you guys would say if I said that 'Wanted' was a much better movie. Atleast the man was a man. All macho (pronounce makkho) and chauvinistic like all good men (at least A Few Good Men) should be. So what do I say except that movie critique is not my genre and I stick to that statement.

But 'Wake Up Sid' did have me thinking as to what Sid eventually woke up from and what he did wake up into!

Pseudo-blogging

I haven't posted in a while. I wrote two blogs on paper but for reasons technical and mundane didnt manage to 'soft-copy' them (sorry just had to poke fun at that usage of the term). Now what I was going to post about, I have completely forgotten. Well, not so much forgotten as chosen to ignore because it is a lot of solid hogwash inspired by the antics of a certain neurochemical in my cerebral cortex that sometimes makes my wife call me a 'pseudo'! A pseudo what you may ask and I couldn't answer because she never tells me that. So let me guess - A pseudo-poet? pseudo-writer? ...not making sense here! So then what? A pseudo-intellectual? A pseudo-psychopath?That sounds interesting, a pseudo-psychopath! I wonder what he would be like. Would he be like me? But which me? The one everyone sees or the one I see in the mirror? Thats a question to answer later.

What I think she really means when she calls me a pseudo is a 'fake'. Because I have seen her restrict the usage only to times when I really am faking. Thats the whole problem in letting someone get so close to you that they know stuff about you that you can only publicly muse about. So now here's the catch! What would you people call this post - pseudo or not? And if yes then pseudo what?

Now that I have completely stopped making sense I will go on and try and make sense of some poor soul's suffering while the people reading this blog do so of their own.

Pujo

What is it with bongs and pujo! To the uninitiated, a bong=bengali pronounced ban'ali and pujo=durga puja. So then what is it between these two inseparable insane entities?

Every single day (from the 6th to the10th day of navaratri) bongs will deck up in their best (believe me more than they would when going to a marriage) and go to this place they call the 'pujo pandal' and then they will all collectively do nothing in particular but still believe they had great fun until when they are eventually forced to go back home bcos the 'mother' government wouldn't let her children stay up late. 11 pm and late? Poor bongs in their rich panjabis (kurtas) almost choked on their 'motton chops' when they heard that. But when the man in the khakhi uniform says it, you abide or else you could have all that costly saree and gold and powder and make-up ensemble cooling their heels in a 10x10 room with the wrong kind of 'bars'.

So what do bongs do in pujo? They give 'adda'. Here the word 'give' is almost as important as 'adda'. What is adda and how u give it requires a set of bongs available in front of you to demonstrate. It is that which can be named, can even be seen and felt but cannot be described in mere words (i mean how do you describe a thousand words a minute for hours on end in words again?)

And bongs, they also eat. I think they first eat and then they do anything else. Kobji doobiye na khele, khawa kono din sarthak hoye na! again for the uninitiated : kobji=wrist, doobiye=immersed, na=no, khele=eat, khawa=meal, kono=any, din=day(each day in pujo can also mean the english din although), sarthak=worthwhile, hoye na=will not be) Piece all those words together in the right order and you'll have the main motto in the life of a bong, irresepective of pujo or not.

So do i love pujo! Absolutely! Completely! Would never give it up! Would traverse as much distance as needed just to go somewhere and do nothing and 'give' adda and gorge on food - khichuri included- and think of it as one of the most stellar events on my calendar. WHY? I have asked myself that a hundred times and never found the answer. If anyone does find it, please dont tell me! I love pujo and I love the senselessness of most of the things we do there. Please dont make it sane. Let it be 'mindless' always!

PS: The movie review I had promised some ppl might not happen. I figure film critique isn't my stuff.

A mindful re-beginning

Recently a couple of my friends asked me about this blog of mine. It didn’t sound like a genuine inquiry into its current state of disuse but more like an obituary and so, true to my always procrastinating form I rise again from the ashes of self pity and excuses to write. Write, I hope well! So I may again have the handful of readers who still remember the blog although its creator had all but forgotten about it. Now, that last sentence done and my ego buffeted by my own sunshine being blown up my own end, lets get down to writing.

As I wonder about what I may write and muse to myself sitting in my hospital cabin the irony of it strikes me. The choice of the name mindless musings (most people who know me would vouch about the mindlessness of most of my words) seemed natural to me when I started off, but now as I sit here in the hospital as a psychiatrist the loose usage of the word hits me in the face much the same as a Brett Lee bouncer would some of our esteemed batsmen.

What is the mind and when is it mindless? Where does the boundary of reality end and where does the unreal begin? Does being so close to the divide all day long make the question even more poignant or does it dull it so much that the rust on the exhaust pipe of my bike seem more interesting? These are musings that I will leave for later. As for now I have to go attend to the reality of hunger and the surreality of the food my canteen will offer and leave the unreal virtuality of all that I write so very really.

PS: the name will continue to be ‘mindless’

Flight!

I went to this party the other day for a friend who was leaving her high school. It was as I had expected, the usual speeches, the usual tears and also the usual laughter. Nothing out of the ordinary, atleast not until I started thinking back to that day in August some 4-5 years ago, when I wore a leather jacket with anti-fit jeans and a tie with formal attire in the space of an hour, when I first publicly read out one of my poems and when another one complemented mine.
It was a tradition I am proud to say we started- that of having a farewell for the outgoing batch at the hostel day (as also of having the girls come to the Boys' Hostel Day). We were all there, in our ties, boys who had become men in that hostel, alongside each other, and we were all sad at the prospect of leaving. For all the times we hated the place and felt stuck there, that day we wanted to stay. To watch the sun set once more amongst a sea of colours, to fly another kite on sankrant, to dance in another monsoon on the terrace, to pass out drunk on the super-terrace again, to dance at one more birthday party, to cat call at the girls and to play another cricket match.
We wanted to stay for all that, but maybe we also were afraid of leaving. Of the world which we now had to face, of growing up, of the responsibilities, of being men and being accountable, of making decisions and of doing all that without the familiarity and the support of those remaining fellows wearing their ties that day. Of losing friends we had made (like we would never again be able to make) however hard we may try to hold on.
But move on we had to. The wings had to be spread, the eagle has to leave the nest first before he may soar. And I can tell you it was hard. We slipped and we fell, some succeeded and soared instantly while others hit the ground harder than they had expected and for many the struggle still continues and will for a while to come. But despite all that I know that all of them will fly one day and the strength in their wings will owe a lot to those days spent in that C-shaped building with no water and even less privacy, but with a whole lot of spirit and fun.
Given the chance to go back to that hostel today I will not choose to, but given a chance to relive my life again from the start I can assure you I would not give up those 4-5 years in the hostel for anything.

For Angels and Thank You

Its been a long time coming but as usual I've been procrastinating. It's about saying 'thank you' but I just don't seem to get around to it. About how people you've never known, perfect strangers, open their doors for you; welcome you into their lives and go out of their way to help you out. About how in a foreign land, with a familiar yet foreign tongue, these people- unknown to you until a moment ago- suddenly come to you as angels and share their food with you and their drink and their bed, while they themselves sleep on the floor. How they befriend you with ease and trust you and touch your life. And make you wonder how you ever will repay their kindness!
And that is the first mistake. For never do you have to repay kindness. All you have to do in return for the food and the drink and the shelter and the trust and the open doors is to open the doors of your own heart to them!

Of Kurtas and Jeans!!

Not so long ago there was a time when I grew my hair long, shaved twice a month (at the most thrice) and believed I could rule the world in a kurta and a pair of jeans! Today the only thing I find wrong in that statement is the tense!

"So what happened? "
(How predictable a question?)

"Life happened!"
(An even more predictable answer!)

As I study my clean-shaven countenance in the mirror, the predictability of my own statement stings, like a slap across my bearded, long-haired face! And yet the shameless lips curl up in an ironic smile! As if to mock the thoughts in my head. Thoughts I dare not whisper. Of how the boy in his kurta cared not for the future and yet his eyes twinkled with dreams while the man in his suit looks only to the future but dares not dream!

Drunken Ramblings

Frustration!!! Utter, complete and total frustration. Just when I was about to publish my latest post, my computer died on me. And I refuse to do the editing again! So I have nothing to say any more.
As I nurse another drink, except for my loathing for technology there is no one here to keep me company. I do not say I am alone. I can at a glance count atleast five heads, and I'm sure that after two red labels and the perfunctory nature of my glance I missed a couple of them. But yet company is a different drink altogether. One that I'd surely trade for the next round of Johnnie Walkers.
Which brings me to why one drinks- for the warmth? or the dissolution of inhibitions? or the high? or simply just to belong somewhere? Well whatever your answer I still think trading drinks on the next round would give me all that and more.

Capitals and Monuments

Today for the first time we did not have the Prime Minister (wish him a speedy recovery) for the Republic Day, also the first time that I wasn't in India on 26th Jan. So what did I do about it? Well, I went out and took a look around the capital of another country. I took a walk around what American's know as the National Mall.

Like any other capital city in the world it is built to impress. So off I went in the direction of that huge edifice erected in the memory of George Washington. Though I couldn't really fathom the monument (I guess it is supposed to reflect his stature) it is a monument you aren't likely to forget, if not for anything then for the pure oddity of it. I thought Greenough's Zeus-like statue is a more apt monument for a man who in my opinion is great, not as much for winning a war as for relinquishing the power that that victory offered him. The sword in his hand, not drawn but actually with the hilt turned away, is what in today's world needs emphasizing. It truly is sad that this monument was not up to the sensibilities of the people due to his "clothes!"

But that's how it works especially when its "for the people, by the people and of the people" as so famously said by the man who sits in white marble splendour looking out towards that phallus jutting out into the sky. The man, who so long ago set in motion the chain of events that led to another taking his oath as the "most powerful man on earth," seemed to frown a little, probably disappointed at the amount of time his vision has taken to be realised.

The Capitol impressed like it is meant to, with its distinctive dome standing out against the colours of dusk. Which brings me back to what my wife said, "Capital's are built to impress!" like Rajpath or the India Gate or the pillars of the Parliament making that beautiful circle and the parade that I missed this year. They are all there to impress. A showcase for the world.

And then you come across something that is all that and more. The peace and quiet exhiliration I felt, one sunny winter morning, watching the man with the charkha at Rajghat was one such.

The Beginning

Though the title of this blog sounds like the ending of a Hrishikesh Mukherjee film (I love his films), it is indeed the beginning of, what I hope are, some keystrokes that will let out some of the latent uneasiness in me. The writing bug isn't new to me and I've always tried to write, sometimes failing poorly but at times succeeding. But its been a while since I've written! And too much water has been added by the Ganga to the Bay in the meantime.

I really don't have much to say today but I fear if I were to have postponed this little beginning any further it may never have been. So let me say that i have a lot more to say...