The Recurring Nightmare.
Vast, empty desert, endless in all directions. Cloudless, yellow sky. No sign of a sun, yet he recalls plenty of brightness.
No vegetation, not even cacti. Sand smooth as silk, hot as lava. Must be searing the soles of his feet, yet, strangely he does not recall a burning sensation.
Noxious, green air. Must be foul smelling, even corrosive to his respiratory tract, yet, strangely he has no recollection of any breathing discomfort.
He instinctively looks toward the horizon, hoping for an end in sight, even if illusory. His eyes seek the thin, hazy line marking ‘up’ from ‘down’. He finds none.
An endless world of dubious physics, justified by the in-built logic of all dreams. His questions have been made redundant even before he could ask them. After all, his mind has an unfair advantage - it knows what he’s thinking.
Lead-soled boots, it proffers. Special respiratory apparatus, it reasons. Parallax, it shrugs.
It is his own private mental hell.
Suddenly, darkness.
Eyes try to adjust, playing games with his mind as they do so. First to disappear is slimy green, then bold yellow, and finally blazing red. Enter blue, then black, then that eerie shade known simply as Night. Rods-reduced, Cones-colour, they taught him at school. Both seem not quite up to this task. Or maybe just unwilling to cooperate.
Sand blows around in small, crazy spirals. Seems to metamorphose into solid shapes, then back into being animated grains of sand.
Did he just see a tree turn into spirals of sand?
Did he see a dog disintegrating into a million particles that vanish into the nearby dune?
Did he just see the silhouette of a dark man in a cape, melting into a…
No.
That is indeed a man he saw.
A hefty man. Wearing a cape of some sort. Can’t make out a face, not even outlines of features. The head, under a hat, seems to be turned in his general direction. Can’t be too sure, in this light. When in doubt, assume the worst.
He is scared. Throat parched. Heart racing. Adrenalin rushing.
Fight or flight?
He is never sure who made the call. Or even, indeed, what the call was. All he recalls is starting to walk toward the menacing silhouette.
He still can’t see any better, and yet he is sure the silhouette is looking straight at him now.
He walks at an even, cautious pace, dictated by a fine balance of anger, confusion and fear. He must know who has violated his personal space. Even if this is hell, it‘s his own private hell.
He is now barely a few feet away from the silhouette. He can now see the cape is an overcoat. A dirty shade of green? He isn’t too sure. The shadowy figure is still unmoved, but now he realizes it is not facing him, rather, it is facing the other way. Realizing the error of his initial assumption does not come timely enough. His hand is already raised to meet the silhouette’s shoulder. He makes contact. The shoulder feels strange - harder and warmer than usual. The silhouette turns.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Dark
Night.
Rain. Incessant rain. Without mercy or regard. Occasional lightning and thunder clap.
The city.
Graffiti covered walls, standing tall and proud against the onslaught. Or maybe just indifferent. Maybe even hopeless. Standing until the day they can’t stand anymore.
Suburbia.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Thunder shatters his thoughtlessness. Coaxes his mind into thinking. And he doesn’t find it fun. He hates the rain. He looks toward the window. Wild wind outside, as the draft tells him. The two halves of the curtain dance the mating dance of an ancient tribe, as if around a fire. Moving in spirals of decreasing size, finding it futile at some point and starting over again. Thunder is the drumbeat. Lightning is the fire. The curtain-halves are the lovers. And him? He is the outsider. The spectator. The One without any physical locus standi. A ghost. Just like he’s been all his life.
A bad day to be out, this. Can’t be worse than the rest of his life, he reasons. He grabs the raincoat. Exits, not bothering to lock the front door. Why should he? He’d love a break-in. He’d love the chance to go after the poor sonofabitch who violates his shithole apartment with nothing worth stealing, just so he can justify kicking the poor sod’s teeth in, when, sure as hell, he catches him.
Outside.
The Street. Still raining. Raincoat barely does its job. He’s drenched within a minute. Fumbles for and locates the crushed soft pack of cigarettes. 20 Class A cigarettes. Fine tobacco. A carefully selected blend, chosen by discerning idiots who never had the sense to buy a hard pack, that would at least hold up against violence. Of the natural kind, and the human. He finds a cigarette and, despite the rain, tries to light it. There’s an awning barely a step away, but he disregards it completely. He wants to light it as it pours down hard. Very stupid. Very defiant. Very Him.
To be continued...(or not!)
Rain. Incessant rain. Without mercy or regard. Occasional lightning and thunder clap.
The city.
Graffiti covered walls, standing tall and proud against the onslaught. Or maybe just indifferent. Maybe even hopeless. Standing until the day they can’t stand anymore.
Suburbia.
He wakes up to a dark room. As if it is pre-ordained, his eyes meet the bedside clock. Splash of red. Blink. 21:00 in one-inch-tall numerals. That damn blinking colon. That nagging pain in his head that won’t leave him be. Shit. What an hour to wake up. What a city to wake up in. What a life to wade through.
Thunder shatters his thoughtlessness. Coaxes his mind into thinking. And he doesn’t find it fun. He hates the rain. He looks toward the window. Wild wind outside, as the draft tells him. The two halves of the curtain dance the mating dance of an ancient tribe, as if around a fire. Moving in spirals of decreasing size, finding it futile at some point and starting over again. Thunder is the drumbeat. Lightning is the fire. The curtain-halves are the lovers. And him? He is the outsider. The spectator. The One without any physical locus standi. A ghost. Just like he’s been all his life.
A bad day to be out, this. Can’t be worse than the rest of his life, he reasons. He grabs the raincoat. Exits, not bothering to lock the front door. Why should he? He’d love a break-in. He’d love the chance to go after the poor sonofabitch who violates his shithole apartment with nothing worth stealing, just so he can justify kicking the poor sod’s teeth in, when, sure as hell, he catches him.
Outside.
The Street. Still raining. Raincoat barely does its job. He’s drenched within a minute. Fumbles for and locates the crushed soft pack of cigarettes. 20 Class A cigarettes. Fine tobacco. A carefully selected blend, chosen by discerning idiots who never had the sense to buy a hard pack, that would at least hold up against violence. Of the natural kind, and the human. He finds a cigarette and, despite the rain, tries to light it. There’s an awning barely a step away, but he disregards it completely. He wants to light it as it pours down hard. Very stupid. Very defiant. Very Him.
To be continued...(or not!)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Rock: an episode
This will be a moody post.
Just finished watching Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz, a documentary/ concert video featuring "The Band". In 1976, "The Band" gave their farewell concert. A few rock legends turned up to perform with them.
On the DVD, the songs (concert footage) are interspersed with sections of the band members in conversation with Scorsese, as he asks them questions about how it used to be, what it meant, and so forth. Between tokes of whatever it is they're toking, they answer in simple, spontaneous, honest sentences. That hit you hard.
I'm fairly ignorant on the early rock movement in general, but that's the beauty of emotion: it-don't take-no, aeyy-ju-cayy-shun.
I haven't heard even one of these songs before (shame!). The music transports me (on a damn weekday!) into a surreal state of mind. The mental fatigue from the workday helps me surrender. The band members' candidness touches my heart. There is a tragedy unfolding, as "The Band" begins to end. I empathize. And I suspect I begin to understand. About the generation that didn't give a damn. About the folks who yearned for freedom of the spirit. And sang about it.
The feeling I'm left with: Rock-n-roll is dead.
[you were warned at the beginning of this post.]
Just finished watching Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz, a documentary/ concert video featuring "The Band". In 1976, "The Band" gave their farewell concert. A few rock legends turned up to perform with them.
On the DVD, the songs (concert footage) are interspersed with sections of the band members in conversation with Scorsese, as he asks them questions about how it used to be, what it meant, and so forth. Between tokes of whatever it is they're toking, they answer in simple, spontaneous, honest sentences. That hit you hard.
I'm fairly ignorant on the early rock movement in general, but that's the beauty of emotion: it-don't take-no, aeyy-ju-cayy-shun.
I haven't heard even one of these songs before (shame!). The music transports me (on a damn weekday!) into a surreal state of mind. The mental fatigue from the workday helps me surrender. The band members' candidness touches my heart. There is a tragedy unfolding, as "The Band" begins to end. I empathize. And I suspect I begin to understand. About the generation that didn't give a damn. About the folks who yearned for freedom of the spirit. And sang about it.
The feeling I'm left with: Rock-n-roll is dead.
[you were warned at the beginning of this post.]
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Godspeed, Sheru!
There's a guy in my office. He's not one guy. He's many (a la the recent Nokia ad, "There's a thing in my pocket" - interesting, but fairly irritating after the first few times, methinks).
Anyhow. Sheru joined us when the company he used to work for, got acquired by the company I work for now (soon to become the one he used to work for. Simple!). He joined it around the same time as I did, albeit at a senior level, commensurate with his superior skills, experience and luck (hah! I love it when it's my blog). Snigger!
We got to know each oher through the new hire indoctrination sessions that companies believe in so strongly. And we had quite a bit in common. We came from similar companies (both said to be relatively less 'structured' in their approach to business, both having a more 'hardcore' approach to sales, and both having iconic brands in their stables). We were also bound together by nicotine, us smokers. We loved 80's rock. And video games (nerds!). We shared a bittersweet love for Calcutta. And above all, I think, we both seemed to appreciate, with seemingly deliberate nonchalance, the slightly dark sense of humour life seems to show, on occasion.
We had plenty of differences too. He is a regular freak of cricket (and of beer-friendly sports in general, I guess). The only game I have any amount of passion for is badminton. His approach to movies is transactional gratifcation (popcorn; intermission; thank you, ma'am!). I tend to bore all who would listen with passionate renditions of what I loved (or hated) about such-and-such film. I am pretty much a vegetarian. He eats anything that moves (and moves what does not move).
We also had the good fortune of being attached to the same team, hence working in somewhat close proximity. I came to see him as the one guy on my floor, who would laugh out loud with me, at all things dark, real or perceived. Even better, who would subtly chastise me when my frivolousness got too far (yeah now, it was funny, but get back to earth, cause I have to catch my bus home at 6, dude).
Where do you find such people? How do you locate them? I can't buy companies all by myself.
Long story short, I am truly (yes, that's B, I and U) sad to see him go. I don't claim to have become one of those he would remember on his death bed, nor do I think I am one of his transactional gratifiers. I lie somewhere in the middle, perhaps. Perhaps I have made him feel there is another soul that bends around similar bumps in the spacetime fabric, that makes the same mistakes when drunkenly humming that legendary rock song. Perhaps his belief in humanity has become a bit less easy to shake. I hope.
Godspeed, Sheru! These paths shall cross, I promise.
Anyhow. Sheru joined us when the company he used to work for, got acquired by the company I work for now (soon to become the one he used to work for. Simple!). He joined it around the same time as I did, albeit at a senior level, commensurate with his superior skills, experience and luck (hah! I love it when it's my blog). Snigger!
We got to know each oher through the new hire indoctrination sessions that companies believe in so strongly. And we had quite a bit in common. We came from similar companies (both said to be relatively less 'structured' in their approach to business, both having a more 'hardcore' approach to sales, and both having iconic brands in their stables). We were also bound together by nicotine, us smokers. We loved 80's rock. And video games (nerds!). We shared a bittersweet love for Calcutta. And above all, I think, we both seemed to appreciate, with seemingly deliberate nonchalance, the slightly dark sense of humour life seems to show, on occasion.
We had plenty of differences too. He is a regular freak of cricket (and of beer-friendly sports in general, I guess). The only game I have any amount of passion for is badminton. His approach to movies is transactional gratifcation (popcorn; intermission; thank you, ma'am!). I tend to bore all who would listen with passionate renditions of what I loved (or hated) about such-and-such film. I am pretty much a vegetarian. He eats anything that moves (and moves what does not move).
We also had the good fortune of being attached to the same team, hence working in somewhat close proximity. I came to see him as the one guy on my floor, who would laugh out loud with me, at all things dark, real or perceived. Even better, who would subtly chastise me when my frivolousness got too far (yeah now, it was funny, but get back to earth, cause I have to catch my bus home at 6, dude).
Where do you find such people? How do you locate them? I can't buy companies all by myself.
Long story short, I am truly (yes, that's B, I and U) sad to see him go. I don't claim to have become one of those he would remember on his death bed, nor do I think I am one of his transactional gratifiers. I lie somewhere in the middle, perhaps. Perhaps I have made him feel there is another soul that bends around similar bumps in the spacetime fabric, that makes the same mistakes when drunkenly humming that legendary rock song. Perhaps his belief in humanity has become a bit less easy to shake. I hope.
Godspeed, Sheru! These paths shall cross, I promise.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Muzak!
I've been longing to create some music for a while now. Came across GarageBand (digital music authoring and mixing software - lets you create/mix your own music from scratch using 'soft' instruments, on your computer) on a Mac and fell in love with it too, but, as teenage probably taught you, baby, sometimes love just ain't enough. Can't afford a Mac just for a Mac's sake. Not yet.
I don't take rejection particularly well, so about a month ago, I located the limited-time trial version of Mixcraft (www.acoustica.com/mixcraft) which works well on my domesticated laptop. While not quite up to GarageBand's versatility (you can't load up, say, an electric guitar and use your keyboard to create your award-winning riff from scratch, for example), but it's a lot of fun for anyone interested in throwing pre-recorded loops together to create what sounds like music. For me, it was a HUGE rush.
Excited by my new toy, I created my first monstrosity. To listen, download it at http://www.MegaShare.com/232112
Emboldened by how the first one sounded, here is what I unleashed next -
http://www.MegaShare.com/232116
Warning: The vocals have been rendered by an upcoming struggler with great potential. They may thus fall a bit short of high expectations (if any)!
Tech Help - When (rather, IF) you click on the above links, you will be taken to Megashare.com. Select the "Free Download" option. There will be a short wait time, after which you should be able to download the file.
I don't take rejection particularly well, so about a month ago, I located the limited-time trial version of Mixcraft (www.acoustica.com/mixcraft) which works well on my domesticated laptop. While not quite up to GarageBand's versatility (you can't load up, say, an electric guitar and use your keyboard to create your award-winning riff from scratch, for example), but it's a lot of fun for anyone interested in throwing pre-recorded loops together to create what sounds like music. For me, it was a HUGE rush.
Excited by my new toy, I created my first monstrosity. To listen, download it at http://www.MegaShare.com/232112
Emboldened by how the first one sounded, here is what I unleashed next -
http://www.MegaShare.com/232116
Warning: The vocals have been rendered by an upcoming struggler with great potential. They may thus fall a bit short of high expectations (if any)!
Tech Help - When (rather, IF) you click on the above links, you will be taken to Megashare.com. Select the "Free Download" option. There will be a short wait time, after which you should be able to download the file.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Ascent of Saif
Those of you who liked Omkara (and especially, Saif in it) may have been pleasantly surprised by what Shri Khan pulled off -I for one, was hunh-was-that-reallySaif-amazed.
I remember hating him in his "Ole -Ole" days - primarily because I couldn't determine if he was the leading man or lady. Secondarily because of his voice that could set most car alarms off.
So we had another star kid asserting his star kid-ness upon us. Ho hum. Click. Next channel.
Sometime in this period of generally ignoring him, I happened to watch Ek Hasina Thi. Being a Ramu film, it didn't seem too unsafe an option to commit a couple hours to. So I went - and was pleasantly surprised to find that Shri Khan had finally found a hiarstyle that conveyed gender unambiguously, clothes that looked nice on him, a worked-on physique that made those martial arts moves extremely credible, and importantly, a role that suited him well (he plays a suave, rather brash conman who deceives belles for his pleasure and twisted ends)!
The know-it-all that I clearly am, I remember telling myself then - This guy has finally found his groove. After Omkara, he certainly has. And how.
I could never have imagined him playing the role of Langda Tyagi the way he did. From the 10 plus word expletive (translation available upon request) while playing marbles, to the brutally rural (or rurally brutal) hairstyle, to the properly yellow teeth, to the theth accent all through. The chhota nawaab in him doesn't surface for a second.
Of course, credit in no small measure to Shri Bhardwaj for making another haleem-esque, emotionally rich film, which lets such characters shine out. And kudos all the more to him for (in Shri Khan's words) "...believing that somebody like (Saif) could've done something like this..."
I remember hating him in his "Ole -Ole" days - primarily because I couldn't determine if he was the leading man or lady. Secondarily because of his voice that could set most car alarms off.
So we had another star kid asserting his star kid-ness upon us. Ho hum. Click. Next channel.
Sometime in this period of generally ignoring him, I happened to watch Ek Hasina Thi. Being a Ramu film, it didn't seem too unsafe an option to commit a couple hours to. So I went - and was pleasantly surprised to find that Shri Khan had finally found a hiarstyle that conveyed gender unambiguously, clothes that looked nice on him, a worked-on physique that made those martial arts moves extremely credible, and importantly, a role that suited him well (he plays a suave, rather brash conman who deceives belles for his pleasure and twisted ends)!
The know-it-all that I clearly am, I remember telling myself then - This guy has finally found his groove. After Omkara, he certainly has. And how.
I could never have imagined him playing the role of Langda Tyagi the way he did. From the 10 plus word expletive (translation available upon request) while playing marbles, to the brutally rural (or rurally brutal) hairstyle, to the properly yellow teeth, to the theth accent all through. The chhota nawaab in him doesn't surface for a second.
Of course, credit in no small measure to Shri Bhardwaj for making another haleem-esque, emotionally rich film, which lets such characters shine out. And kudos all the more to him for (in Shri Khan's words) "...believing that somebody like (Saif) could've done something like this..."
Friday, June 15, 2007
Codename Kringle
I don't mind the candy in the stocking, but I must admit - I've been wondering about the true identity of Santa Clause.
Been reading a Jack Higgins page turner, and can't help but think Kris Kringle is merely a cover-up. True greatness often emerges out of mixed influences. I was also watching The Great Indian Laughter Challenge over dinner, so:
Here are my top 3 conspiracy theories:
#3: He is a Maharashtrian.
Why?
Ho Ho Ho.
#2: He is black and a rapper. - [Thanks friend Ganji for pointing this out]
Why?
hoe hoe hoe.
#1 (I think I've finally nailed it): He's actually Bappi Lahiri!
[Rumba] Hoh Hoh Hoh.
To see how true this is, try the following word-association game:
1. fat man
2. happy man
3. decorated christmas tree
Sorry to have garrotted the child in you. But the truth must emerge. After all, with great boredom comes great responsibility.
Been reading a Jack Higgins page turner, and can't help but think Kris Kringle is merely a cover-up. True greatness often emerges out of mixed influences. I was also watching The Great Indian Laughter Challenge over dinner, so:
Here are my top 3 conspiracy theories:
#3: He is a Maharashtrian.
Why?
Ho Ho Ho.
#2: He is black and a rapper. - [Thanks friend Ganji for pointing this out]
Why?
hoe hoe hoe.
#1 (I think I've finally nailed it): He's actually Bappi Lahiri!
[Rumba] Hoh Hoh Hoh.
To see how true this is, try the following word-association game:
1. fat man
2. happy man
3. decorated christmas tree
Sorry to have garrotted the child in you. But the truth must emerge. After all, with great boredom comes great responsibility.
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