There is this guy i know from my PTI days (they weren't long back, if that is what comes across from the tone. they were just three years ago.), who used to walk with me back from shift and coerce me into eating ice creams with him. I was a (psuedo) anti-MNC then and always used to go for Amul or the very local Mother Diary ones and he, the kind of Hinglish kiddo that he was, always grabbed a Kwality Walls or ...whatever. And he wrote about me and "my love for ice creams" in PTI's work blog and whoosh....I felt all the more encouraged to gulp down more. All the while thinking, "Oh Tony is so ccccuuuutttteee.... (unlike some of the men in the 'constipated' place....well, now I think it was just my thought. Sorry folks.) Today after long, I bumped into his blog...tony2cool...and seems like the Tony I knew has graduated... from shimpy shimpy ice cream and chocolate talk to....SEX. Wow. He has some fabulous revelations on his blog on how he came to know of the forbidden fruit. Well, Tony, if you will ever read this....whatever or however you feel of what or what not in this world, dont ever forget the walk back to bus stop after the 8 am shift and the ice cream sessions. The ice creamwallah knew us so very by our sight that whenever i used to be alone, he used to ask ...apke dost nahin aaye? And I used to say ...nahin...unka afternun shift hai... And to keep his spirits, I would order a cone.
Can't forget those steaming hot and icy cold days of Delhi and the Parliament Street lanes just for some memories like these. The others are tagged to our Mayur Vihar hostel with all fun, frolick, anger and of course the 'naive silliness' of our very naive Misha Pillai. And the days I shared with Ambika Pendharkar, who must now be raking in marital bliss. The 'very literary' chats I had with the 'very literary' Anima Balakrishnan and the love for life and fun I shared with the gorgeous Bong babe Rituparna Bhowmick. And the silent camaradrie I had with the mag man Sachin Gogoi, who still is a friend for life, and the 'very brotherly' love I had for big dada Debjit Chakrabarty. Of course how can I forget my Swaty, a woman in every sense of the word .
Within PTI, it is DKG's pompous talk, Vinod's mellifluous singing as he found his way through foreign copies and Ritu Sharma's and Richa Tyagi's "I care two hoots" attitude that stays evergreen. These are the things that made me feel, at least sometimes, that the I in me is not completely dead. Otherwise, Delhi was the place where I was on a foolproof act...to please and to gain love.... But in the pursuit, I lost myself. I could have gained so many friends and good moments with my real self...had I not been on that act. I would win otherwise, too, keeping away all those factors that prompted  me to act. This post is thus an apology to all my friends who I purposely shut out...Avishek Roy, Sumit Upadhyay, Zeeshan Sheikh, Shemin Joy, SDG, Sukanya, Mriganka, and most of the seniors who I knew I could be friends with. Love you all.

Breathe free

Let me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love
Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights
Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed
Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body
Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers
Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light
Between my bed and the infinite;
Let the virgins come close and see the shadow of God in my eyes,
And hear the echo of His will racing with my breath.

The Ascending

I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the firmament of complete and unbound freedom;
I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are hiding the hills from my eyes.
The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence,
And the hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;
The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter
That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight and red as the twilight.
The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams are scattered,
And the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;
And I can hear naught but the music of eternity In exact harmony with the spirit's desires.
I am cloaked in full whiteness; I am in comfort; I am in peace.

The Remains

Lament me not, but sing songs of youth and joy;
Shed not tears upon me, but sing of harvest and the winepress;
Utter no sigh of agony, but draw upon my face with your finger the symbol of love and joy.
Disturb not the air's tranquility with chanting and requiems,
But let your hearts sing with me the song of eternal life;
Mourn me not with apparel of black, but dress in color and rejoice with me;
Talk not of my departure with sighs in your hearts;
Take me not to the crowded burying ground lest my slumber be disrupted by the rattling of bones and skulls.
Carry me to the cypress woods and dig my grave where violets and poppies grow not in the other's shadow;
Take from me all earthly raiment and place me deep in my mother earth; and place me with care upon my mother's breast.

Leave me then, friends - leave me and depart on mute feet,
As the silence walks in the deserted valley;
Go back to the joy of your dwellings and you will find there that which death can't remove from you and me.
Leave me.

---Kahlil Gibran

I am a big farce
No truth in me
Just a bundle of horrible nerves
And a tongue that wags
I am a big farce
Too costly for life
A daughter and sister I am
A mother, too
Of no particular use
I tried a wife's part
And failed, with elan
A journo I tried being
And messed up with finnesse
Now am I here, in this school
Trying to teach shit
Finally, I said love divine
But divinity... too scared of me
Death finds me tough
Else why should it elude

ambalapravu... my mother's house had an inner room, which we used to call kizhakemuri which was used by my uncle, who was then in college. he was quite naughty, and was a rebel, more so because he was affected by polio when he was just nine months old. in his room, on the ceiling, which was done up in wood, there was a puttering sound heard and elders at home said, it was the ambalapravu that has nested there. "Oh, remove it, else, it will bring the house ill-luck," many said. I was just five and remember, some men climbing on to the ceiling and pulling the nest down. "Oh, ithu muttayittu," they said. It had two small birds, newborns, and a few eggs. I saw a big bird, looking at the men doing all that from a distance. It kept puttering in a low sound. I asked grandma what will happen now, She didnt say anything. The men there said, the young birds either will die of starvation or will be taken away by crows or other birds. The eggs, they didnt know. May be eaten by reptiles. The mother bird will not come claiming. As once touched by someone else, it'll abandon its eggs and little ones. That was the law.I suddenly remebered the mother bird sitting watching her young ones being torn apart from her. Did her heart cry when she witnessed men and the law tearing her kids from her? How must she have felt at the men and the law? She must have cursed the moment when she found the attic the place for a good home. Where must she have gone? There was a story of a bird my grandma once told me. Of a mother bird who asked her little one to fry cherupayar, after counting the total number of grains. The little bird dutifully did it thinking her mom will be happy. but when the mother bird came back she found the number of grains less and began to peck her little one to death. then she counted a fistful of grains and began frying it, only to find it reduced. when she found she killed her little one for no reason, she beat herself to death. there was this poem by vailopilly on similar lines called mampazham. it talks about how the mother stopped her little son from playing with unnimanga. But when the fruit ripened over the season, the boy was no more. the mother thinks about it with a bleeding heart. Did that ambalapravu's heart also bleed when she found the men taking her nest away into the backyard? Did it cry thinking the dirty hands of law will prevent it from feeding its young ones even though it sees them dying of hunger? There is no bigger pain than watching your loved ones suffer. I think of the atrocities some heinoius men do on others in front of their kin and shudder. Imagine how the mothers must have felt when their daughters were raped in front of them in Gujarat. How the men must have felt when their kids and wives were burnt before them, how the brothers, the daughters must have felt when their... i hate to think of it. why can't we put ourselves in other's shoes to experience their pain? Why do we have to hurt, by word or deed? Is it necessary that to exist we must hurt? Why can't we be in a more sensitive world?

We walked all within ourselves.
The night was around us
And silence in every corner.
He kept talking and I listened.
There was no glances, no gasps, no holding hands.
He talked about lost love, his childhood, his unfinished book,
And in his every word, I found another me.
My past unwound, the lost love, the childhood, the book that lay unfinished in my mind.
And finally we parted; the night was growing.
I took an auto and he to get money
But I was still walking...
In it I found a friend, a soul sensitive, a mate
Or nothing… It’s beyond silly confines
Back home, he messaged to find if I reached safe
I did feel safe finally… with myself.
It isn’t the person, the talk, the walk…
It is what made me feel me
Somewhere within, a new me dawned,
Me that didn’t have the dark, the tears and the fears,
Me for whom love isn’t a territory…
It is itself, a free space, a voyage to infinity
I floated, amidst stars, with nothing to pull me down…
With the darkness of space around me
And the light from yonder stars…
Happy, easy and quenched I was
For I found love… which isn’t for a person or a thing
It’ll be in me till I live
And die with me when I die
I am glad I found it…albeit for a moment

Advaita....

I have put duality away,
I have seen two worlds are one,
One I seek, one I know
One I see, one I call
He is the one, He is the last
He is the outward
He is the inward

----Jelauddin Rumi

jo dil khoja aapna, mujhse bura na koi.....

there are many things I despise
loudness, I find it everywhere...
around on the road, at office, in my house
the bus, the traffic and the driver
all yell at you to move over
then there is the computers at office
that tick tick and tick you over
in the din, i find myself left out
move over to a corner to ponder
whats wrong, why do i find everything wrong????
i read, or try read whats wrong ..... in the things that i encounter
slides of vision zip past.... i rewind
whats wrong, whats really wrong -- with the world?
tired i let my mind retire ... to a corner
and then delve to the depth of the whats really wrong saga
the mind cools off, sits placid
then it turns around ---gives me a look square--
i ask, perturbed, why the look, whats wrong?
it keeps the look, and says but calm ....
nothings wrong ---with the world,
whats wrong is with you
the world isn't loud, you are
i protest, say you creep and a cheat, you ain't fit be my mind
the mind recedes, laughing
i then catch up with a friend
to tell her how i feel and what is wrong with everything around
bare my hear out and yelllllll---things are wrong and wrong and wrong
days past and i forget, having been cornered by myself
now i sit at my comp and find a text that the pal wrote
on my day out with her and our talk
and what she read of it
and then it strikes me
yes my mind was right ---something is wrong
not with the world, but me
its not the world who is loud, but me
the world is how you see it
and i saw it loud, for i was loud
i saw it wrong, for i was wrong

Sing O' my mind of the love of man and God
Much like Hallaj did -- that martyr of mystical love,
Who died at the Abassind's hand and called --
"a threat to the state" for saying in trance
"Ana al Haq (I am Truth)"
I wish to sing along the same tunes
For in life there is no charm
Its love, bitter and words, hollow
But will they, the Abassinds of the Day
Kill me? Or rather not let me sing?
Killing is better than the strangle ...
For as long as I remain, let me sing...
Sing songs of love
Till You remain and I vanish in You
And before they come to strangle
"Kill me, my faithful friends,
For in my being killed is my life"
As Hallaj said.

Love that is so called by mortals........

To some, love is eternal,
For me it is trivial,
To some love has words,
For me it is blank,
To some love is romantic,
For me, it is barbaric,
To some love "can move mountains",
For me, it "does nothing but spoils sleep",
To some, love is all about love --
For they have never loved, only heard of it
For me, love is all about pain -- both sweet and sour --
As I have loved and yet not loved

`Ode to the Wind'

Today, when I, as a depressed and troubled soul (my pals say I am so always, yet), when I logged on to my blog to write, I saw a strange name who has commented on my posts. The person or rather the name (for the virtual world does not recognise figures and forms) 'Wind' commented on my posts with such a lustre that I felt slightly unsettled. Would not the reader rather skip my blog and read the comments by `Wind'. Who is this `Wind'? I really, really wanted to know.
Then, I came to the last comment of the `Wind' and found a name that is so dear to me, for my amma calls me by that name -- `Ammu'. Yes, I know who the `Wind' is .... my anna (elder brother in Tamil) who is more than anything a heart that bleeds poetry, simplicity and above all ... love. Blessed are those who come in the ambit of his loved ones...well that would be the earth and even the grains of sand on it, for he hates none. He resembles to me a cloud, fluffy and light that swims across the sky caressing everything that comes in its way, yet not stopping anywhere.
He really astonishes me, he is a father of a two-year-old and an extremely devoted husband who cares and attends to his wife in detail, yet he is not bound to this mundane world. As I said he floats. And talks endlessly....about things that no other person sees or feels. And it gives me so much pleasure when he talks to me, I feel blessed to have been born me. I thank the `Wind' for writing to me, on my blog in a tongue that just I understand. Thanks...for I feel more like myself when I read you.

To kill to kill time......and find work

There was no work today. So I thought why not I make work for myself. And with my new found love for blogging, I sat down to blog.
Journalists are always on the look out for work and stories. I remember the movie that I saw when I was young, titled 'New Delhi Times' in which the editor went on a killing spree to win his paper a few scoops. He shot and strangulated and stabbed..even the Angolan king. He reached the spot bang on time, when the big shots were retiring for the day, 'kidnapped' them and killed them.
He then focussed his camera, shot snaps and wrote about the killing. His snaps and reports were much debated the next day, with competitiors going red over the snaps that showed blood from a fresh corpse oozing out and the reports talking of spot scenes and the fiasco after that.
I feel like doing much that, to win some work and do justice to the bucks that I earn at the end of day. But first I do not have the guts to kill and then I do not know who to kill. So, from tomorrow I am going to coach myself about killing my time (and winning work) "killing".

tears at workplace...

my tears that fell on the workplace,
will sure usher in a dawn,
for like the animals of the farm who took up arms,
there will be a day when the "dalits" of the place will revolt,
pulling apart those who are sure brain dead
but think themselves, "the new brain on the block"
and then we would rush up and take power in our arms,
much like the animals,
who shooed away the men.
then we would march down the pathway to the bathroom
bring up buckets of water,
to cleanse the room and the air.
then there would be colour,
and the sweet pure wind-of democracy,
of freedom that comes when we are our own masters,
but....there is a fear, that like the animals,
who fought and got freedom,
will not the "dalits" who fight and get their freedom,
go on to repeat on others, what the "blue bloods" did on them
what is then the way out, Man you are but a fool,
who plays first to win and then to lose.

also from my mind....

Manasasancharare....is also from my mind, the other things being anguish, pain, sorrow and a whole lot of negative things. No, don't think its always negative. There are positives too. Like the hope that the Essence that has given birth to the idea thats me, will help find all that is encapsulated in the word "peace". Am I sounding boring? Well I cannot be anything else but my mind, and since my mind is boring for the people I speak to, I decided to write. A friend of mine told me about "releasing youself on the Net on blogs". Did not know what blog is and do not also know if this is what I should be writing. Yet am trying my luck to put myself on paper...oooppss...on the virtual space.
Manasasancharare is a famous carnatic song that has touched my mind ever since I was a child. It means the one who (that) wanders (travels) in the minds...could be God could be thoughts. I remember having cried and still cry when I hear this song. It touches you deep down and you realise there are corners of your mind that you have not discovered. And you feel at peace. Yet there is something more than what the dark outside world can offer. There is the light at the end if you travel through the tunnels of your mind. There is light. Life is beautiful, although its nothing.