Synchronicity

And so it often happens with me..Justin Timberlake's MIRRORS is a reflection of my real life living. So many thoughts flash through, as the lyrics drown me in a flood of emotions. What surprises me is the force of purity attached - of care and love that's natural and quite fulfilling ..

Yes, sometimes, there's a certain knowledge prescient in placing seemingly disproportioned hands together- but the imperfection deems the perfect fit as joy indeed appears future-proof. Soulmates, you say. Well, always have wondered if that emotion, more than a being could exist?

Reading a lot on this subject- would form a lot of perceptions and natural opinions - read judgements- bestow it's naked heart on the matter. Mostly, we are too meet several Horcruxes along the way - and fit / resonate with several on a variety of such occasions. #HarryPotterReferance

But as synchronicity be achieved ( yes, my Owl did whisper the word in my ear) , the fit needs a fight - of seeing past layers of your own belief system and open eyes to the possibility of a certain numero uno and fighting to keep the eyes that mirror you - by you.

A mouthful of words? Could be. Quite jumbled, my thoughts there.

When you trace reason to route and scientifically evaluate emotions - you lose out on the real meaning. Apparently. Instincts and intuition guide you and you firmly reckon wordsmiths like Paulo Coelho to find your alchemic connection.

Actually - literally you strike gold- when someone resonates on your hold. It's not Karma. It's subjectivity vs the diluted objective channel through which a primate emotion called love funnels through.

Maybe, it's just the course of the Believer- of the Wanderer. When you explore, still never go astray in asphyxiated expectations. You are ready to find oxygen in the same air you breathe- with the mirror.

Trust - that's a big word, indeed. Harnessing the fear of losing identity, encompassing a whole range of insecurity ... to place it , or share it with your Significant Other calls for a modicum of courage. The turbo charged tortoise , too looks out of it's shell- once in a while. Attrition of trust, would need safeguards- but how is life a living, when you exist holding onto it's fragility? You may lose it to find it back stronger. But maybe...just maybe.. when you place it right.. it echoes back with your words unsaid.

Is living for someone else, a loss of you own self or just an addition to your being - capped by an invisible halo? Is happiness, the floating bubble, truly a price tag attached commodity? Now, that we have commodified most gains, is love all about give and take? Or is it...give..give.. give... to see the Happy One, floating in his own bubble?

Anywho, as MIRRORS, plays on, I read the Owl's article on real meeting reel and losing faith in it's forceful effort to live. Life now is therefore, as He says, a case study of 'show and tell'... or as I  sarcastically surmise in my mind - 'kiss and tell'

Kiss the camera- tell the world. Of course I am part of the camera friendly crowd. I crowdsource reality. Or maybe, time-line afflicted, I am very careful of my old age and what I  shall tell my grandchildren as Rose did in Titanic. But what if FB did exist in the Titanic era .. Haha.. quite a thought, given the creative status updates and the dilemma to 'like'..

But the case in point suddenly being, the AGE that marriage just happens. It's really a bandwagon, where cartoons wear sherwani, get drowned in shenanigans and all the brouhaha, to celebrate togetherness. Really?!

Time, is ticking out. I am sure. Men are worried about ovarian cancer too- to degenerate their spawn. More than the pink ribbon, the so called eminent bachelors choose to tie down their fate with a date (actually a dare).

The fat girls get fatter in their big fat weddings, where their fathers buys the groom or acts like a mafia to donate money to groom-broom.

Can't be helped. My idea of marriage is tainted by the Marwari wedding pictures that keep flashing on the newsfeed.

What's the point in dressing up for M-day?! I fail to understand how white-faced bride-groom( read only talcum powder) can face camera and pretend to be happy? Would they want to see their black faces sans the cosmetic pollution? Would the airbrushed pictures still live upto the overt happiness as shown in the albums?

What's with people, anyway? Have they lived their lives in full - known themselves before jumping like a baboon on the next branch to give mating calls?

I wonder, how many such FB masterpieces or cartoons, have travelled..alone..enjoyed their silence.. when left to own devices, how much have they loved themselves?

...and all this while.. the fat girls .. get fatter....

Threading this confused array to the original line of thought - just how many found their soul-mates , rather than sticking up for a photogenic sole-mate?

Is the clock really ticking and time running out? How many have defined their needs and have chosen wisely - than rush to outpace time or listen to Daddy !!

Honestly, more I see the wedding pictures in FB, more I laugh to me- how comical people look in  their uniform.. the mockery of smiles..

Is true emancipation a fantasy? Well, no. It comes with loving yourself and your Significant Other in  the same light.

....cynical..I am....

Traditions amuse me.

Don't get me wrong but.. I am all for living for and with the person one loves..I love my guy too..tremendously.

But I see him as my equal- or better, far superior- but placed in the mantle of soulmate.

That's what. It's friendship and real joy of togetherness than jumping about and being clicked in uniforms. What a waste of money - everywhere! And people still call India poor ! That too, is a sham. A political sham.

Why not be with someone for love alone- than an agenda of marrying and egg-hatching?

...thoughts go culling - mulling ...

..and all this while..the fat girls..get fatter ...

Aahhh...damn you MIRRORS.

Do Men have to 'disturbed' to Emote ?!

This post comes with some confused and displaced thoughts. It's a battery of questions that primarily are asked to self before getting any mass verdict. Or perhaps, there is little scope for that.



The context would be the fine line between expression and suppression where men are concerned.

Not sure, where to start. The key was my own mirth which I now repent as folly.

Once, there was a particular blond with the blue eyes I had liked. But when he spoke, I wished I could cover all my 5 senses.

The tryst of mistrust was with his theoretical knowledge of India. That raised an ire-chord. Blue flames of hatred flared up like sapphire.

Being a researcher, I was appalled at his xenophobia. But then again- this is yet another matter - another bone of contention.

Point of the matter is - are we scared of men and their expressions? Why do we look down if men express - in theatrical exaggerated manner?

Do we have to judge them with biased and colored lenses and label them?

Is it that our judgement goes on an extreme point  of an insidious form of habitual auto-pilot?

The cognitive load that we apparently carry, in terms of information on structures, and the way we process as conditioned, seems to be a double-edged sword pinned to our merciless selection of everyday attention & influences.

When we intellectualize expressions, and question it's roots, do we deconstruct the beauty of emotions?

Ok, let me analyze how minds were working at the time-

• the cognitive phase of intellectualizing his mannerisms which we termed as madness
• the associate stage where the focus is sharper on his mistakes
• finally the autonomous stage, where we arrive at our own haphazard 'OK-Plateau' where we pilfer the information as we filter and move it back to the recesses of our minds - all the while labelling and tagging him as a 'weak man.'

As my best friend exclaims - 'Dude, like seriously?'

I do admit that I fell in this 3 step process. But I had to take multiple steps back and stop to question. I had to make use of my Socio background - debunk and evaluate the essence of the so-called  'positive deviation.'

Somewhere, it didn't settle in right, when we laughed at his nuances. We should have considered them as his intrinsics and accepted.

Are we that rigid and straitjacketed? Who, are we then in our bedrooms?

How much do men need to walk the linear path of inexpressive equanimity to seek a balance. Why can't they be freed of their own shackles too? 

To respire, aspire and inspire. And not to impress while being oppressed.

So when he exclaims, with eyes round and hands doing the talking - do we have to see him as an outlier to the manly codes of public conduct ?

Or is it just India? 

Where are we then, on the continuum of evolution - acceptance of emotions and expressions?

Hmmmmmm... 

An Ode to Kabira

I write this much inspired. I write this, as an expression of what evades me. The song has dug its roots in me- as a sign of my times.

The opening lines speaks a boy's heart -

"Main udna chahta hoon Naina,
Daudna chahta hoon...
Girna bhi chahta hoon..
Bas rokna nahi chahta ..."

The tone is moving as it speaks volumes through the simple words. It reflects the suppressed wish to taste freedom and yet the implicit trust to come back home.

It symbolizes the prologue of a man - lost in  his desire to be a boy again and turn his back on what love may hold.

Time of essence, is of inconsequence. The timeless hails supreme of what the heart speaks and the mind conjures.

The shadow of the ticking clock - stands null and void to dreams or wants.

It calls for a greater understanding of one's own restlessness and of another's patience.

Suffering is noble for its the stepping stone to things greater- or so the fable goes. Suffering is optional. A test of will and character. Few win the fight - and the few who do, know none of the borders that reality pervades one's own soul with.

As the song starts and the mellifluous Rekha Bharadwaj's vox sings out - the sigh heard , is almost palpable. You feel the deep sorrow of the female protagonist - as she tosses and trusses about in her inner turmoil - of the intrinsics of holding on or letting go.

Dreams are fragile. Once broken - they never synthesize to a new coherent cohesion. Once dead - they are ashen - sublime of their silken essence.

Once smoke - they're brittle and hurt steps as they try to divert.

The maturity of the girl, longs to lapse back into her puerility and be rebellious to fate being pre-decided and snatched away.

She sees the man she loves walk away.

True love always comes back - all fairy tales end with this happy ending.

The used always comes back in its distorted form.

But reality is crude as her own hopes bite the dust. She must bite the bullet and let go - set free her own self.

The song calls for a higher understanding of a woman over a man's mind. It calls for an esteem-hit yet a courage much untraced.

To let go and remain buried in hopes - with wings clipped is not what every girl aspires to do.

To cut the umbilical chord that unites the twin beats - is not what the heart would ever wish for.

The song is not about love or loss. Yet its lovelorn tune tears the very fiber of being - and stitches into the very core as its encore.

The song is not a plea- just a state of silent wonderment at the other's unique brand of insanity.

And the tears fall. But in the fall, lies a queer liberation as the heart gets steadily incinerated.

She seeks a lifetime - not a light installation of it. She is prepared to lose for that. For she cannot settle for the second best or play the second fiddle to one's dream or responsibility side-tracked as commitment.

The song calls for a salute !!

The Why Not Me Generation

Generation is always an ambivalent term. Nowadays, the space is so less between and pace of life so fast - that generation seems a farce word indeed. Like if we look at just 2 years younger to us- that pedigree is entirely different from us.

Wants, need, passion and even the nature of compassion seems changed. To Be or not to Be is fast superseded by To See or not To See. The eye only sees what the eye believes.

The share of trust vested is thus wasted mostly as one thing called facades bind souls together. We put on masks and our best smiles to fake while we face the innocent. In fact, in  this dog eat dog world, it's quite an irony to wish someone -"May God Bless You."

a) There's NO God above
b) We make it on our own
c) Dogs rule the world

So, it mostly must be rephrased by - May Dog Bless You.

Wishes like these hold more truth too - like we may infer it to be - "May DOGS like US bless you," or that "You're a DAWG too.. besties in your survival kit."

In this ratrace, you must be the smart dog to survive- not the loyal over-committed pig that you've morphed into - but the real dog who chases a cheetah !!

Instant gratification seems to be the instant mantra for instant happiness. Inner happiness be damned - the face glow is bought too.

Happiness is pen and paper ilked. You say it and the contract is signed.

Aspirations run high all these dogs know is how to use up people- aka resources- and survive. No place for ethics, law or the sun. No place for truth as the holy grail in the walk of fame.

Facebook is a good example - the race for marriage, honey combed honey-moons and the honey trap that's the wedded lives ! Everyday, someone is tying the knot and dying as the noose tightens.

Pockets are full of blingblings - phones, car keys, silver - what not to show off status, money , class, power but not affinity and empathy.

There's no virtue in value- just the spice of vice. Doesn't matter if you're married and you want to use girls for self-gratification. She's meant to be used after all!

This generation - rather the breed of people now- I tag as 'Why Not Me' hence. Everyone wants a share of the pie but none wants to buy it. Ownership is a loose and a vague term. More than fatigue, we fight boredom.

Shifting or locomotion from one place to the other - is the key skill one has to earn as he / she learns it the hard way. The world must be seen through cynical dark shades.

Eyes must be dry always. Moist is a sign of weakness

Is silence a form of independence ???

Has someone ever felt the extreme pleasure point on reaching home simply after another day's work - with a mind wasted and gone to the dogs - empty moments piling onto time. The heavy burden of Time itself,. makes it crawl and drag its feet, painful second by second.

I wonder how many people are actually, stuck at crossroads of time.. awaiting for a new beginning with no end in sight ?

I wonder how many people are proactive about it?

At times, when the drudgery of work leaves your brain paralyzed by utter boredom, I ponder how is it possible to feel intellectual , organic and sexy again ?

Is the feeling of life sapped forever - at least for the time being? How does one cope up with the feeling of incapability ? Of constancy sans change?

How does life itself react - to political agenda driven attitude that erodes ethics and dilutes principles. How does one discern joy on delivery or execution ? How is the process hole-ridden?

Where does zeal lead one to- if there are dead ends everywhere?

When does ambition take flight - when all doors firmly remain closed? The only one open seems to be the one you have to enter reluctantly.


A lot of people are smart enough to shrug off the 9-5 phenomena. But what about those  wish to embrace the timelines but are left gasping for more?

In the search for linearity, when mental faculties soon become defunct, how does one rise above to another horizon that testifies one's ability and faith in oneself ? Does the dictum of corporate philosophy border on sadism?

Why is thought never challenged and actions streamlined to one goal of money?

Do most then, float with numbed minds and dumbed voices and drift aimless- waiting and watching out for a new spark.

Given the context, how many of us then, breathe a deep sigh of relief when the clock strikes 6 and there's a rush to retreat back to one's me-time?

Is one's sense of identity only cultivated by time best felt alone?

Is silence an independence?

A lot of thoughts as an outcome of largely unproductive days and a daze settling as a haze which obstructs logic and joy of 'work.'

Mulling still .....

Life on a Treadmill

Life on a treadmill - this analogy was much derived watching legs and feet pounding to a rhythmic beat on a treadmill at my gym. Sweat dripping with earphones muffling all sounds of reality - leaving the listener lost in his or her abyss of self-peace pursuit.

Routine life and monotony besets all, it seems. Such is life- in the corporate world, where running too seems a race against time and not with time

Zooming back to the gym, I see both sexes in love with metal and machines. The natural has no scope of life and form as the structure remains shaped by the arches and lines. The shape too seems constant- slim and curvy or bulging with curious cuts.

Standardization of mind, self and body thus sets as an alignment that maligns the truth that centers all cores.

Appetite and share of mouth must follow a linear course and diverging away from the centrifugal point leaves one harassed and focus diluted. There is no scope of course correction , for that must again result in loss of time.

Bliss, peace and metal joy remains thus monetized. Pace of life must beat one's space - the idea by itself a life's dictum.

In fact, the more the world gears towards equality, the more papyrous the concept seems. Time and distance remain at unequal poles where the individual is pit as a challenge at the center.

Maybe I'm thinking all this, in a soul searching mode, after my recent trip to the hills. The greenery, slow motion life, heedless to any deadlines but just to the rhythm of one's own heartbeat - seemed magical and aspirational.

There was a sensual seduction in the air, that calmed minds and sensitized nerves to the many sounds of nature.

Colors, all at once, seemed bright and seemed to have a life of their own. The wind seemed a life-giver while lazy clouds floated about as orbs of hope where dreams may rest unhassled.

Food seemed aplenty as did people's smiles. There a more cemented spirit bound in collectivity where individuality had no scope of survival.

The scenic spots could only inspire the creative- while the slopes seemed painted by an ethereal power. It was a place to make one believe- make an atheist fall in love with the power of faith.

Mesmerized, we'd stood- strangely awed, subdued and powerless at the hands of oblivion. The clock had faded away - no herald for the known anymore.

Life suddenly seemed beautiful, serenaded by its own quirky simplicity.

Maybe I'd felt my cynicism thawing too- as the surreptitious tentacles of serendipity made me place a modicum of trust on the over-rated words of love and a life beyond.

It was as if the whole place was streaked by the conjurer's paint brush- to play with your mind- make your darkest dreams come alive, only to be hued by sunshine. Nothing seemed impossible- as the time stood still.

Standing atop the hills, breathing in purity,I could only envision enriched prosperity - not marred or tarred with commodification of wants.

As I let my eyes feast on the treat on every horizon. the route to heaven / haven seemed closer and more real than possible.

The sense of a lag- a giving up of the competitive streak- seemed suddenly a relief. All over the leit motif of peace and the white flag could shine bright as slowly it let me fade away my blacks.

Idyllic for an idealist like me, the crude way of life could finally rest the realist in me,emphasizing on the urge to forgo boundaries and dream of everything that I had shunned.

Music in the air with the natural beats of waterfall, footsteps, breathless climbs, bleats and bird songs filled my aura as it too sang its own queer song of solitary joy.

The final moments suddenly dawned the slow breakage of this gilded cage- where happy I'd lain- full of self-contentment. In my mind, the comparison map of the very commercial cemented Gurgaon with the hills loomed large, making me wish for a miracle to conspire and me to stay back forever, lost in the arms of love.

Maybe this place could soften me while the city life can only serve to sell you to servitude. The artificiality of concrete could only draw a restless sigh of benign dislike - where we would have to adhere to the norms that city culture could dictate.

I thought deep about glasses that adorned the buildings in the city jungle- pale, fastidious that deflected sunlight - while mirrors here could only reflect spirit, life, love and harmony.

Driving back to the morgue that housed the jail house of money and power, I suddenly felt quite cut away - distant as the main purpose of life seemed out of focus.

I don't really know whether escape from commercial city life to such magical places can co-create the value in a myth or that one should actively pursue a route to life than pursuit of happiness through a meaningless livelihood ..

Fathers - the 3D effect

Ist part-

He stopped to look at the clock on the white wall. 8 going on 9. Raking his hand through his hair, he loosened his tie. His stomach growled. He realized he hadnt eaten anything since that call.

At 4pm, his wife of 4 years had called him in muted panic. 'It's time.' ..was all she'd said. He grabbed his suit and ran from the presentation that he'd slaved on for more than a month.

 'It was time..yes ! and so it was."..was all that he could think.

He ran down the 10 flights and found his way to his car on his shaky feet. Jumping in, he backed at breakneck speed and drove out to the highway. His mind was abuzz with thoughts while his eyes were alight with a subdued excitement. Prayer on his lips-  his plea to to God for safety.

For years, Myra and he'd thought of this day - dreamt of this day. Since college, when they knew their eventuality, this day had seemed to be an inevitable and a veritable proof of their love. Jobs, house, car and dogs - all fell in place slowly as they worked hard to turn their dream to reality.

And it was time, for a new life to enter their life.

Their joy knew no bounds, when the confirmation came. Love shone and sparkled in their eyes as they held hands and planned more. Future seemed to be candyfloss with a silvery glow - that reflected in their spirits. The 9 months of joy had passed away too quickly it seemed - and today was the day.

Sifting through the flashbacks, he felt that perhaps, he'd been waiting for this day all his life. In every image, he could see Myra and the infant. He felt, that all his life, he'd worked hard - for this day, when all his love and effort would bear fruit.

A small smile full of dreamy anticipation hovered around his lips. He paced up and down - restless and anxious - like a lion caged. As he turned for his n-th walk up and down the floor, he sighted his old man, walking towards him.

The men stood silent. The older one , with his hand on his son's shoulder.

Across the hallway, the nurse's voice rang out- summoning them. Both men ran towards the green door - breathless with excitement.

'It's a girl', the nurse smiled at them.

He walked in to see his wife exhausted , yet serene. Her luminous eyes lifted up, over her veil of sweat to meet his. He closed the distance between them and held her tight, while his father looked on.

The wail brought the instant smiles as little Misha was carried to her parents.

He looked at her - mesmerized by Creation's full essence. She was perfect - his little princess. His wife held the baby close to her heart. He could feel all his love for them both - overpowering him. He reached out and touched his baby. Together they held her.

'This is it' , he thought. 'I'm a father.'

The beauty of the realization hit him as tears welled up in his eyes. This was his child - the one for whom, he could do anything and be anyone.

He kissed her tiny  fingers and thanked God once more - in deep gratitude- for the miracle. Fatherhood, dawned on him that day, as he felt its sheen in its full glow.

2nd part -

Around the same time in the same hospital, another baby wailed too. Ali , looked on at his 6th baby. His look was austere - like the rest of him. His friends in fact likened him to an old black and white movie whose reel  the rat had eaten up.

He stood, immobile and expressionless. All that occupied his mind was- money, moolah, numbers and dollars.

In that space of time, his mind spanned back to the last decade of his life- scanning the intricate details. His first child, Samir, had brought him joy as he felt that the boy was his achievement - his payback for his labor of love.

His wife was a simple Hindu girl, whom his parents had thrusted upon him at an age of 22. Samir, too seemed the apple of her eye, as she doted on him, lavishing all her lidded love his way. Samir, was her  rescue from her husband's scorned ways.

But the chain soon followed. The violence at home followed by more roughness and more babies. Next came Sara, followed by Anam, Amol and Farook. Sara seemed to find favor with her father too.Ali felt drawn to his daughter, and lived each day to see her smile.

His sons were tough and hardy - but boys could not evoke what the brown eyed girl child could strongly bring forth. Even as he stood there, watching his wife holding the new born for the first time - he held Sara's hand tight. He turned to her- saying in his gruff tone - 'Another little brother for you.'

Sara smiled at him. Her childish innocence warmed his heart as he prayed to Almighty to always look after her.

He felt nothing for his sixth child. 'Just another burden', he thought.'Another mouth to feed.'

He picked up Sara and barked at his boys to follow him. The younger two seemed transfixed - their joy too reflected their puerile love. Looking at them, Ali, marveled at the serenity of innocence. For the first time, he was jealous of his own brood.

He felt that all his feeling and emotions had been snatched away , when his parents had not let him marry Fatima - his childhood sweetheart. Instead, he was given another fate - where his life seemed empty and vague.

Nothing made sense to him - as he existed his way through life. Sara was his only reprieve. For her again, he refound his capabilities to emote and feel.

His wife had often wondered aloud at his stoic stance. But little did she know, that his heart was dead and leaden with stone - a cover for all the love he's stored for Fatima.

He still lived in his belief - that oneday, he would find her and they'd be together.


3rd Part -

Matt stood, with beads of sweat outline his pensive profile. His eyes were closed and brows knotted in thick concentration. An atheist at heart, he found himself strangely praying for mercy.

The nightmare had started when Becky, had called him in panic, sobbing into the phone. The two words would be drilled into his head forever.

"I'm pregnant. It's all because of you..", she'd screamed.

He could sense her anguish and felt her rising fear.

He could imagine what could be going through her mind - dreams, life, hopes and parental love all clashing and enmeshing into a blurred obscurity.

He raced to her house, to be by her side - though he felt nothing.

Looking at her, he found himself feeling claustrophobic, struck by the reaffirmed realization that Becky was not and never could be the woman he would marry.

It was not that mistakes didn't happen, or that pregnancy was a scare. Becky was a soft girl She could not deal with the enormity of what she would have to go through. So Matt must think for her.

He knew his actual responsibility lay in what his old man would say- "Marry her boy. She's a fine girl and if she's the mother of your child then it's only right, you two raise it together."

But Matt knew that the words were far from the solution. They were the problem and presented no hope for happiness. Becky was a 'fine girl' indeed - but looking ahead , he could not see any family with her. He felt no love and therefore must not feign or show any.

Routes were always of 1 and 0 for him. He'd sat in silence ever since the call- pondering his course of action.
Should he swallow his own dreams and pride and get entangled into a marriage with the girl whom he would never love? Or should he walk away from it all ? Or should he decide with Becky and rather persuade her to give up the child , since one born out of wedlock would only inspire scorn in its life.

He estimated that she would be around 3 months pregnant. Just at the right time, he felt. He walked through the options in his mind. Fatherhood was not what he wanted now and he was clear about it.

Becky had to abort and he would ensure it.

The cold calculative blue eyes, sought the time in his Tissot and taking a deep breath, started his car towards Becky's house. Reaching there, he felt dismal and empty - the pit of his stomach had a nasty feeling settling in like sedimented bile.

He stopped for a moment and imagined how it would be like holding his own child. Maybe, he could be a good father and give an innocent its life which both would treasure as parents. He felt like a murderer and a traitor to Becky's hopes. He knew Becky loved him. But he also knew that he had none to spare. She didnt fit in , in his definition of life and future.

It must be done.

He rang the bell and the door was immediately opened by a pale and teary eyed Becky. They held each other and he tried to impart his strength to her.

He drew her to the couch, sat her down and spoke

His words were clipped and his tone reflected no emotion. He felt heartless but perhaps he was that then.
Becky looked at him with round eyes of surprise as silent tears fell from her eyes.

She clasped his hand in her small white palm and decided that no matter what, Matt would always be the one she would love. The child would be a symbol of their love- but she could sense that there was none from him.

She nodded slowly to his plea and called up the hospital. It was the same hospital where a certain of life greeted one and a bundle of responsibility sought another.

He drove-  his profile cold and hard while her mouth was set in a determined line. She refused to feel anything. She would later- when alone , she knew she would break down- struck by horror.

4 hours later, the nightmare was over. The ordeal had left them drained but in Matt, Becky sensed a curious glow.

He dropped her to her home, and with a brief smile - left. Never to return back to her.

Mid Life Crisis or Mid course correction !!!

 

Averee’s post on “Man” is very intriguing since most of what she says, applies irrespective of gender – or so I think.  But for now let us stick to the Martians, and discuss the conflicts of our friends from Venus later.

I was more enthralled by the former part of her post –

when men decide what they want / should do. In fact, as I get acquainted with most, I steadily feel that more men are geared to choosing what they should do / ought to do than choose to do what they want to. Is it the dogmatic society driving actions?

one must stand for what one wants….

The confusion is very REAL – do I do what is “expected” or should I do what I want? Question asked time and again. Krishna told Arjun – Do what is right, and not what you want, and both were considered to be men enough….. surely the best in their times……….or as the Hindu Mythology  / religion bestowed the title “Purushottam” – The Best Man, on someone who essentially (at least in the Hindu context) defined that doing what is expected or correct defines manhood more than what one wants… at times even taking the wrath of his beloveds.

Now I know that Averee’s post was not to say that manhood essentially would mean doing only what one wants because then morality or lack of it will cause more chaos than order. Imagine everyone literally doing what they want. Thus if we were to concur that in the end “doing what is right” is more important or required, then the questions arises that who knows what “right” is?

Does the world know better than you OR are you better equipped to know what is right? Making it more interesting is the fact that “right” or wrong itself is based on a frame of reference which is essentially sociological – and to quote Averee essentially dogmatic .

But keeping gender and religion aside, should we really do what we want?

Philosophically I guess everyone does – it is just that we are “afraid” or “ashamed” at times to admit it. In any case that brilliant post from Averee and a few other concurrent incidents, thoughts and conversations led me to think on what actually does one want? And for the purposes of this discussion the question is more metaphysical and not about “Should I take that extra scoop?”

Mel Gibson tried to tell us what women want and Averee alluded to the not so fair sex…

My conundrum is on this repetitive phase of realization (sometimes self realization and sometimes forced) where we assess, reassess and repeat the oft asked question

“What do I want?”

Not only does every person differ on the response, but also I believe that an individual responds differently in different phases of life. As a school going kid, I had “kidish dreams” to be a bus conductor, a Spiderman, a spy, a time traveler, one of the Hardy Boys. It shows my lack of creativity and desire to be someone I could not ( I mean “cool” – I could have always become a Spiderman had it not been for lack of radioactive spiders in our school labs).

As years passed and I developed a delusion of I know better, my wishes (now called goals) became more about careers, colleges, jobs, bikes,  girls, (in the reverse order of importance and correct order of likelihood) . Then came the phase of “ambitions” about promotions, stability, roles, money etc.

Now as I approach what people refer to as “Mid life” based on average human expectancy, I am allowed – rather expected –  to have a “crisis”  returning to the same question “What do I want?” with answers more about deep rooted wishes, bucket lists, purpose of life etc.(side note -  This is no attempt to show how I am progressing on the Maslow’s need hierarchy !!)

Now onto my midlife “crisis”. A few days back, I mentioned to a certain someone “who-must not-be-named” how I was seriously thinking about writing – either publishing something over a period of time, or a play or even a movie. And lo behold, I got a smirk, and an animated discussion about how this is my midlife crisis.  But as I mentioned somewhere on this blog

 

“But write I should

And write I shall

 For I got to hear

 What I think !!! “

 

What got me thinking was how if something does not fit in the norms, it is considered to be a crisis. I am surely not the first and definitely not the last who will be scorned for his or her midlife crisis.  The question that begs to be answered is that that is it a Midlife Crisis or actually a Midcourse correction – something needed to ensure that all is not lost in running aimlessly !!!

And signing off with few of my favorite lines (which someone will say are mid life “crisis” of Sant Kabir”

Bada bhaya to kya bhaya

Jaise Ped Khajoor?

Panthi ko chaya nahi

Phal laage ati door……

 

Musical friends -- Kaise Kategi Zindagi, tere bagair.....

The joy of landing on something rare randomly is exhilarating. On a recent flight, while casually listening to some songs I chanced upon this very nice Madan Mohan composition which I must say is a pure Rafi gem.

If you are the type (rare but priceless) who like the melancholy of slow but serene music then this surely is worth the “add on your playlist”. And if you have been unfortunate like me to have not heard this like me before, please join me in enjoying the discovery. This one was recorded by Madan Mohan for a film that never saw the light of the day. It lied unheard in the archives until a few years back when his family found it and thankfully for us, released it !!

Without much ado, here it is.

Frankly, there is no need to read any further as I always feel that music is a very personal experience, with each song touching each one of us very differently - and rightly so.

In my nomadic life voyage so far, I have made a lot of friends, but very few with whom I can discuss and enjoy all kinds of music, more so music of this genre. It is rare to find someone who does not enjoy ANY music at all, but most have a specific genre that appeals to them more than the others. There is always a set of folks with whom you are comfortable discussing every type of music. I have always had a very diverse set of friends and every group has had its own taste of music...... Guns N Roses.... Madan Mohan... Beatles.... C Ramchamdra.... John Elton.... Nadeem Shravan....Shankar Jaikishan…One direction

With these friends we had these little mehfils, just listening to something, enjoying its effect, humming it, then discussing the song, its lyrics, the composer, the shayar, and the singer and so on..

I think my urge to write on this particular song emanates not only to share it but more so from missing some of those really rare friends who would have enjoyed listening to this collectively.

We would have started with the lyrics by Raja Mehdi Ali Khan. Simple, meaningful and apt, which was always his style like “Naina Barase Rimjhim Rimjhim” or “Tum bin jeevan kaise beeta – pooch mere dil se” or “vatan ki raah mein vatan ke naujavan shaheed ho”.  No chaste Urdu or heavy words unless required . We would talk about how he stays true to the spirit through to the end. Longing conveyed without a lot of dramatization in the song, which makes the magic of this song an actual team work.

The opening line itself completes the thought of the song

Kaise kategi Zindagi, tere bagair, tere bagair
Paunga har shay me kami... Tere bagair tere bagair.

We would listen to the song again and then come to the real magic of this song - Madan Mohan and Rafi. We would rewind to just enjoy the way the "tere bagair" is sung at the end of the mukhdaa… pure magic….. Or we would discuss and sample the ..”jaise bujhe chiraag hain”.....in the frist antaraa.... We would try humming it....

I am not trained in music, to know if this based on something classical, but knowing Madan Mohan, this is undoubtedly in his inimitable style. Soft, simple, serene yet divinely classical. He will always remain the Ghazal king, and I will continue to miss my friends who could have enjoyed this with me… not to say I don’t have friends now in Dallas who don’t like Music, we all enjoy music every weekend too…. Just not this genre … Yet J

Dilemma of the Dreamer

I rarely write about movies, but there must be a first to everything in life. Righto ! So this is just a mirage of what all I felt post the effect - the profound questions that disrupted the smooth flow of absurdity otherwise ! The movie in question is Baz Luhrman directed wonderfilm - The Great Gatsby.

Where do we really draw the line between real and surreal ? How  does our consciousness wake up enough to demarcate the strict borders with rigidity, monitoring heart and head ?

Great Gatsby spoke about the 4 pillars of love, lust, faith and dreams. To it all , it added a vague fifth pillar of convenience, who's stature grew as the plot progressed.

We speak so highly of love and all its treasures. However, reality be, in the end, its all indeed measured - quantified against rationality absolute, set against parameters of want, desire and life - to choose the optimum fit.

Therein lies the dilemma of the dreamer - the dreams he / she has are ultimately not the pathways to the future. Future remains a steady goal in everyone's life, where no random variable must disturb its structure. Future thus must be one concrete whole.

So maybe, that's why it was difficult for Daisy to settle well in Gatsby's dreams - though her part was well defined , her path seemed unsure to her. To which, further I may add, she lacked the courage to make the change.

Maybe , over time hopes and dreams lose their shine - specially when the end is questionable. Dubious minds thus seek the next best option that's more readily available to make do with, and let their loyalties stretch than stray. Hope be doped / duped, minds and hearts are bound to cross-function, yet find their curious harmony when comfort is sought.

Waiting on the watch is thus perhaps a euphemism for shifting to another target - the time must not be wasted. Life must go on... minus the perils. One must seek shelter in the cocoon of convenience than further fight on for what's apparently a lost cause or a delusion. When the end is nowhere in sight, the easy path to one's peace is to follow the route of amnesia and attract another new end. Goal is always constant thus - evergreen happiness which cannot be shortchanged at the willing desire of another.

Long term vision is always compromised with one's immediate gain, when specially belief in another's actions and dreams are concerned. Inherently then, as shown in the movie, we don't allow ourselves to be swayed by others' vision of the future, as the clock comes in vision. A friend recently told me -
 " uncertainty steps in when time comes into play."

True that. To avoid such uncertainty, therefore, we must follow the wise adage of ' let go or be dragged.' And it so happens,  it's at this point , that the mind and heart refuse to be drugged enough to be dragged and let go - for what's available next. It maybe a remote second best - but logically its still something versus nothing.

So essentially, the questions that crop up are - what indeed is 'love' ? Is it nothing but numbers pit against each other ?

Where is the place for a dreamer today? Should he too be garbed and cloaked in the shades of logic and emotions be rationalized ? Where indeed do we draw the lines between a cognitive and an intuitive stance? What indeed is that point of absolute must, when let go becomes the leitmotif ? In this numbersome and cumbersome world, therefore, do we lack the courage to be dragged - specially when time and its essence require our time and understanding ?Do we ever question our beliefs or question why had we believed in certain wordly dreams earlier ?