Monday, April 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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
~ 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
Sunday, April 22, 2007
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
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
Monday, April 16, 2007
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
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
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Tonga on the Turnpike
I like this pic for its colors. The Sunset, clouds, penumbral effect, the sky, bareness and because it is Kashmir.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
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
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
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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
Friday, March 23, 2007
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
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
Monday, March 12, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
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
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
Friday, March 02, 2007
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
Thursday, March 01, 2007
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
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
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 19, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
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!
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
Thursday, February 15, 2007
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
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
Friday, February 09, 2007
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
Sunday, February 04, 2007
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
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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
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