Saturday, August 15, 2009
After Bodhidharma faced the wall for nine years at Shaolin temple and made a hole with his stare, he left behind an iron chest. When the monks opened this chest they found two books: the “Marrow Cleansing Classic,” and the “Muscle Tendon Change Classic”, or "Yi Jin Jing" within. The first book was taken by Bodhidharma's disciple Huike, and disappeared; as for the second, the monks selfishly coveted it, practicing the skills therein, falling into heterodox ways, and losing the correct purpose of cultivating the Real. The Shaolin monks have made some fame for themselves through their fighting skill; this is all due to their possession of this manuscript.
THIS BLOG IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION…
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Her cry echoing a requiem of a broken dream
She doesn’t remember when she last laughed
She forgot how to scream
Her silhouette fades in sunlight
Life’s a hazy shade of winter
When she looks down for a patch of snow
She sees herself,
Broken in ripples
Sinking in cold, grey water
It’s pouring since midnight, and almost halfway through the day, there’s no sign of stopping. It’s monotonous and quite a nag. I decidedly didn’t carry the lower apparel of my rain suit. Presumably because I didn’t see it coming. Though now, to think of it, there was no way I could’ve not seen it coming. It’s a fifteen-minute walk from Lower Parel station to my office, which is at the end of the mill compound. So it goes without saying that when I reached my jeans was soaking. My strapless sandal got wet and the soles started slipping beneath my feet. I somehow managed to save my phone by putting it inside my underwear. Since then till now it has been almost 2 hours and I’m still sitting in my wet jeans. Not a very comforting situation, but I’ve no other option.
We were suppose to have a meeting today to chart out plans for the Budget day. When I came in there were only three people who were working on the weekend shows. After two hours now, I get to hear the meeting has been postponed to three. Somehow I was not aware of it. I’m not pissed.
I’ve a fire in my belly right now. Don’t let your imagination take a high-beta route. It only means I’m hungry. But being a Saturday, there’s no food in the canteen. I’m not miserable.
Currently, there’s no thought in my mind as well. When I’m breaking away from the flow of writing this blog, I’m blankly staring at the glass wall that curves the outside of the studio. Neel, our switcher in the PCR just passed by and said, “kyu bhai, itna sannate mein kyu hai?”. It took me sometime to realize it was for me, a little more to understand what it meant. It’s not fully because my mind is blank, but also because I’m terribly handicapped when it comes to our national language.
I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Probably because I want to kill time. The thoughts I’m scribbling are also coming to me intermittently, in the form of floating threads with no knots tying them together in one simplex harmony.
I remember, a few days back, a good friend told me that he was almost approaching sainthood and in fact, to establish the feeling, he had an ‘out-of-body’ experience. I’m trying to figure out how can I not be feeling anything. Isn’t the mind being possessed by ‘no thought’ or ‘no feeling’ the state one can call an out-of-body state? On second thought, not really. I guess your soul suspend above all feelings when you simply ‘GIVE UP.’
Saturday, June 20, 2009
He doesn’t realize when the heat of the summer sun evaporates as a monotonous drizzle sets in. The world around him has turned a shade grey. Umbrellas appear all around.
He turns up his collar, puts on his winter coat.
Round the corner, the air is filled with the aroma of roasted chestnuts. The markets hued to a dark green as rows of Christmas trees come up for sale.
There’s the first hint of snow.
He comes to Park Street - a startling snowscape for the next hundred yards. By the time he reaches Mags, the snow starts melting. He crosses Peter Cat, unaware of the streaming crowd as people flurry. In the horizon, the citadel of the Loretto chapel break the expanse of the sky. It’s spring again.
The seasons have turned a full circle – and with them, life. The tide has turned, the time has gone. But he walks on. A lonesome figure, slouched under the burden of pain, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed nowhere. He’s a modern-day survivor.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I look around, I look inside me.
I gather my thoughts,
I brace myself to meet those who need to share.
It’s cold outside.
I walk for myself, in darkness
Searching for the heat;
I can hear the rhythm in every beat
I can feel it rushing towards me
I can’t go back to where we were before
For I know I’ll fall prey to it
The debauched soul shimmers at the sight
But I know I can’t have it
…For the Gods love it!
Friday, June 12, 2009
“In a fleeting life
The only surviving performance is Love” -
If you think I pulled out these scintillating lines from the top of my head, you’re ‘net’ly mistaken. I’m just a sidekick of business journalists., and my creative juices have dried up long back - even before I realized that I had some in my veins. Currently, my glorious job profile allows me to put out the scoops they pull out from their 'reliable sources' on air. That too, on a channel that’s virtually non-existent. But don’t think I can’t become one or don’t have the talent for it. I intend to join the top brass. So I'm all geared up to pull up my socks and get into the groove of the ever-elusive financial world (that justifies ‘net’ly as I propose to swear by the importance of ‘net’ over ‘gross’).
Anyway, coming back to the point, even though my current status is that of an apology of a journo, I still think I should let the world know that I wasn’t always like this. I too used to be a flamboyant creature in his prime who had his appeal for the opposite sex and flaunted his raw creative talents to sweep them off their feet. I too used to be young, handsome, charming.
But most profound was my passion for films or ‘cinema’ as I would carefully choose to call it. If anybody would ever make the perfunctory blunder of confusing one with the other, all hell would break loose, and I would immediately get down to the task of educating the illiterate. And by God’s ‘disgrace’, if ever some one would be sacrilegious enough to call it a ‘boi’, that would be it. He or she will not live to die another day.
I used to be a guy who would swear by masters and auteurs like Truffault, Godard, Pialat, Kurosawa, Bergman, Renoir, Bunuel, Zsabo. I paid religious visits to MMB (Max Mueller Bhavan for those insolents who don’t know what MMB stands for), agog with anticipation and excitement for what the German institute held in store for film buffs like us. I would spend odd hours at Seagull catching rare masterpieces. But my spirits of a true Bengali ‘buddhijibi’ would take a body blow if I would not be there at the ‘Mecca’ of Bengali film fanatics from 11th November to the 17th every year. (That’s Nandan and Film Festival I’m referring to for those impudent blighters who aren't aware of it).
And then there’s my unchained love for photography. Come spring, summer, autumn, winter, I would wear my sneakers, adorn myself with all the appropriate gear and trot down the streets of Kolkata trying to capture its moods and moments in black and white. All in all, I used to be a quintessential ‘bangali’ with an unfettered affinity for art and its myriad creations.
But those days are gone. Here I am now, lying in my plush room in a high rise in the suburbs of Mumbai, my robust physique reduced to layers of flab that could well be called a paunch, my comely face turning a little fuller with the receding hairline. I’ve let my passions wane, trying to curve a shape, forget curving a niche, in financial journalism – that too with utter failure till now. So I succumb to my pain and wallow in self pity – trying to find an outlet for my grief in the world of blogs.
COMING ATTRACTION: I am a diehard Bengali with an indomitable spirit and a killer sting that can well command a fascinating comparison with Adolf Hitler. From that perspective I cannot take insults spewed at my ‘race’( the Hitler spirit’s growing again within me as I write), even if it may well be from a dear friend whom I value heartily. Though I understand that he’s on the wrong side of 25 and the shining pate ever so growing is throwing an evil shadow on his wisdom and better judgement, yet I cannot restrain myself from vehemently repudiating him. How can he be so insolent as to disregard his own existence?