Barnstorm Kashmir-I

A beautiful mizzle greeted me as I slowly ambled across the little distance from the Boeing to a pine wooded arrival lounge at the Srinagar airport. Must have been 1300 hours on June 2 but I had no ways to know. I didn’t have a watch on me and my cell was purposely switched off. It felt timeless, anyways. A curious look towards the wispy sky filled me with everything I had left behind – the famous nip in the air, blush of hollyhocks, the muted silhouette of the elderly mountains. It all came rushing back.

The rain wiper in -- my buddy -- Salus’ car was furiously clearing the view in front of us. An old world charm galloped ahead of us. Simple folks with fair skins. Old men with grey beards. Little children with angelic eyes. Shy damsels with lost eyes. Handsome hawkers shouting their wares. The tall popular trees lined on either side of the turnpike stood in their forever grace. Occasional army men manned the pockmarked road. Life is like a comely action-replay in the valley. This is Kashmir, I thought. Incredulously believable.

Expectedly people were sowing the rice crop. Hip to hip. In sing-song fashion. Heartening. And Day-2 was again rain. Though it stopped towards the afternoon, the north sky was tenderly overcast. A fiesta awaited us! Kashmir is rich in its gastronomic traditions. The food is fed to spoil you. Twenty-six courses minimum, as Rushdie subtly puts it in Shalimar, the Clown. You indulge in the mastery of the head-chef. You don’t even mind licking your fingers over and over again. It is a thousand calories raised to the power 26 but the crazy Atkins diet can take a guided walk on the greens. In the land of musk deer the senses run wild and you effortlessly absorb the assortment of spices, which give out an aroma to die for.

The local gossip never seems to stop. It comes in regular intervals and everyone seems to have it. With all business establishments closed by 5pm and markets completely shut by 7pm, the juicy gossip-factory is never short of the clothesline. Though you don’t quite relate to it, you still participate. The old wives tales. Familiar biases. Exaggerated accounts. Pauses. Effects. The theatricals. It is hilarious. The most common past time. Sample this: If you look at the Wular lake for a few minutes continuously, you develop suicidal tendencies. That is because the lake is mostly gloomy. It has an ancient kingdom already immersed in it.

The funny chitchat shall continue.

Sameer

Images from the Dell

Srinagar: A birds-eye view of the Dal lake and Srinagar city

Saffron vale: Raj -- 6ft2 -- and me in the crimson saffron meadows, South Kashmir

Threesome: Salus -- in buff -- me and Wasy near Phalgam, Kashmir

Quick dip: Salus sun-bathing after a dip in the glacier-cold waters of Lidder

Braveheart: Wasy makes a point atop a slippery boulder in Lidder, Countryside Kashmir

[click on the images for a bigger impact]

White Heat

Imagine being portaged from 77 F to 113 F in less than an hour. That is what happened to me a few days back and I am still trying to adjust to the rude reality. Being in Kashmir has its own advantages – you know that you are in the most enviable clime-zone in India and no matter what you’ll never have to use the AC in your car. The barn swallow gliding in a distance makes you feel -- for once -- flighty. As the plane slowly began its ascent, the chocolate and snow colored mountains appeared whispering to the blobby clouds. Look at those folks; they are going to be slowly sautéed in the plains.

I’ll write about my Kashmir sojourn in the days ahead. Good scoop can always wait. I first wish to share the bad poop. The winds -- they say -- bring in omens. As soon as the leggy airhostess threw open the airplane door, winds from hell blew in. I instantly knew we were in for an especially uncomfortable time. After all 25 C and 45 C is not exactly fair figuring. At my Delhi apartment, a notorious power cut welcomed us. No cold water in the refrigerator. Inverter with low battery. A quick glance at the morn newspaper confirmed my worst fears. 15 hour-cuts in the city. Anachronistic. I let out a hapless slack gasp.

I’ve jotted in some detail – in my earlier posts – the super aversion I harbor for the cruel heat. Indian summers suck. It is sweat, swear, and slow sauté. Though you may try, you just can’t beat it. Instead it beats the hell out of you. I just can’t fathom how people manage. It is one of the many things I don’t bother thinking about. You see blokes working under a scorching sun on half dug-up roads or selling pirated books at traffic signals in abominable afternoons or clung upon electric poles trying to fix or unfix a maze of wires. Still some sleep blissfully in one of the city parks' under -- little shade -- of an outgrown shrub. In 113 F. India confounds me, endlessly.

I am slowly attuning to the clime-change. The AC is working proper. The battery back up is firmly in place. The fridge has stockpiles of ice and juice and cold water in it. I don’t step out in the heat. My office hours are nicely aligned – and inversely proportional to – the temperature outside. The air-conditioning in the car is just fine. I conspired with my colleague Mehak to ask our management to increase the chill factor in the split AC in our office cabin. I don’t eat much outside. Not in this white heat!

Glad tidings to follow.

Sameer

Adieu pals

Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitudes.
~Henry David Thoreau, Poet and Philosopher 1817-1862

I abhor saying Good Byes. It breaks my heart. I hate to tear myself away from the smells I love, the joyful volumes of familiarity I snort, the crisp buzz of good pals. But there are times in life when you have to. It goes on like a golden brocard. Everyone chooses a way.
And even though we find our own place in the world, we all know that when the tears fall or the smile spreads across our face, we'll come to each other because no matter where this crazy world takes us, nothing will ever change so much to the point where we're not all still chums.

I am taking a sabbatical. For a little over one week. I am off to Kashmir – the overrated little dell. Though the place is beautiful, I don’t quite relate to the chicanery about its natives. At least, most of them. At another level I know I can’t unbelong to the place. It is home. It is close to nature. Waking up to the fragrance of a million Hyacinths in bloom is -- any day -- a better idea than opening your eyes to a hot-as-an-oven day in Delhi. And looking out at the woody-stemmed, twining leaflets of the scented violet flowers called Wisteria is like watering your sapped-out soul. Hauntingly calming too. After an exacting journalistic rigour, I reckon it comes as a welcome interlude.

It is also time for the local farmers to sow their rice. Every time I watch them, I find it breathtaking -- neat rows of assiduous men and women, hunched back, strewing little rice plants. They sing songs of love, joy and bounty together. Trousers tucked. Aloud. Hip to hip. Religion can squat at home, or hinge upon mosque knobs. When it comes to survival, co-existence often takes precedence. Little pleasing things continually fascinate me back home. Like the blue-necked cuckoos that just don’t stop purling. Vincent van Gogh once said, Keep your love of nature, for that is the true way to understand art more and more.

Still I felt a deep lump in the throat as I packed my bags this evening. I don’t know why we feel attached to -- Situations. Things. Events. Cavort. Laughter. Intimacy. Gazes. Rides. Friends. My head is slightly reeling. That may be a joint I took tiny drags of. The smoke often makes funny, irregular shapes, which make no sense. One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever comes to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way. Vincent would agree, I know.

I shall see you soon, mates.

Adieu.

Samy

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Comments have been de-acativated because I can't moderate them while I am away. Plz e-mail your bouquets/brickbacks

The Comely Life

Ek Saans reh gayee hai
Vo Be na toot jaye
The only gasp which remains
that too might snap

The reverse countdown has already triggered in my mind. Four days to go before I hop on a flight to felicity. Nature always thrills me. The rhapsody which raw leaves make with common hoopoes is more enchanting than all the din in our ipods. The puerile rustle of wind at your windowpane. The waltz of phantoms in the woods. Familiar tweedle of the long-tailed shrike. Plop of the fish. I just want to be there -- crash on my sack and dream. Dream the dreams, I cannot stroke. Imagine the hugs I cannot feel. Isn’t it so beautiful that we can almost do everything wacky – which we may never attempt in real life -- in our little fantasies?

I sipped lemon tea on the roof of India Today with pals today. The view of the majestic Connuaght Place was splendid. Despite the maddening humdrum and a flood of commercialization, the arcade still exudes an old world charm. It brings back memories of good old days when everything was so simple and uncomplicated. The sky over the place was stunning. There was a passel of grey clouds, which seemed to conspire with each other to block the Sun. Only a buttery salmon dot was visible. People paced about in the inner circle. I looked away.

Late in the night, reading something interesting, I wondered if I annoyed people. Though it is hard to tell in matters where one is himself a party. I recall of Charles Baudelaire, the French Poet of Decadent and Parnassian movements –- who wrote Les Fleurs du Mal (1857) – ‘The world only goes round by misunderstanding’. How true? In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood.

Life. Too short. Gasps.

Sameer

May Queen

You don't have to be straight to be in the military; you just have to be able to shoot straight.
~ Barry Goldwater, American Politician and Senator (1909-1998)

It was a windswept evening. You don’t usually expect such an affable weather in May -- in Delhi -- India’s quintessential metropolis. It felt like a mellow reverie. There was light rain in the air, though it didn’t quite rain. You could smell the summer breeze. It wafted in the hair and softly promenaded on the shoulders. Twain, my favorite humorist, once remarked rather wryly, ‘Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get’. The company I had was primarily military. Uncalculatedly endearing too.

The annual May Queen beauty pageant -- organized by the Defence Services Officers’ Institute (DSIO) -- was a chick affair. A bevy of beauties sashayed past you, even as you clenched your glass tighter than ever. For a while, I thought I am dead – and this must be heaven. Fairies in a million different hues -- so many of them. Luckily, Sandy was at hand to assure me that we are very much alive. The guy, I must chip in, possesses heart of a child. 24-Carat.

A well-groomed swarm of lasses burned the ramp. The pageant rolled on past midnight. The chief of the Indian Air Force along with a host of top military officers sat perched in the first row. The famed army discipline was extant but gradually loosened towards the last benches. We sat – and you guessed it right – after the final benches. So, naturally there was no decorum. I met a couple of young army officers – my age -- and enjoyed a palsy chat with them. How I love the disposition of soldiers?

There is something about military that always excites me. Is it the decorousness, the valor, the uniform, the spunk – I cannot precisely say? As Horace waxes eloquent, it is courage, courage, courage, that raises the blood of life to crimson splendor. Amidst all the music, wine, gals, friends and berets around, I recalled to me -

Our God and soldier we alike adore
just at the brink of ruin not before
The danger past, both are alike requited
God is forgotten and the soldier slighted

The May Queen was declared to a deafening cheer. Frankly, none of us cared to know who the enterprising model was.

Sameer

Floundering About

Take away my trouble, take away my grief
Take away my heartache, in the night like a thief
Crazy Love -- Bob Dylan-Van Morrison, Moondance

We are too conditioned to do things that we are not supposed to do...or told not to do, or can do without doing, or should not do.
Friend :)

Time is a sly monster. It creeps in the dark and pounces on you when you think you have spotted your destination in a distance. As you try and amble across to reach the glow, which stands a-few-yards-away from you, it swoops on you. Swiftly. Wolfishly. Aided by a little sharp-teethed demon called destiny. The troubles and grief and heartache that Bob harps about in Moondance sit heavy on your stirred shoulders. You can’t hold many things in life! However dear.

It is well past midnight now. I think of a million things. A new species of birds called the gorgeted puffleg has been discovered by scientists in the wild. They say it has remained hidden from humanity -- for an eternity -- and it is green and violet. It also has an iridescent green plumage on its neck. Wonder why the poor bird had to appear now. Everyone will follow it now, in an effort to catenate its existence. Each flight of the poor bird will be observed. Why do some things have to appear to cause all this flutter, I ask no one in particular? Expectedly, I get no answers.

My mind is ajumble. You are conditioned to things and then you are not too conditioned. You drive in the middle of a May night. You chatter about the world, knowing that it is a hybrid world, a world of nostalgia. Only when it is too late, do we dream of the past and then our dreams incorporate everything we want to deny. Strange world. You can’t question it. Yet it offers answers at times, when we don’t expect them. And when you gather the courage to pose questions -- that nag you to the innards -- it gives breezy answers. You take it with a smile.

At the onset of his Indian conquest, standing amidst the wind and ice-swept hills of the great Hindu-Kush mountain range, Alexander the great – looking towards the vast Indian sub-continent -- is reported to have put his arm around his close companion Hephaestion and said ‘Do you think, my friend, we can do it’? The year was 326 BC, most historians agree. Hephaestion, who shared more than just friendship with the greatest warrior of all times, quietly whispered in Alexander’s ear: We must do the thing we think we cannot do.

sameer

When pals beckon!

On a sudden sweet morning
I got hit sans any warning
It was the most gentle jolt
That left me in much revolt

Friendship comes to us like that
You can’t even hear the splat
It is like falling in love
First love, next love, last love

To laugh and lope and cry
Always the shoulder to try
Like we learn tact with gals
We often fathom honor from pals

It is tough to let them go
You bond to them like morning snow
As birds soul-kiss upon the bough
A buddy snugs your senses and how

We may grow in time and order
The heart knows no such border
To evolve in such a beautiful blend
Is what they call being a friend!

Sameer

Betwixt Pals

It borders on the loony. I may be missing an exact expression for it. It is a very mixed feeling. Harplike. It hits you bang in the brow and you can’t even squeak. It smells of real friendship, of crisp, urgent gazes, of a sudden discovery of each other -- like two unfamiliar musketeers, out there to fight familiar demons. Feels like autumn dawn. As it appears on the horizon – you still rubbing your sleepy eyes – it whispers almost crisp-like: It has to go! There is a certain immediacy about the tryst. You feel a sharp jab in your heart. Life!

You think about the sameness of things. The big crowd that is going to swell – like it does every other day – around my existence. But would it be the same again? Nothing comes close to the joy of being on similar wavelengths, you ponder. There is a certain pleasing fluency about some relations which makes them personal and regal, at once. You don't want to give any names to it. I think friends often partake of such muckamuck. It is a generous potion of joy, sharing, comfort and cheer. Secrets.

It would be hard on anyone not to miss out on such a blend. But hope always lingers. Friends are also about endurance, I perhaps delayed to add. There are times when you simply give in to peradventure. I trust Søren Kierkegaard, the maverick 19th century Danish existentialist when he says, 'It belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire by passing through its opposite.'

The pain of parting is nothing to the sweet joy of meeting again.

Sameer

Good Breeze

The hermit doesn't sleep at night, in love with the blue of the vacant moon. The cool of the breeze that rustles the trees rustles him too.

I am called Breeze. I blow on pleasant mornings. On sweet evenings. Upon elderly mountains who have been there since eternity. I blow between the gaps of a pianist’s fingers. I blow when the night is no longer absolute. When a hint of future color softens some flower-cheeks. I blow with feudal splendor. I blow in the wings of flamingos that come rummaging for happily frolicking earthworms. I blow in the purple slush of pond scum. I breeze in the hair of perky guys in the middle of rainy nights. I am called Good Breeze.

I don’t know how I originate and who spawns my disguised flight. Yet everything that slithers on this terrestrial ball loves me. A million smiles piggyback my glide. I am beautiful, dainty but I can’t talk smart. I only whisper in the woods near Sam’s home. I whistle too -- on solitary afternoons. Hunters lying in the wait can shoot in thin air, mistaking me for a spotted gazelle. I can fool people. I can make them giggle. I make the girls' tresses skitter, long enough to make them blush. I make some eyes more impish than they usually are. Perfumed candles flicker their flames when I pass by, as if serenading my existence. That makes me happy. We all long to be loved!

Lovers do a quiet trapeze when I enter their embrace. Friends look at each other as their tender hearts waltz’ to my zephyr. I sneak into the unsleeped rooms of stoic razbliuto’s. I dance on the palm fronds. In the fluffy wool of a lost pack of merinos. Across prairies of the wild west. I live a soft life yet I feel powerful. Remember that old-as-turtle white-bearded, longhaired philosopher, who built Shantiniketan. One afternoon, as he sat in his forest-lodge, I blew in his flowing beard (he he…I can be naughty). At that he entered something in his tiny maroon dairy. I was curious; you never know these writers. Lucky for me he kept the dairy on his tea table and took a nap. Gently, I blew to turn the pages. You want to know what the old guy had written with his wooden reed pen ~
God's great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm!

Sameer

Here you go

hum ne maana ke tagaaful na karoge lekin
Khaak ho jaayenge hum tumako Khabar hone tak
Aah ko chaahiye ik umr asar hone tak


You won't ignore me, I do know/
But I'd be dust till you discern/
A sigh often takes a lifetime to soar

Thus scribbled Ghalib* in ‘Joy of the drop’ around circa 1852. Nearly 155 years later, I listened almost reverentially to it in my car. Perhaps no one other than -- the inimitable -- Jagjit Singh could have done more justice to the timeless, mystic poetry of Asadullah Khan Ghalib. You can almost relate to the poet’s lament. The fervor of his soul. The myriad tempests that our own hearts hold. Last night, I could hear woodwinds from the Kingdom of God mildly tapping at my car pane. I looked straight ahead. The glower in the leaden sky that I first noticed in the little restaurant had turned into a drift. It poured buckets. The stop lights gave off. Traffic came to a standstill. My eyes went tenderly moist. I must admit I know not why!

Life is so unpredictable. You look for support, camaraderie, comfort, love. There are times when you aren’t looking for something in particular and suddenly you meet a friend. Such sudden, magnificent relations often offer you the confidence to walk on the defenses of your own heart. The matchless moments you think you might spend playing pranks. The circumlocutory silly philosophizing that you would like to spray on each other's nose. The unmooned darkness you reckon – foolishly – we can decipher together. Such is the nature of good-hearted friendship. But in a fast-paced world, things have to keep trundling on -- at ferocious speeds. So…people move on, wittingly and unwittingly. But innocence lives on. Remembrance grows on yew trees. It lives in some hearts!

The rain won’t stop. Summer rain is often an agreeably bracing occasion. I thought about the quickening rain falling on a hamlet, so utterly charming that you would see blue fairies in its distant windows. They seemed to wade at me. It so felt. Mellifluous music continued to cascade in my car. The soft rain continued to fall. Did I again miss on moments of private joy? The invisible Excalibur poked my heart. We part to meet again, the astray heart suggested after a while. I drove on into vol de nuit.

Sameer
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*Ghalib died in 1869 and is reportedly still dead. His stunning poetry is held in high stead -- even to this day.

My Gang

Me and my legion.

Sam

noce de mi-été -- A Mid-Summer's Wedding

I went to a wedding after a longish hiatus. It is mid-summer. Mehak is my colleague and it was her D-day. Now the heat in Delhi is hellish that you don’t even want to eat. I was in no mood to go. Then suddenly half my office decided to take off. I was indecisive till the last stupid minute. Eventually I joined the troupe. Three loadfuls of chariots drove from Delhi. I went with my fav blokes in office -- Sandy and Mehak (the bride’s namesake). It was a fun trip. Sandy – the perfervid chap that he is – drove like real fast. We were at the Vaishali farmhouse well in time.

Now Indian weddings are a plain euphemism for boisterous celebration. High jinks! I liked Mehak’s affair. It was a tad subdued, warm, a more jovial event. The lady looked resplendent in her trousseau. We had a good time. The gals let their hair down. The dudes cheered from the ringside. Our party posed for the shutterbugs -- with the beautiful couple. Raided food stalls – Salami, Cheese skewers and a funny Chi-Chi stick (If I’m not mistaking the name). The evening was breezy and not too oven-like, as the Indian May is expected to be.

I came back with Shaleen – toon enthusiast, cross-work champ and a racer driver -- a la Sandy. I work with some lively, laidback fellas, I forgot to add. The wedding was a welcome interlude from mindless work, more work and still more work. I am glad I went. And if you wondering what is Sandy show-casing: That's the famed Chi-Chi stick, mates!

Sameer

Jour d'été -- Midsummer's day

Without a wish, without a will
I stood upon that silent hill
And stared into the sky
until My eyes were blind with stars and still
I stared into the sky.

Cockamamie. That is my state of mind. The heat is on! For another 200 odd days it will be hell in its several forms. Ah the diabolical heat! As one week passes baton to another, different depths of abaddon begin to unfold. Amidst all the flux, something fantastic has to happen to me every single time. Like bumping my car. Bracing the climes. Brooking the cuts – light cuts, that is! And I still manage to live another day. God bless the guy – who made my AC. I can contrive to dream, doodle and droll!

I recently rendezvoused with the magical Eyes – again! How I love the waltz of our glaze. Eyes -- They were at once hot and cold. I always fail to read them. The secrets they harbor. The truths they never yell, the lies they conceal. Eyes that have always astonished me. Amazed me. Made me smile. Eyes that I thought promised intimacy. That made me feel loved. Eyes from another world!

I am planning to go supine in the land of a million laid back souls – Kashmir. The fish, they say, still plop in its loud brooks. Little genie's hang on old chinars. It is fun. Folksy, green, verdant, clean. I’ll add more on these pages, shortly. Mountains can beckon, can’t they!

Sameer

solitaire pensées

Understanding the Unexpected

The best things in life are unexpected - because there were no expectations.
~ Eli Khamarov

I reckon I am beginning to get it. Finally! I always used to ponder: What makes us glum and cheerful at the same time. Why are relations – both acquired and accidental – so complex to handle? Why do we sometimes scorn people we like? It hit me that in the end it all trills down to a stupid thing: Expectations. All of us have expectations of one other. I think -- as humans -- we expect because we love. Because we are wired that way. Because we associate our feelings with some notions. And that’s where the fault lines begin to emerge. No matter how akin we think, how much we adore one another, our actions are almost never the same. That’s because we may share the same vibes, our impulses tend to fluctuate from heart to heart.

People usually respect each other’s sensibilities in order to fit into the love map. They just don’t -- can’t -- rise to each another’s expectations always. The problem creeps up when we pin most of our happiness around these nuggets of expectations. At times, things do come up to our expectations and we tend to be ecstatic but such happiness is often fleeting. Often enough people get hurt because of pre-conceived ideas and because of a myriad assumed things. Because they expect the unexpected. I think guesswork only stains relations. It helps to be open, unexpecting and giving – like I have become.

I agree with Shakespeare, my fav dramatist, “Oft expectation fails, and most oft where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest; and despair most sits”. To me, there is only one way to achieve happiness on this terrestrial ball. And that’s to be good from within, love minus expectations, dream plus desires.

Desire reminds me of a bitsy dream I had last night. I was walking through a passage filled with the amber glow of a thousand lights. The lights that fell on the floor seemed to change pattern like some ancient secret. They changed into wolves and flowers as the lights glowed more ferociously. Then the dream broke. My ac suddenly stopped. Time for a power-cut. At 40 degrees. Terra India. In 9 point something percent growth.

Sameer

Lyrical lines

Avril – variously called April also -- is in its last lag. Another month slowly slithers by. Life continues in this humdrum. I’ve been trying to attune my being, keeping pace with work, home and friends. I’ve somehow managed to keep myself occupied with stuff I love to do – read quality works, jot erudite stories for the Energy basket, run on the treadmill and listen to music. I’ve -- however -- not been able to catch up with my buddies. The travesty of it is that most of them are away, some are near yet far away and some far away yet so near to my stupid heart!

Life is good. Steady. It is not perhaps as exciting as I would like it to be. I reckon it is a realm where colors harmoniously recite magnificent poems to each other. As friends, we realize that we sing the same songs that lie deep in our souls, regardless of the words.
Come July Hadi, my childhood pal, is getting married in New York. I’m invited but I don’t know if I can make it. Salah has now graduated from the prestigious London School of Economics. These days Tanseer is happily skipping his dinners in the oil rich, Baku. Some prob with his weighing scales, I surmise. Suhail loves to zip on the winding, pine-scented roads of Kashmir in his waxen car. Wasy is perpetually busy – with a longish list of things. Jatin has been recently frolicking in Arizona and continues to be quietly dandy.

That leaves me to myself. I remain as always romantic, comical and open. I still do everything – from writing poems, which I don’t post on Internet anymore to cook my own food – with a textured velocity. My eyes are distant at times, lost in my childhood and my fancies. I laugh aloud. My laughter makes all optimism seem so inadequate.

That is my idea of life. Keep smiling. Laughing, if need be.

Sameer

Illogical life

Thy fate is the common fate of all;
Into each life some rain must fall

Life is Delphic. It is sweet, short, remarkable and it leads us up some very strange alleys. Perhaps no one can truly predict the outcome of it. No one can say which crossroads we end up on. It is a maze, which tests your patience. It is a classroom, where we all are curious students. I am perpetually mystified at what life has to offer me. I must admit, I never fully understand. It leaves me frustrated at times, jovial at others. In life, there is nowhere to run. I reckon, one has to hold onto hope, love, friendship and kindness. Alas, most of it is in short supply. Recherché, as they say in French.

I am trying to wade my time before I can fly to a little place where dreams take sail. Over here, I find nothing but hope. It must sound strange but I now enjoy -- not the newness of limbs -- but the buzz of a bumblebee, the glint of a child’s eye and the smiling faces of poor plebeians. I try to smell the rain, laugh at the little hurts that life brings on you and feel the wind. The wind of the air-conditioner, that is. On a more serious note, it is always sensible to not give in to a million agonies that lurk deep within us.

The last few weeks have been anfractuous. So many things happened in such little time that it feels like those mini dreams that mishmash in your head, as you try to recall them, next morning. I have this strange ability to smile even when kept out-of-the-loop, lied to, unloved. Often enough I like my own indecisiveness on such occasions. I don’t know how to confront souls, what to tell them. My arguments border on funny. I end up restraining myself from shouting like a farmer hollering to someone across a stream.

I watered our flowerpots this morning. The leaves made a pleasant rustle. Everyone loves being cared for, I thought.

Sameer Bhat

Tiptoeing through the Tulips

My days sprint like a nimble buck in the wilderness. There are times when I honestly feel like an oddball in this cacophony. Despite all the jokes, kisses and embraces there is still a silence within me that leaves me isolated in the heart of a crowd. Life must be like that, I tell myself. There are no full stops, no getting away from reality, no experiencing what you truly desire and yeah…no flocculent fingers in your hairs. I reckon often, why can’t life be a jubilation? Why can’t flowers bloom the whole year long? Why can’t we just be supine – and watch the stars twinkle? Why do we have these odd hints of fog? Almost always.

I no longer jog and tire my memory. It is pointless to think about people, situations, some smells. I think one must not be too schmaltzy in life. It is important to be kind in the heart. Be loving. Manifest the right attitude. Attitude is perhaps more important than money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude.

Despite the little stacks of attitude, I never lose my ability to dream. I love to swim in them. I am still fond of the smell of friendship. I like to think about a lot of things: Love dance of the fish. Rain falling into the calm sea at dawn. The unexpected appearance -- and disappearance -- of love in our lives. Silences. Patience. Leaden mornings. Blue skies. Misty walks. Walleyed eyes.

No one completely understands destiny. We continue to hop the meadow – called life, like a nimble buck, which tiptoes through the tulips looking for its destination.

Sameer

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Pic: Kashmir, Dal-lake, evening

Tonga on the Turnpike

I like this pic for its colors. The Sunset, clouds, penumbral effect, the sky, bareness and because it is Kashmir.

A musical evening

Uthke mehfil se mat chale jaana,
tum se roshan ye kona kona hain

Do not ever get up and leave this heart;
it is you who lights every corner of it

Have you even seen anyone weaving something? A carpet, a mat or an intricate fabric. Well, last week I saw someone weaving magic. Upon endless soft layers. On a breezy evening that smelled of little canticles from heaven.

Venue: Ess Eff Audi; Haunt of the capital’s who’s who.
Protagonist: The inimitable Jagjit Singh. Poet. Singer. Musician. Artist. Human being.

I often notice that sometimes the shade of melody, having hovered for days on the edge of hearing, unfolds and blessedly reveals itself. That happens when someone like Jagjit starts crooning. Expect an entire audience -- which was a cocktail of teenagers with sling-bags, graceful old grannies being helped to their seats, giggly girls, top government officials, journalists, dudes -- to be completely transfixed. There is this sudden surreal feeling you get in a lonely corner of your heart: It doesn't get any better than this. You can’t help love the music he makes.

The great Plato, I recall reading sometime, said…Music and rhythm find their way into secret places of the soul. Surely so. The maestro proved the Greek guru right, once more. A live performance along with his six-man orchestra was an acoustical delight. Jagjit Singh sang from the deepest depths of his heart. That is his trademark. A fine ring of melancholy brocaded his verses. The famous humming. As if on a cue, collective excitements touch new crescendos. I like Jagjit for the simple reason that he almost single-handedly helped popularize the beautiful Urdu language -- in India -- by the soulful rendition of his Ghazals.

I listened ardently to the effortlessness with which he sang. The soft cadences of his music fill the emptiness. It fills the infinite. Humbling and elating at the same time. Wasy – mon ami – tapped his feet. It happens when you sit in company of the greats. The effect rubs off.

Aakhri hichki teray zanu pe aayee
Maut be mein shairana chahta hoo

Throes of death visit me/
As I lie next to your face
I so wish a poetic end

Encore.

sameer
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Ars longa, vita brevis has adopted a no-comments policy for April 2007. Comments can be emailed to sameer20@gmail.com or sameer20@ft.com

A craziness called Cricket

May your pitch in the sky be evenpaced, the boundaries small and the sky always blue – Anon

If you live in the Indian sub-continent, you can’t help but allow yourself to be consumed by a certain style of crass craziness, called cricket. It is a stupid, longish, slow game -- unlike soccer or badminton -- but has an unusual tendency to take ordinary people to new levels of frenzy. There is only one topic discussed in useless government offices and swanky corporate cabins: Cricket. A billion unsolicited advises, suggestions, proposals. Every mortal has one, at least. If the home team performs well, the hoi polloi will dance as if there is no tomorrow. As if they have hit upon some instant collective jackpot. If – God forbid – the results turn out to be otherwise, all hell suddenly breaks loose. The cricketers’ homes are immediately raided, stoned and vandalized. The choicest abuse is reserved for the ballyhooed blokes.

Media, which makes a quick buck in the entire comicality, adds to the brouhaha. Two-hours to go. Screaming headlines. During these cricket matches – especially the world cup ties – religious-types are given to perform special prayers -- which is really funny -- beseeching heavens for a quick win. Another matter, the gods mostly cold-shoulder such importunity. I am astonished at this flapdoodle.

Cricket is a sport. Ok. It is not even the national game in some of these cricketing countries, where people go to stadiums to watch a game in temperatures touching 45 degree Celsius – plus 113 Fahrenheit. Acceptable. It has a mass appeal. People stay awake to follow every single bowl being bowled and every single run being run. Concedable. The plebeians name their children after wicketkeepers. Ok. Then it starts to get a little weird. People mistake the game – that is fraught with uncertainties like any other game – for some kind of a must-win gamble. It is a beautiful game but it has sadly been glorified. It is high on hype. At some point I reckon cricket has stopped being a civilized, gentleman’s game. It has long been commercialized, packaged, branded, over-puffed and promoted beyond our imagination. I don't wish to denigrate a sport that is enjoyed by millions but I feel just too many people are trying to explain cricket glossary without having a bit of cricketing sense.

The world cup is on and already the fever has reached a mad pitch. Tonight, India clashes with Sri Lanka. An Indian win will mean complete hysteria. The first causality: Media. Advertisers will grin. Betting meters will go berserk. Ordinary souls will suddenly feel blessed. If India loses, expect a billion swear-words. In 19 different languages. Some 1650 dialects. United colors of insanity. God knows what else! Back in the windies, the Jamaican police are already saying that the Pakistani coach who died this week under mysterious circumstances was murdered. The once-unifying game has stooped to such shallow levels. Poor Bob Woolmer.
Godspeed Bob, go in peace.

Meanwhile…The mania persists.

Sameer

United Colors of God

There is only one happiness in life: to love and be loved.

Vanilla sky is the limit

This is one of those days; I am not sure what to squiggle. Of course I have not been scrupulous enough in writing my posts. It has been anything between a heady mix of my indolence and -- perhaps -- a lack of creative space but largely I cannot comment on why I don’t jot always. There is often this hazy degree of mystery about what one wishes to do but cannot. About why we don’t do certain things, we ought to. I reckon I am one of those blokes. I often procrastinate. That is when I miss out on the event. The spark just flies away.

I however never flunk to dream. Last night I dreamt a mischievous one. I can share only a little with you. It was a surreal serenade. Upon an ancient castle, the precincts of which smelled of lavender leaves. Eyes! I let myself be borne away by a sweet emotion. I hugged like mad. It was as if the entire world had entered a gentle twilight. I faintly recalled that love is supposed to be like this. Just that we mistake it, often enough.

By the way, our blog has gained some prominence. That is to say we have become a little famous. In a recent seminar on the ‘Impact of Internet on American Society’ held in the prestigious Martin-Luther-Universität, Halle-Wittenberg, Germany, Ars Longa Vita Brevis has found a special note of recognition. Our blog has been listed under the title 2005: “Alternative media” versus Mainstream media. That is a cute pat on the back.

Back of a lazy blogger, must I add. Sky is the limit, mates.

For more information, revert to:
http://www.zusas.uni-halle.de/ss2006/ss06_Mosemann_Blogs.pdf

Sameer

Ah...The rain!

It has been raining intermittently for the last few days. It was drizzling last night. Needless to say, I always feel enticed to get drenched under a million tiny globs. This is a temptation, I can hardly resist. I wish it always drizzles. I stood in the rain for many such moments. Imagining old chimney’s happily piping up smoke in a distance. A flock of swallows fluttered above me in a frenzy, caught up in the rain perhaps, looking for refuge.

I feel like a rain man. I don’t know when or why I developed this bond with the clouds. James Dickey waxes eloquent; a poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning. Though it was dark and cloudy, I was transfixed by the lightning and familiar thunder of God. True, there is so much of color in Nature. Pity, we don’t look for it.

I’ll keep it short. I simply love the rain. I want the feeling of it on my face. And if they say love is shelter, I'm going to walk in the rain.

Samy

Spring ode!

The world is busy
And God’s hands full
Nary a bird in sight
Nor a song to hear

It rains on roofs
With no sure eaves
Laughter muffled by noise
Teasing the good old tear

Mist in the distance
you can’t see through
These gimmies for pelf
As old as hills

'While' your time for you
Look for happiness in you
And when you are tired of you
Look up to find me there

As time swooshes past
Swifter than a falcon’s gaze
It leaves me to wonder
Am I still in this race?

Samy

I am thee

I'm not me but eternally thee!

Meet you soon at the edge of a brave new world!

Samy

On V-day

Footloose in CCM, Noida: The faded look!

Hankering Heart

We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied to us. ~Francois Rabelais

Strange are the ways of the world. Never once in our lifetimes do we entirely get what we yearn for. As kids we often cry for that elusive candy. We go restless for myriad mysterious and anomalistic things, as we grow up. I can’t tell how it feels like when we age but it must be the same. The curious cycle has to continue somehow. You can’t exactly explain the phenomenon. It is rather quirky and enigmatic. It is about passion. About half-seen dreams. About hope and hopelessness – all in one whiff!

An angel whispered something to me, the other day. I feel a strong tug in the heart, as I reminisce about it. Passion. It lies in all of us, sleeping, waiting. Though unbidden it will stir open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us. Guides us. Rules us all and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love. The clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace, the angel suggests. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without it we'd be truly dead.

I pine for someone, who I reckon is the best dream, one can ever visualize. I love to miss our moments. The feeling. The passion. The togetherness. The glares. The glint in the eye. Like a kid, I play hide and seek with my emotions. Yeah, it is difficult. It is fun. It is beautiful. It is fleeting. While it may appear to be going away, I know it is mine. I’ll touch it like none can! That is because my heart hankers for the someone. And I know, I sound Socratic today!

Samy

The world is white

God's confetti: Snow blankets homes and hearts in the US

Happy V-day

It is that time of the year when marketers go the whole hog.
Taget-1: Teenagers. Target-2: Media-dazed Gen-X.
Taget-3: All and Sundry.
The tempo reaches a frenzied pitch just a few days before the actual V-day. It is almost maddening on 2/14. Every passing year, the carnival gets noisier. Columnist David Bach puts it rather discreetly, ‘Is Valentine's Day about love or money?’ My heart tells me it should be about love and appreciation for those who matter most to us, but facts show that Valentine's Day is truly big business. Restaurants and café’s are crammed full, flowers cost you a fortune and gift stores stack everything your heart may desire. And your wallet can afford. Frankly, it has just been reduced to pink balloons, ridiculously-prized cards and collective public display of emotions. An advertiser’s true delight. No wonder all the RJ’s – at all the FM stations – playing in my car croon just one theme: It is V-day, v-day. Overwhelm them, lest they forget!

I don't understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine's Day. When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon. As an aside, I am not per se a V-day scrooge. I like it – when there is a lot of love around. But does it have to be so blasé. So shallow. So ostentatious. Do we need to market emotions like we the way we handle any detergent? Is it sensible to plaster ‘I love u honey’, over newspaper broadsheets and ever-soppy TV channels? Whatever happened to thoughtfulness? Sanity? Real emotions? If you love someone, you simply love him-her. Period. I think it is more important to be sensitive to each others feelings, rather than getting carried away by market forces. En masse. The forces will never care to explain: You don't love someone for their color, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear.

It takes more then lace and ribbons. And lovely verses too to make a Valentine that is nice enough for you. It takes a world of special thoughts tucked into every thought and that is exactly what must be inside of our hearts! I reckon there is nothing wrong with people going out on this day. Holding hands. Buying boxes and stuffed hearts and deodorants for one another. Or eating heart-shaped cakes together. Drinking a few beers, after having to wait outside a bar for many valuable hours. Giggle. For all to see. That’s when -- according to some -- the feelings come a full circle, as it leaves nothing to imagination.

We forget however that love is a canvas pattern furnished by Nature, and embroidered by imagination. Happy V-day.

Sameer

Thought that counts

The platelet count – famously dubbed as hi-fi disease for hi-fi people by my buddy – is back to normal. I can sleep proper. The fever has now vanished, along with the accompanying squeeze. After an unexpected rest – a la roi – over an extended weekend, it is business as usual. I work, listen to music, talk to people I like and I read. I stay cheerful also. One must always strive to. It's one way of being wise.

Winter is in its last throes in Delhi. I am pleasantly wakened by the morning chill, which reminds me of Kashmir. As I paced this morn, I sensed that things around me -- door, wall, the floor were all very solemn as if trying to creak their responses to my every query. I love this unsettling feeling. When the most surprising things occur at the most importune times.

Nobody feels likes to sit back and do nothing on a fabulous day. You’d prefer a slow waltz in this weather. The thought came to me like an amatory chess game as it tried to masterfully lure me into it. Until I shrugged myself free of it. You can’t afford to allow your heart ramble too much. You can’t continue to expect the unexpected. You can only try and be good in the heart.

I saw flamingoes fly in my dream last night. The pack seemed to shimmy in and out of my dreams. I too tried to fly with them but couldn’t. At times I think I possess the heart of a child – so naïve, so alone. Thinking of things, no more mine. Enamored. Childlike. Often it takes a lifetime to understand the logical and illogical limitations to the realm of the heart. And doubts still linger.

Life is a whole lot less complicated.
It is love that makes the world go round. It is the feeling. The good in us.

After all, it is the thought that counts!

Samy

Unwell saga

It was snowing but the snow didn’t simply fall to the earth. It was falling onto me, onto memories. When I was a kid and fall was over, it used to snow. And the washerwoman sang songs the color of flowers and the color of leaves, which were no more. All was quieter, whiter and brighter. At this, I woke up.

The injection was giving me unbearable pain in the groin. The fever just won’t go. I had hardly slept for half an hour. For those who came in late, I’m down with high temp – aches – and sleeplessness for the last few days. I am still unwell, though a little better. My temp is 210 F, having teased me at 217 F during the last few days.

I am still writing this post because I am terribly bored of being cooped in my bed doing nothing. Writing is the silence of thought and the music of sight. I realize though that I am not 100% -- I may be 30% -- and can’t reflect very clearly enough. I may not appear witty or stylish. I don’t intend to.

I’ve to go for another round of blood tests tonight. They have taken a lot of blood already. I don’t like being pricked but I quietly give myself over to them. The docs say my platelets are on the lower side. I hope to get them back soon!

Till then, Au revoir

Sameer

I'm back

By now you might be snickering at my laziness. I don't believe in subterfuge because I don't need to. Let me be honest: I have been swamped with work. I had to juggle between office, hospital, home. That left me with no time to sit in peace, reflect -- and hit the qwetry. Yet I am conscious that I have not written anything on these pages for quite some time now. And that is not a good omen. Trust me, I wish to jot regularly. Just that things get the better of you -- at times -- and you forget simple things in life -- like expressing the ferment of my heart.

Amidst all the hullaballo around us, life actually seems a shade listless. We repeat the same darned routines till our life becomes nothing more than a mean machine. We try to comfort ourselves with the thought that we are chasing some fanciful future, as we run almost unbridled in this race to nowhere. In the whole process, we forget to live. And we forget love. And we forget that the most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.


Samy

He's back!!!

Thats my kid-bro: Kokes. He's recovered after a major surgery, as this yesterday pose clearly reflects.
I've been a little taken with him and other urgent stuff.
Now that he's back, I too can get back to amuse your grey cells.

Watch this space for my posts.
Samy

Recuperating Adonis!!!

Kokes with me in a recent pic -- recovering from his operation.

Unrealistic me!

We have been taught to believe that negative equals realistic and positive equals unrealistic.
`Susan Jeffers, best selling American Author

I can be a little impossible at times. At others I might be a dash doltish. I have even been dubbed unrealistic, which I genuinely think I am. See, it is plain as a pikestaff. You can’t be levelheaded all the time. 24 X 7. It does help -- at times -- to rap your fingers on a half-drunk cup of coffee and doodle in your head: God, why did you make this world so unjust? Why did you have to program some hormones asymmetrically? Why did you make hearts soft? You could have put in some odd, cold lump in there – with no feelings, right? And why can’t I hear this laughter – that appears so spontaneous – forever?

Ironically, unrealistic blokes never get straight, realistic answers. So… I reckon, in my wildest artistry, God might consider my importunity and care to utter: I did not make the world unjust; it is the people who made stupid norms and then ordained you to follow. I didn’t wire anyone differently because I hardly fiddle with my beloved creation. If people think the glass is half empty, they forget it is half-full, also. I made hearts soft so that people may love and thank me for the magnificent feeling that love always brings. And then God may add: when you listen to the silence of nature and the melody of music, the cracks of your fav laugh will touch your eardrums. Relax.

Fetter me if I sound unrealistic. What do you do when some voices crack like that of a kid's? If the rasp of some breaths, draws you so close that you can feel your pulses tense up. If some gazes appear more laidback than ambitious. If certain actions look more warm than studied. If some dreams are too good to be forgotten. If some archaic innocence in you tells you: Don’t explore, man, for you truly love only once! Am I unrealistic if I lie on my bed in complete silence and my mind wanders? It goes far away, feeling good about something, worrying, caring, missing, tarrying and loving. It is indeed hard, very hard to explain the exact rhyme of my poem.

I hope I could explain better? Alas! I can’t cos’ I am not too realistic.

Samy

Happy New Year

Before one can even previse about all the goodness and joy and mirth that 2007 is expected to bring, we are already two days into the newborn year. My friends in New York stood at the Times Square – in freezing temps -- to witness the sparkling Waterford Crystal New Year's Eve ball make its descend. At 11:59 pm, for the last 100 years, for each single year the ball is lowered. It appears beautiful – as millions of voices unite to count down the final seconds of the year, and celebrate the beginning of a new year full of hopes, challenges, changes and dreams.

I believe the New Year's eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no man has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights. We are effusive, perky and exultant on the New Years. At the advent of 2007, I was sipping exotic Russian green tea, chatting with my charmed inner circle – my pals. It didn’t feel anything, to be honest, yet I was immensely conscious that we are entering a brand new year!

Two days into 2007, I can’t schemer –- that’s a cute word, and that sounds like me –- the events of 2006. Humans are not almanacs that chronicle dates and days. However, I do remember beautiful moments I spend during my Kashmir holidays. I recall one of my best buddies got married. I recount how I nearly missed death in a freaky car-crash. I recollect how you just think of those you love when you see death that closely. I must confess, I fell in love again and again in the year bygone and interestingly – with the same thought, same feeling, and same set of eyes!

A happy New Year! Grant that I
May bring no tear to any eye
When this New Year in time shall end
Let it be said I've played the friend,
Have lived and loved and labored here,
And made of it a happy year.

God bless.

sameer

Mom

A mother is a mother still, the holiest thing alive.

It has been nine crepuscular years. I still remember it vividly. It was as if mom had gone to a deep sleep. I looked at her face for one last time. She was still graceful in death, as in life. She had turned 42, a little less than three months back. I hugged my kid-sister asking her to not sob. “God wants her to look after a small heaven-garden, she will be back soon” I foolishly consoled her. In hindsight I reckon, there are many things in life we don’t have the power to change, even as we may wish to! You simply cannot talk to people who leave you forever, though you may snivel at this supreme injustice. You may dream your mom and then get up excited -- like a hen’s newborn chick -- to look around and find her no more. Such is Life. Bittersweet.

My mom lies interred in a beautiful, simple grave, in a green meadow, by a quietly flowing river, in peach-fragrance of countryside Kashmir. Shaded by Viburnum flower trees, the place appears utterly peaceful but it makes me feel unloved for some arcane reason. In life one has got to be lucky to be blessed with a mother’s noble, selfless, love. Like other kids I grew very fond of my mom. The mother's heart – it is said -- is the child's schoolroom. Mommy was sweet, loving, sacrificing, beautiful. Like all mom’s. I still feel good in my heart when my pals return to their mother’s for holidays or festivals.

Life teaches us many lessons the hard way. It allows us to absorb shocks; we otherwise think will knock us off. I recall my best friends in the US -- Suhail and Salah. They lost their mom in similar circumstances a few years ago. It was a wintry night, they later told me. A snowstorm was raging in New York. It was dark and cold and they stayed awake. Then the phone rang. It was the hospice calling. The storm had stopped, so had aunt’s feeble pulse. My friend tells me that he still feels her presence in his Manhattan home. Yet I know something is amiss. He experiences it, like me.

I can’t say what. An emotional scar, a sense of deep reverence or remnants of the gentle influence of a mother, perhaps. There is this terrible hunger for love. We all experience it in our lives - the pain, the loneliness. We must have the courage to recognize it.

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the dawn,
Hundreds of bees in the purple clover,
Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn,
But only one mother the wide world over.

Mom, 28 Sep 1955- 28 Dec 1997, RIP

Sameer

Love -- unspoken emotions

Love is supposed to be much more
than an emotion. Do I love you
because I feel I do or because you
took the time to show it?

Love is supposed to come
from the windows of your soul
and not just from the chambers
in your heart.

So, is it my soul that feels pain
or my heart that cries when you're not there?
Love is supposed to be the best form of
communicating one's inner spirituality to another.

But if we keep away from one another,
is it our spirits or our words that
keep us a part?

Love should be me writing poetry
and singing silly songs of happiness,
blossom trees and turtle doves.

But if you don't enjoy or appreciate
any of these things, has my love
been misunderstood?

Love should be you
being able to look into my eyes
while gently caressing my soul.

Love is, love should be infinity
times infinity and a whole lot more.
But if you're the only one feeling it,
and I'm the only one showing it,
Can we still call it love?

Samy

What really is ur Zod-sign?

We all have our inherent traits. And our star-signs. Virgos and Geminis. And so on and so forth. Is it all dictated by stars? Stars... I really don't know. To be a star, you must shine your own light, follow your own path, and don't worry about the darkness, for that is when the stars shine brightest.

Here another cool internet quiz:
What sign you really are?
http://quizmeme.com/zodiacpersonality/takequiz.php

Sam

Life's a party!

There are some quaint moments in everyone’s life when they feel stupid and sane at the same time. I feel sensible and sappy, in equal parts, many times. Like an Uppish, high-society party I went to, this weekend. Bellies swirled like some mid-winter tempest in the fashionable kegger, straight out of a famed Shakespearean work. Expensive arch-lights blazed in the background and flashers appeared to blinker upon glossed-over faces. American colonial-style decking, neoclassical columns, baroque plasterwork, Tudor beams. I clutched a drink tightly in my hand. Well past mid-night, babes sashayed in their bare minimals. Being a tad old fashioned -- in my mid-twenties -- I was shamelessly clad in woolens. I beamed fake smiles, like all others. I danced briefly, upon being invited by a nubile perfumed girl. My brawny buddy Barry was the center of some attraction and drew considerable female attention. Like other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then unintelligible, then altogether, then inarticulate, and then drunk. That’s where it all culminates. It was fun, nonetheless.

Driving back home in Delhi winters -- at 3 in the night – I think of what New York must have looked like a century back, perhaps. It is calm and chaotic at the same time; trucks entering Delhi bring in milk and vegetables and plastic pipes and whatnot. It is an endless stream of automobiles finding their way in. Trying to satiate the appetite of the capital city of the world’s fastest growing economy. People – and there are loads of them – sleep, huddled together upon roadside kerbs. Trying to hold on to each other’s warmth on a harsh, cold wintry night. Some elderly beggars were trying to light a bonfire. From inside the thermal confines of my car, I could see their blankets were not warm enough to keep out the cruel chill. Even in 9.5% growth. Wonder, how those beauteous babes managed!

Back home, I hit upon some lines, I couldn’t help adapt. Ya, I know. Stupid, Sam, someone may think. It is not that I don’t think of life without my distant dream. It is just that one practically cannot stop dreaming. Moreover, the thoughts are not the remnants of any party line. It's just that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what I really think. Just me.

The lines, my friends, before I drift again:

Why do I holler inside?
Why do I try and hide
Why do I still care
Why do I think you there.

Why do I love you?
Why do I think you love me too
Why do I feel pain
Why do I feel I'm insane.

Why do I want you so bad?
Why do I get a li'l mad
Why do I miss you
Why do I need you.
Why do I still love you?

Samy

So what is it?

Each tear does not signify lamentation/
As shutting an eyelid does not connote sleep/
I do love you/
But does love always mean concord

There are times when I feel like a falling star that has finally found his place next to another in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever. The thought holds me high for long hours and then a sudden twitter wakes me up. The bright star shining by my side is there no more. I hear distant echoes of a familiar kind. ‘You can take me nowhere’, my yonder star appears to suggest. Silently one by one, in infinite meadows, the shiny stars evaporate. Ah – the hex of the early morning sleep. Another morning. Time for gym!

I think it is so important to space our relationships. I’ve come to realize that relationships of all kinds are like sand held in your hand. Held loosely, with an open hand, the sand remains. The minute you hold it tight, the sand trickles through your fingers. You may hold onto some of it, but most will be spilled. A relationship is like that. Held loosely, with freedom for the other person, it is likely to remain intact. But held too tightly, the relationship may just slip away.

In our most innocent ways we ponder, why we fall into relationships? Bondings, which only make us hanker. Lose sleep. Yearn in the winter fog. When we wish to cut through the mist. To touch those teasing toes.

A little canary has been cooing on the iron-grilled railings of my balcony since dawn. What is the tiny two-legged beauty trying to say, I wonder? We fall for people who most clearly fit our love map. And this love map is largely determined in our heart. And though the head may try to reason, the heart understands none of it.

Tirche tirche teer-e-nazar ke lagte hain
Sidha sidha dil pe nishana lagta hai
Aag ka kya hai pal do pal mein lagti hai
Bujhte bujhte ek zamana lagta hai

Thy eyes dart me sharp
And aim at my heart
The fire that kindled in a jiffy
Won’t douse just so soon!

Samy

The week that went by

I must confess, I have been rather laid back during the last few days. Close to uninspired. Not-enough-motivated to key in a few hundred letters on my keyboard. I must have perhaps caught a longish nap. Then suddenly I had a quick dream. Eyes! They appeared to tell me something. Before I could gather the meaning of those arcane signs, my dream was already a faint flicker. It was gone, as quickly as it had appeared on my horizon. Frankly, I don’t dream too often these days but whenever I do, it is almost always brief, fragmented, in cut-glass types. Concise. Leaving me gasping for more. Every single time.

Very few people understand us in our lifetimes. A select few. Earlier I used to reckon, in my most naïve thoughts, that people really understand the silent gasps beneath our laughter and endless chatter. That is -- however -- not always the case! I understand people tend to mistake you, miscomprehend you, misread you, unless you express. They may know you but they often don’t understand you. There actually is a great difference between knowing and understanding something, as Kettering sees it: You can know a lot about somebody and not really understand him. Or even try to. Often enough the real pain is breaking of the shell that encloses understanding.

Philosophical meanderings apart, I attended a superb lecture by the very acclaimed writer and one of my favs William Dalrymple at India International. The author delivered a talk on the Indian mutiny as a prologue to his latest book, The Last Mughal. Dalrymple is a maverick. A sheer delight to read. In The Last Mughal he has written an account of the Indian mutiny such as we have never had before, of the events leading up to it and of its aftermath, seen through the prism of the last emperor's life. He has vividly described the street life of the Mughal capital in the days before the catastrophe happened. In his one-hour talk, I stood transfixed, like many others. Simply Brilliant. This guy puts his finger deftly on every crucial point in the story -- which earlier historians have missed – and intersperses it with his characteristic wit. At the end of his lecture, the mixed gathering -- comprising of Delhi’s Who’s who -- authors, historians, writers, scholars, diplomats and journalists gave Willy a standing ovation. I kept standing for the entire hour. The auditorium was jam-packed!

I also went for a dinner over the weekend. It was sizzling Italian. I love their cuisine. Antipasti followed by pasta. I don’t know Italian but I guess antipasti means before pasta. Excellent food based typically on the Italian gastronomic specialties. I think it consisted of a variety of ingredients -- aubergines (stuffed, baked, grilled), green peppers, tomatoes, vegetables in oil and mussels. The food was yummy. My friend – I forgot to add -- was as ever delectable.

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside. Outside we always fight for other things.

Sameer

Sleep sweet boy!

I like the word Indolence. It makes my laziness seem classy. I rise late in the mornings. I must have been chastened a million times by my Dad and I still recall those spanking words – Samy, the whole world is up. Good ol’ days! I used to be half-asleep and sheepishly pull the quilt over my face. The naughty morning chill trying to slither in from tiny tunnels of my crumpled sheet into my cosy bed. Dad could go on, but I didn’t bulge. Then my Professor uncle – who is soon going to take on the rather colonial title of the vice chancellor of Kashmir University – would scare me in his baritone voice. Success has two foes sonny, sleep and bad company. Uncle, I reckoned, was a tad removed from reality. I’d no bad company but I loved my sleep. That was tween age, followed by my teens.

Years later, I still wake up a little late. I ensure that my office shifts do not align with my mandatory morning sleep schedule. I feel good when I sleep unruffled, after reading a delightful book overnight. The moment when you first wake up in the morning is the most wonderful of the twenty-four hours. No matter how dreary you may feel, you possess the certainty that, during the day that lies before you, absolutely anything may happen. And the fact that it practically always doesn’t happen, matters not a jot. The possibility is always there. Life hinges on such sweet and sour possibilities.

I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day. Brookes white once remarked. Life is like a blanket too short. You pull it up and your toes rebel, you yank it down and shivers meander about your shoulder; but cheerful folks manage to draw their knees up and pass a very comfortable night.

Yesterday, I laid my hands on an old tape. It played a haunting melody, almost mesmerizingly –

Lag ja gale ki phir
ye hasin raat ho na ho
shayad phir is janam mein
mulakat ho na ho

Transliterated, it simply means.

Come hug me/
For we are never sure if/
the sublime night will ever bless again/
We will never know if/
we get together again/
in this lifetime

I wonder the sonorous incantation says it all. There is so much beauty and ecstasy in the song. You can still listen to the fluent musical strands, long after you slip into your bed. Thinking, Life is like a beautiful song, only the lyrics are messed up. Another day is about to end, another cold, comforting night is going to blanket us.

Tonight, the stars twinkle. The night is chilly. You tarry for something? Sleep. Hug. Warmth. Eyes. Dreams. Tears. Love!!

pas aiye ki ham nahin
ayenge baar baar
bahey gale mein daal ke
ham ro le zaar-zaar
ankhoon se phir ye
pyaar ki barsaat ho na ho
shayad phir is janam mein
mulakat ho na ho.

I don’t need to translate it. You can’t express silly heart’s every faint rhythm. I better go to sleep.

Samy

Mellow reveries

The days are wintry short. It gets dark around six. The evening chill feels good. Things continue to be as they are. Everyone and his uncle appear busy. There is a mad-mad rush to nowhere. People tend to smile but keep it in inverted commas. Everything is routine. Ah -- the monotony of things. The sameness suffocates me, at times. Nonetheless, I trundle on. Being part of the modern civil society, you eventually capitulate to its prescribed norms. It catapults you to a certain level, where you can do nothing – just stay quiet and watch events unfold! Watch unalloyed emotions being lacerated and dreams being dumped. The show – as they say -- goes on! 24 x 7.

I’ve made up my mind long back. I’m never going to give in to this fakeness. I can’t fake my hearts myriad little reveries. They are just too sacred to me to be wished away. A thrill still shoots through me when I think of love. Of eyes. Of stealing some cute glances in car mirrors. Of doing tiny somethings for someone, which I can’t bring myself to do even for me. The simple, innocent appreciation and respect for one another. My mind often reels as I step in my solitary room. I try to unwind, emote and enact the randomness of things! Think. And sit back to jot my thoughts.

When I go to sleep I always think of the countryside and all its loveliness and all its pureness. The trees and river streams. Quietitude. That’s when I unshackle my soul from life's numerous prejudices, vanities, riches and avarice. With a vanilla sky above and a grassed landscape beneath, my toes begin to tinkle. They tinkle alone.

The lovelorn thoughts chime in – always. It is already evening. Weekend. Cold. But beautiful. I am cheerful but I don’t know why! :)

Sameer