Sleep has washed me over like a refreshing dip in a cool pond on a blazing hot afternoon. And the evening darkness leaves me a little disoriented. Confused between early morning and dusk I step groggily out of my room and reality grows on me. Dazed and confused, grogginess and the slow submission to reality; is somehow the motif of my life. Like when you read the review of some pretty acclaimed book or movie and the reviewer talks of motifs. This is like that; except this is a pretty lousy assed book/movie.

Just finished reading The Stranger and the presence of a void filled with meaninglessness seems to be the only plausible explanation. Even though we didn’t fight any great war, which is part of my belief about how such a book came to be written, my penchant for romanticising leads me to believe the war has been inside us all at some time or another. To find cause and effect is essentially an attempt to find hope.

Hah, now that I sound sufficiently hollow I will shower and go back to day dreaming about how to paddle to the shore now that the Amazon is widening up and the current is getting stronger. The story till now has mostly been about how my amazing survival skills have seen me through near death after I lost my way in the greatest rainforest. This rickety raft I built out of balsa wood has been my saviour, helping me get out of this forest of phantasmic of visions as quickly as possible. The strong current is pulling me out into the sea and the Pororoca waves threaten to tear my raft to pieces.

Mumbai revisited

The campus is quiet and depopulated. Walking towards the promenade the only sound that floats with the humid breeze is of the waves lapping up the shore. Breaking and crashing onto the rocks occasionally with a roar. Coconut groves and a green lawns seem to take the edge off all sounds lending the place a certain softness, the cacophonous city is a faded dream.

Dark huge clouds gliding across the massive open sky silhouetted against the fading light of the sun seem like shadows of actors on a massive stage in a grand theatrical production. The crescendo of O Fortuna on my i-pod builds up the scene in front of my eyes and I see dark stormy seas, primal, untouched and untamed. With every beat of the drum the Orcs get closer and will infest the land soon. A certain primitive form of fear grips me entirely.

It's hard not to get caught up in the surreal scene and I'm completely sucked in. I'm far far away from the lame excel sheets of office and the mind games that drive me nuts.

Sitting on the rocks, the big city lights shimmer far in the distance, it seems truly to be the edge of the world. Staring at the lights I can almost hear the bustling noisy city and yet be far away to only hear the sea and the coconut groves converse softly with each other.
................

Am in Bombay for two months. Discovered the TFIR campus last Sunday and fell in love with the city all over again.

Farewell

I read this poem when I was 13 years (I think). Back then the world was a newer place. I think I had also prayed and fervently hoped Agha Shahid Ali's boat would capsize and he'd drown in the lake with porcelain waves and that would save me from reading such incomprehensible poems as school texts. Alas, my teenage prayers weren't answered and it eroded my occasional faith in God who was called on for life-death situations a 13 year old faced: like getting the window seat on the bus to school.

I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell:
Exquisite ghost, it is night.

The paddle is a heart; it breaks the porcelain waves.
It is still night. The paddle is a lotus.
I am rowed- as it withers-toward the breeze which is soft as
if it had pity on me.

If only somehow you could have been mine, what wouldn't
have happened in the world?

I'm everything you lost. You won't forgive me.
My memory keeps getting in the way of your history.
There is nothing to forgive.You can't forgive me.
I hid my pain even from myself; I revealed my pain only to myself.

Today, as I read the poem I realize Mr. Ali was way smarter. He wrote and trapped my life in those lines; and to find them today brings me face to face with the deep chasm that has grown and swallowed up the simplicities irredeemably. Of the changes twelve years can bring? Yes. It's suddenly too complicated for any God to help now. Well done Mr. Ali!

Thanks DT for bringing this poem back :). And the rest of the poem is here.

Hollow man

Swallowed by the world, a shadowless man wandered past me. He asked me for directions and a way to go. I saw his lips move but heard no voice. I saw his searching eyes but no light in them. I heard the hollow ring of a tin box when he walked and not the sound of footsteps. Deserted by his shadow with no where to go, he said he was the hollow man, the King of Pain. Staring into the well of echoes that was bored into his soul I saw the reflection of a face I know well. And then I saw darkness more primitive than the ancient night.

There isn't anything crueler than not knowing why you are where you are. Being lost possibly comes with a sense of loss. Part by part a little is chipped off. One day my shadow is half its self.

Cal trip

Back in school after an amazing time at home. Yes, it sucks!

Cal was about meeting old friends, cribbing about Oly not being the same again after the ban, meeting relatives, a small city walk (few photos here). And then stepping into this room, the six wasted months took some time to recall. Football has been the high point, winning an inter college cup, some press coverage and some general feel good stuff. Lows, well...

Slept like a sleep deprived student from A on the plane. (Yes, that ought to be a new expression!) Campus seems to gearing up for the end of the month sports meet against B. Somehow over the years that's the one constant thing that feels good. Great exercise and the best way to take your mind off things.

Cal. is delightful just as always! Standing at Esplanade I heard one passionte michchil speaker blame the recession and the general gloom over the world on Buddhadeb (chief minister). I still don't comprehend metros not running on Sundays; a public transport system taking a day off! Every bus I boarded they blasted the driver for either driving too slow or too fast. One day I saw a mini bus driver stop his bus cause he saw this clown of a young couple who couldn't cross the road. So he stopped, stuck his head out, raised his hand and tried to stop the other cars coming so that these two idiots could cross the road, while the bus full of passengers waited for these two to cross!!!! And they weren't even going to take the minibus! Just two random strangers. Looking at the number of micchils we have, I wonder how there is so much we have to complain about. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad, but surely we're a tolerant lot to have demonstrations everyday in the busiest of city roads.

All in all I can't substitute the place for some other.

It was a great trip. I want to do a city walk thing badly. I love going around cities. Bombay has probably been covered most extensively. Delhi in bits and pieces managed to turn me around from my previous prejudices about the place. Calcutta is a treasure trove. Maybe next time.