Lord of Chaos

Lord of Chaos looked down in horror at what he had created. For years he held a secret. He was a closet perfectionist and no one knew why, not even him. He thrived in chaos. He plunged his world into an incessant array of activities and watched them unfold, jostle for space but ultimately what came out of it was perfection.

It is said night finds her life in day, the darkness seeks out light, evil loses its purpose when good fails temporarily. Perfection was beauty, something his whole life was dedicated to destroy and in its perfection he found his nemesis and some say, even his redemption.

But today, as he looked at the scattered pieces, he knew even he had gone too far. The bridge had been crossed for once and everything seemed to have a mind of its own. The puzzle no longer had an elegant solution at the end, it all seemed lost.

There would be no more chance of redemption, no more chance to have a perfect ending. He stepped back waiting for the inevitable to happen. His world was no longer going to be the same. He waited.

Yet nothing happened. He slowly turned to go back, to exit the stage. And suddenly it caught his eye - a faint glimmer of a pattern. He turned around, unsure, expectant.

And then it dawned on him. The pattern was hidden in plain view by pieces which were not part of the plan. It was up to him to choose. This was chaos at its perfectionist best. This was what will make his life worth the pains.

This was his greatest dance ever for now he danced for himself and himself alone, for his own survival.

The Jungle

It gets darker at night. But when the sun is gone, the predators are around and the jungle is scarier than ever. The jungle demands sacrifice; the jungle has no empathy; the jungle plays you like a puppet.

It gets bloodier as the years pass by. And the food chain churns and spits out all who fell behind. And just when you were sure you wanted to leave, the jungle would conjure up an oasis; short lived but enough to let you prod on for a few more hours.

It gets lonely as you grow old. The pack you grew up with falls apart, the new wolves no longer are your brothers, the world belongs to the alpha male who wins; only for a short while though before his heart gets torn out in a battle. The battle scars are marks of a fake glory to a fake deity.

It gets godless every passing moment. There is a restlessness, not for the presence of evil but because in the jungle, the old gods have left leaving behind a void like no other. And in the godless darkness there are no rules.

It gets restless as time passes by. The world needs to be violent to sustain, a mind numbing posturing is what seems to do the trick for the day and there no longer remains any space for the wide eyed doe. She has to run, run like the wind all day just to survive, till the day evolution gives her fangs.

The jungle waits, quiet and calculating, waiting for the next games to begin.

The Punter

He knew all about horses At least he thought so. So he bet on them. Always on which horse will win. He felt it beyond his dignity to bet on a horse losing. After all, the horses had some self respect.

He was a bit arrogant when it came to horses. He was an idealist as well. A strange combination one would say but it served him well. He knew if he was right and did his bets honestly; the horses would not let him down. Now as you would know, for any story to succeed, you have to get in some drama, action, passion till the point of time when there might be a strange sense of indigestion.

So in the peaceful life of this old punter of ours, came a few young colts and for the first time perhaps he slipped. He picked a few colts, rooted for them, what the heck he trained them for greatness. And then came the second round of colts. Better, stronger and designed to break every record ever held by horses!

But now something strange happened! The first set of colts began behaving strangely. It was almost as if they had become humans, full of jealousy for the new kids on the block.

And slowly the races began to look like wrestling fields with the horses crossing courses and neighing and kicking up dust till our poor punter was covered with mud. He thought, “What the hell. Enough of horse racing for a life time!” just as he was about to leave, he got a kick on his back. And what a kick it was.

He was bedridden for years. People said it was one of the older colts but our punter would have promised that it was not even a colt that he saw through the corner of his eyes as it kicked him, it was in reality a mule!

It was said, the older colts ran over the racing fields and the younger colts never ran a single race after that on those courses.

Years passed. Our Punter was old and wiry but much better now that he had given up on racing. But the other day, he opened his television set in his perfect Lego world and he saw an arena larger than anything he had ever imagined.

And there were his younger colts, racing and winning and breaking every record known to horses and to men.

And as I saw him watch the race, I wondered if this was a story of horses, of colts who grew up or a punter who honestly like most existential heroes, did almost nothing and yet was the protagonist.

The Four Little Mice Grow Up

One of my favourite stories as I was graduating and beginning my journey to understand Brands was about the four little mice. Their story is one of hope, of camaraderie, of possible futures that they wish came true some day.

But as life goes by I see the story of the four little mice change, evolve, develop – whatever you might call it. It’s interesting how each copes up, running on the little treadmill so that the scientist on the outside can observe and take notes on the little black book.

So as we move forward with our story, let’s see how the little mice fared. They all aged, they all greyed, they all added and shed back a few pounds but all in all they survived the big, bad city. And they met the ladies. Oh yes, you see as the every mouse grows up, according to all fairy tales involving mice, there has to be a mouse princess. So each met their princesses and some of them met the right ones, while the others waited.

The family mouse, the wise old one, who loved his family a lot, kept going further and further away till one day he decided to set sail again. His family wanted to open a Ratatouille store in a land far far away.

From each of their ships they could still see the other three, but it required a lucky wind to get their voice across to others. They called out once again, with the hope that “One day the ships will return.”

The Sun Thronesinga

Year 1

Princess Priyadarshini looked lovingly at the throne once again.

Set amidst the lesser gilded ones, the Sun Throne was majestic, regal and more importantly held the seat of power across all Rajputana.

Whenever she looked at the Throne from behind the curtains on the veranda, she felt as if the throne was calling out to her. It seemed to smile at her, talk to her and call her to come and claim it as hers.

His Royal Highness Veer Bhadra Singh entered the court as all fell silent as it ought to be.

The princesses and the royal women waited in anticipation. Today was the day the king was going to announce the arrival of a successor to the Sun Throne. And that he did.

Princes from across India had come over for the Raj Tilak of the young prince, her little brother. Princess Priyadarshini beamed with pride.

Suddenly a hand pushed her aside. Without even turning, she knew who it was. Only her elder sister Princess Rajnandini, would have the audacity to do that. Whenever Rajnandini came close to her, she could feel the stings of jealousy engulfing her. Rajnandini justified her name and her title. At twelve, she showed all the signs of blooming into the most beautiful princess of entire Hindustan. She could ride the horse, fence with her father and even shoot down a dove from the sky. She was clearly the favourite child.

Princess Priyadarshini knew that her looks did not imply royalty. Few would believe that she was of royal blood, had it not been for her attitude and grace. Her mom while on her deathbed, just after giving birth to the heir of the Sun Throne had told her time and again that the greatest treasure of a princess was her attitude and the way she carried herself.

Year 10

Kumar Ranendra Pratap Singh adored her eldest sister. A proper spoilt brat, brought up by ever fawning servants made him the most disagreeable kid to have ever lived in the palace. Never a healthy child, he followed Rajnandini as a little puppy and derived great pleasure out of destroying the doll’s houses of his other sister under the able directive of Rajnandini.

Princess Priyadarshini knew how to ignore them all. She had persuaded her father to let her marry early into the Royal Family of Sindh and was getting ready for her marriage. Stories were told in hushed manners how the princess knew her limitations when it came to how she looked and had settled for one of the oldest princes around, who was rarely known for any kind of bravery.

Her father was all too happy to let her go. His favourite kids would still be around him.

When Princess Priyadarshini reached Sindh after her marriage a royal pigeon courier announced the tragic death of her Brother in a freak accident where his favourite gun had mysteriously gone off in his hand, killing him almost instantly.

Palace sources said that the king was devastated and everyone in hushed tones said that the Kumar had not been keeping good company.

He clung on to Rajnandini even harder for support and when she married a commoner two months later no one spoke a word against it since they knew the king would pass on the throne to her.

The news reached Princess Priyadarshini. But like during her brother’s death, she showed no emotion. In a matter of fact voice, she informed her husband that she was pregnant.

Year 20

The country rejoiced as they heard Princess Rajnandini was expecting a child after almost ten years of being married. The Sun Throne would have an heir again.

The country had prospered under her. For all but in name, she controlled the kingdom. The old king depended on her completely. The murmurs about her marrying a civilian were rarely heard. In fact, few had seen the man she had married.

Princess Priyadarshini decided to pay her sister a visit with her son Veer Vikram Singh. The entire army of Sindh travelled with the Queen Mother and the absolute monarch of Sindh after her husband’s untimely death.

The sisters met in a not so cordial situation.

“What brings you here suddenly?” queried Rajnandini, her beautiful eyebrows showing the glint of steel.

“Jijisa, in your situation you should not get excited. I just wanted to congratulate you and show Veer his mother’s country. Here drink this, it will cool you down.”

Rajnandini could not say no. After all, it was a hot day and slowly she felt drowsy. It seemed that the guards at the door changed. The insignia of the Royal House of Sindh seemed to flutter in and out of her vision.

Priyadarshini’s voice seemed to come from far far away.

“How did you get pregnant in the first place? The man who had wooed you was never a man! But that you must have realized soon.”

Ahhh! Jijisa!!! You never realized the first rule of being a Princess. You must never become the show itself, for then you can’t be the puppeteer.

Tomorrow the country will learn how you died of a medicine you took to ease the pain of labour. And how father passed away hearing your tragic end.

I have decided to announce a month of national mourning.”

Rajnandini stared at her sister as the glass fell on the cobbled stone.

His Royal Highness Veer Vikram Singh, a boy, no more, but the undisputed ruler of Sindh and Rajputana, entered the court as all fell silent as it ought to be.

Whenever she looked at the Throne from behind the curtains on the veranda, she felt as if the throne was calling out to her. It seemed to smile at her, talk to her and call her to come and claim it as hers.

Set amidst the lesser gilded ones, the Sun Throne was majestic, regal and more importantly held the seat of power across all Rajputana.

Rajmata Priyadarshini looked lovingly at the throne once again.

The Letter Never Posted

Dear Z,

How have you been? How has my Mumbai been? It’s been ages since I wrote to you. Every time I pick up the pen and paper, I realize I cannot stand the idea of writing one more letter to you. It never made any sense. I would never post it anyway.

But tonight, you know, I am in Beverly Hills once again. The ships are anchored in the horizon; the noise of the sea is drowned only by the melody of the piano and the occasional chatter of the family behind me, flush with their newly earned money.

You can always tell New Money.

The lighthouse down the beach sends out the signals to the ocean. The beam tears through the darkness, like ripping off a thin sheet of paper and searches for lost memories in the night. For the last hour I have been trying to get the beam of light on a picture and have failed miserably.

Like so many other things in life. Like us.

The candle flickers but fights on relentlessly. It refuses to die out. Like the times gone by. Ideally, the setting would have been perfect with a glass of the cherished South African Wine, a plate of cheese and some nice hand printed parchment and a fountain pen.

All that I have is a grapetizer, a broken ball pen, the paper napkin and a picture of us folded neatly in my wallet since the last time we met.

I was running by the beach today morning. The sun had come rushing in through the window and kissed me awake and somehow I did not want to disappoint the sun and so I ran – the black sand sticking to my feet, the wind racing against my cheeks; pretty much the opening scene from the Chariots of Fire.

Except that nothing was noble about me.

It’s funny though. We were as far away from water as one could be when we met. And the water in Mumbai is never something to write home about. But the waves seem to be singing our song. And when I listen carefully, the winds whisper the same thing.

The other day I was watching Adam Sandler’s Funny People and somewhere in the story an analogy was drawn between men and serial killers. All have this one girl that got away. I sometimes wonder why I ever wanted to get away. I wish you were a serial killer – explaining it would be so much simpler.

I wish, selfishly, at least I am “the one that got away” for you. We never had a story together. But still.

The grapetizer and the waves are having their effects. The family behind is getting unbearable. They stare at the only girl sitting alone at a table in this beautiful evening. They look to see if someone has come over to join me. They look.

Over and over again.

Loo-Natic

The door opened by itself and I walked in to the soulful music of Dire Straits. As I slid my hands under the tap in the restroom of my favourite restaurant in Singapore, I realized this is also number 2 in my list of favourite restrooms across the world.

Working for SNDU has scarred me in ways more than one :) Fascination with restroom is just one of them. Very rarely does a job require you to look intently at a squat style Indian toilet with deep reverence in Andheri West and ask the lady of the house, “aap acid kyun use karte hain? Achha... saath mein detergent bhi?” and then on the next day admire pictures of squat toilets in South East Asia and understand similarities and differences! (True Story)

That was the moment in end 2007 when the tryst with restrooms started. And that’s why I get really irritated at times. What’s with the restrooms around the world? I mean has no one ever noticed how confusing signs can be? Given that selecting the wrong door can lead to some of the most embarrassing moments in a person’s life, I would have hoped that someone would have done something about it. You know, at least have some kind of standardization?

Let’s take one of the ad agencies I worked with. You had to stand in front of their doors to figure out whether the image was of a man’s or woman’s. Fantastic creativity! In fact, the first time I guessed it, I went WOW! But then when you are rushing, you can’t actually appreciate creativity, Can you?

In one of the now defunct pubs in South Mumbai, I was sitting with 3 people who had by that time drunk enough to visit the restroom multiple times. But what I wasn’t prepared for was scared shouts from grown up men as they ran out of the male restroom as my friend walked in straight into the last male bastion and later claimed famously, “it showed a figure wearing pants. I was wearing pants.” She later, when sober and in office, refused to accept that she had made this statement and the world lost one of the greatest feminist icons of all times!

One day, I was sitting peacefully in a restroom wondering about the world around me and then suddenly I heard voices. Now that’s not strange in a world with 7 billion people. I am sure very few people have personal restrooms in this world. In fact, that’s when I figured out one of the reasons I love travelling alone on work – I am the master of my own bogs!

The airports across the world can be rated according to the cleanliness of their toilets. Chennai and Calcutta would be amongst the worst while Dubai, Delhi T3 and Singapore can claim to be amongst the best. Sometimes in Changi I feel at few given points in time, there are more restrooms than travellers in the airport.

I still remember the awesomeness I felt at a Dubai restroom. It was my first international trip and I could feel the difference. In India, except perhaps at T3 in Delhi, you would shudder to use a public restroom. Women in India have it the hardest and more often than not, if you are observant, you will realize how women in India have learnt to cope. It’s a rare moment when I feel anger but I still remember I felt extremely extremely angry and helpless at that moment in Dubai. And that’s why I love Sulabhs in India. Maybe not the best amongst the world but for an average Indian, they often are lifesavers.

I blame it on our use of water without going into too much graphic details about it. Being both a water conservationist and a paper conservationist, you might choose to save paper, but do remember that water spreads. What does your culture ask you to use? With that disturbing thought I stop! :)

Enough about restrooms so here’s the last bit. My favourite restroom is the one beside Wimpy’s near the D gates in Jo’Berg Airport. I have been there about 4 times now and that’s the only restroom I actively seek out. It’s a place where the gentleman in charge of the restroom welcomes every passenger with a glittering South African smile and a statement – “Welcome to my Office”. I really tried to recommend him for his fantastic attitude towards his work but I could not find a feedback kiosk in Jo’berg.

It feels nice to be in a restroom beside your own where you know it is cared for.

Enter Sandman

"The Lord of Dreams learns that one must change or die, and makes his decision." – Sandman.

Sandman was your favourite novel. In fact, without it, we would never have met in college. It was not often that you find someone sitting with your favourite book which not many appreciate. Today I have one more choice for the Lord of Dreams – to neither change nor die, but to hold on in the secret corner of your heart, something that is more precious to you than anything else in this world.

Tonight, I don’t have them with me any longer, just like I don’t have you. I have spent ages wondering how I screwed it up. Minutes had passed into hours, the hours had passed into the morning when finally my wife of 25 years stirred in her sleep and gave me that angelic smile of hers. Probably she knew I was up all night, probably she knew I was thinking about you.

I wish that perhaps you would suddenly come back one day; sometimes I wish you never had left; sometimes I even wish that you had heard what I had never said.

We've been through this such a long long time

Just tryin' to kill the pain

Music helps. It helps to make you bring out the emotions within. Sometimes, it’s best to let others say what you could never say. And that’s when all these years of walls that you had carefully built up, falls down like a pack of cards – and I roll over as Humpty Dumpty would have. It’s funny how even when writing about you, I can make fun of myself. I know that’s what you would do. It was always a joke to you.

I tuck you in

Warm within

Keep you free from sin

'Til the sandman he comes

I did try to protect you from all things evil. Today, in those rare moments of sanity, I realize how stupid I had been to trying to save you from the world. I ended up losing you altogether. It’s hard to kill the pain.

There are those strange nights when I suddenly realize that we perhaps are still searching for something; maybe not one another, but maybe what we wanted the other to be – an ideal image; perfection. I know for myself. I was searching for you in my past.

It was really hard to hold the candle in the cold November Rain. But..

I know that you can love me

When there's no one left to blame

We’ll meet our Sandman one day. And he won’t be the bogeyman. He’ll help us find ourselves, where we’ll be old, stripped of our egos, bathed in nothing but light and then slowly...

Exit, light

Enter, Night

Take my hand

we're off to never-never land...

The Last Muse of Tagore

The way in which the Bengali woman today wears her saree is supposed to have originated in Thakurbari – the revered name for the Tagore Household in Jorasanko. And as the Bengali men grew up and went and studied economics at Presidency, he slowly saw the women move from the saree to the Salwar to Jeans – It was almost like the cultural domination of Bengal all over again. It reminded him of the times when the Sen and the Pal dynasties slowly died out and the invaders from the North came in and established the rule of the Nawab in Bengal only to be replaced by the British in Plassey.

But when he wrote poetry in his spare time, he often dreamt of his muse in a saree, just as he would see her perhaps on the day of Asthami, while giving Anjali. The times were changing however. The first to fall prey to the sweeping changes across the society were the schools in Calcutta. The Saree was no longer mandatory, then went the colleges and slowly as everyone realized the convenience of the salwar, the saree became a special occasion thing.

He missed the days when the only woman he had fallen in love with ever, who did not wear a Saree regularly, was Reena Brown. Please note that before Leander Paes, Bengalis had their tennis ace in Dr. Krishnendu Mukherjee who had won the tennis championship five times in a row after acting in Macbeth, before losing the 6^th final to Reena Brown. The first time he saw her in a Saree, I have passionately maintained was the moment when he finally fell for her. And what a fall it was!!! For all non bongs, don’t even try to decipher old world bong virtues of romanticism; rather ask me for the DVD. And for Bongs, if you don’t get it, then I sigh and retreat to my laptop lamenting the loss of good old days.

Anyway, coming back to Sarees, mothers and aunts while shopping for the next marriage in the family would sigh and pick up twenty sarees and send back five of them as the daughter or the daughter in law would never wear them. But how could you not buy a baluchori? I have seen an aunt reduced to tears, “my daughter will never appreciate the intricacies of a zamdani.”

The debate I have always had with my friends is that as the dress of a muse, the saree beats anything else hands down. There is no other dress in the world which can at once bring the feeling of deep reverence and purity and unadulterated sensuality. But then we would sit on the steps of Temple Lawns in Pilani on Diwali and sigh when every single woman in the saree looked as if she was undergoing a surprise quiz in Mechsol. For the uninitiated a Surprise Quiz in Mechsol is like facing Brett Lee without a helmet. The point is, like everything else, unless carried off gracefully, the saree looks extremely cumbersome. And the only woman who looked natural in a Bong Saree was Madhuri Dixit in the multiple screenings of Devdas in computer screens in our second year. The men during those days cheated by wearing their dhotis with a belt. Anyway, who cares about the fashion sense of the men?

Now that I have written at length about the saree, let me come back to the point. If you look at the Bengali TV serials today, almost every family has got 2 murderers, 3 plotting aunts, 4 oppressed women and 1 who will bring justice to all while everyone else is having extramarital affairs – the sad part is that each of these serials start with good intentions and story lines. But then public demand hain boss – karna parta hain.

So one day suddenly, one serial started creating waves amongst the Bengali Intelligentsia – or as they are lovingly called, “The Aantels”. Some call it derogatory, I find it cute :) This was a serial which spoke of a family trying to keep Tagore’s music alive and authentic while a new wave of artists, aided by copyright removal from Tagore’s works, were eager to give Tagore a fresh lease of life. This was the ultimate aantel grouse. How can Rabindrasangeet be sung any other way than as originally intended by the Great Man? So they loved the serial. My entire family went “aha aha”, the Aantel crowd cried in their secret rooms.

Now the protagonist looks very Bong and all bong mothers started secretly wishing that the next generation will take a leaf out of the book. So even when the actress was very different in her real life, the mothers across Bengal said as expected, “she is not just someone, she is an idea”.

And then it happened, one day on the show, she desired to dress in something other than a saree and the last muse of Tagore left us forever.

They say the sighs were heard across the world :)

(PS: While I was doing the background research for this article, I realized that the concept of a Tagorian muse as I described is what Bengali middle class morality, and thus I, would like to believe. I know the poet is beyond such narrow limitations. One day I would write about Krishnokoli and the lady he saw in the beautiful morning of autumn)

The Last Image

“Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity

To seize everything you ever wanted…One moment

Would you capture it or just let it slip?”

He stared at the blade in his hands. For the first time in weeks he smiled. It was a smile which he knew was hollow, almost sarcastic to be honest. Honest! That was a joke. He wasn’t honest to himself over the last few months and no other honesty matters when you are dishonest to yourself. He looked at the photograph in front of him. It was their last one together. He pressed the blade to his palm. Millimetre by millimetre, the pointed edge moved in and a red drop of tear formed on his hand.

She always smiled when they were together and he felt peaceful. A certain calm and serenity which had been lost to him since she had left. He had made peace with himself but at nights when he lay on his bed and the lightning streaked across the sky, the memories came back to haunt him.

He needed to focus and the pain on his palm helped. All his energy was directed towards it and his mind was becoming numb. Millimetre by millimetre, the pointed edge moved in and a red line of pain formed on his hand.

The night they parted he had cried, a silent cry that none heard but since that day tears were lost to him. The heart turned into cold stone and the world to his playing field. He kept himself busy, never thinking about the past. Millimetre by millimetre, the pointed edge moved in and a red river of unfulfilled promises formed on his hand.

On her wedding night he could have told here once again, how much he loved her. He wanted to tell her that she completed him and yet all he could do was smile. She never understood the pain behind that smile. They hugged for the last time and the white rapper sang in his ears.

But he chose to “just let it slip.”

He looked at the picture one more time. Something snapped within him. With one jerk he pulled out the blade. And smiled. Millimetre by millimetre he had let go of the pain. Sometimes not seizing all that one ever wanted was the best gift he could give. He would be there, all his life.

So the Soul of Alec tagged me as the only man amongst 7 on her blog as “men need to write about interesting things.” Or that’s what I figured out yesterday night as she asked me to “Reveal 7 random things about you”. Well, while I won’t tag anyone, it’s a fun thing to do in a late night at Istanbul. That’s that. So here goes.

1. I love food. That’s not random but good food to me is like a symphony orchestra. I can see the tunes swim around me whenever there is a good food inside my mouth. I feel that I am the conductor of the ceremony.

2. I love taking long walks. There have been times when I have found myself completely lost because I kept walking. And Johnny Walker is not yet my friend.

3. I loved Norse Mythology as a kid. While everyone gobbled up Greek mythology, I ensured I knew everything about Odin, Thor and their kin. It’s a different story I don’t remember Loki’s wife’s name anymore.

4. I am a closet environmentalist. I switch off all the lights and computers I can at office as I am often one of the last to leave. Also when we are going out together I am the last to leave the house so that lights can be switched off.

5. Monica Gellar Bing would love me. I may not be the tidiest guy around but I at least know where my stuff is. I hate chaos. I love organized chaos.

6. I no longer buy pirated books unless it is a second copy of a book I already have.

7. I have almost given up on photography. But one day I will return back to my lost love. I have a last set of photographs to click. I know it’s still there in me. I have chosen the subject as well.

Have fun. If anyone wants to pick this up, just go ahead.

Closure

He looked at the door for one last time. Years back he had closed it shut and yet a few months back a gust of wind suddenly tried to push it open. A momentary lapse of reason ensured and beyond every good advice from friends he found himself staring at the crack on the door. A flicker of light, of hope, of dreams long lost and regained and finally man’s intoxication with life lured him into its snare.

The door continued to inch open. Putrid air filled his life with memory of decomposed promises but he dismissed it as the mess that had been gathered up behind the door over the years. He persisted. He knew something beautiful, pure, unadulterated still remained behind that door. And while all his friends prayed for his sanity he was adamant.

One night he was out and suddenly he met a stranger who had lived behind that door. They got talking and the conversation led to what lay on the other side. Slowly as the night grew darker and the clouds played havoc in some distant lands, in the other man’s innocent admissions, he saw his innocence get killed.

Lies, betrayal, heartbreak. He felt used, soiled, trashed beyond measure.

He drank his hemlock that night so that he would no longer remember. They said it rained blood and tears as his lifeless eyes stared at the door.

Next day, he woke up in a new country, feeling alive and without any burden on his shoulders. And the door was closed forever. This time for real.

At least he hoped so.

Ragnarok.

"It sates itself on the life-blood

of fated men,

paints red the powers' homes

with crimson gore.

Black become the sun's beams

in the summers that follow,

weathers all treacherous.

Do you still seek to know? And what?"

Uncle Antics

When I was young I used to listen to one song quite repeatedly. It wasn’t a classic but somehow one line kept ringing in my head, “it’s not me but my attitude is the real king” can be taken as a loose translation of the lyrics.

Last few weeks have been crazy on every account possible. Sometimes it felt there was a major conspiracy against my peace of mind, at other times it felt as if things could not have been better. Close friends have been tying the knot and I have been missing every single one of them. I was supposed to be in Delhi, Calcutta, Tripura and yet I wasn’t there and I have got messages from friends saying, “I was expecting you to be there.” There have been instances when I have felt miserable as I have read those messages but like a long distance runner had steadied myself to run.

Some good news kept coming, people made jobs, embarked in the process of having kids. Vindication and retribution kept coming hand in hand. G left but V arrived. Circle of life would go on. Nothing stops. Birthdays come and go. Sometimes you advance them, sometimes you ignore them.

Marathons are exciting. You make sure you just have enough energy for the final dash. However, the question is what if the marathon distance keeps on changing as you run. Would you want to test your mettle against a shifting horizon?

I was running and I was tired. Really tired. But then like a sudden relief, today was a holiday. Room mates ran off to family. Being the worthless son that I am, I called up Mom to say sorry that I was not coming home. I needed to plug in to the wall socket and recharge.

Today as I blog, mails are downloading in the background, I have a 2 BHK to myself, I have asked Swati to stay away, I am playing the latest Bengali Rock, I have cycled at 11:00 in the morning and after a long long time I am devoid of any human presence in my surroundings. It is bliss.

But if everything was so sweet life would not be exciting, would it? As I was parking my cycle, this kid asks me, “Uncle why do you use a helmet?” Leave aside the fact that the kid does not understand important safety instructions, he does not even recognize young men when he sees them.

His friends stared as I looked up and challenged all of them to “dodge the ball” and “dog and the bone”. So for an hour I sweated, heaved, pushed, ran but ultimately came out victorious. Now who’s the uncle!!! They actually are young enough to scramble from between my legs. But still, Uncle!!! What Crap.

It’s 3 in the afternoon. It’s time to shift the choice of songs to Tagore and look at the 196 odd mails that I am supposed to respond to. In the evening, I might also go and play “Hide and seek”. The only issue is that the hiding places are not designed for people with waist quite a few inches bigger than 30.

Free Fall

The angel looked at His Lord for the last time. He knew there would not be any sense of emotion in Those eyes and yet he hoped to find an answer. The task he had been sent out for was yet incomplete. In fact, in what could be called at its best incomplete information, he was asked to figure out the task and complete it. The Lord had promised that he would understand it all when the task was done.

He had travelled across the Universe to find his task and yet he could not. But everywhere he went, he felt more and more human. The Ethereal soul that he had started with was slowly getting extinguished. Today as he stood, he had trouble remembering that he was an angel. He had been born and re born so many times in a human body he did not even remember when was the first time he had opened his eyes to look at a face that had resembled his Lord’s.

Today as he stood before his Lord he saw Vivacious, his best friend, his worst enemy and another of Lord’s angels. V was standing in front of the Eternal Throne as well but he wasn’t tied up. He did look haggard, all of them did, but he was still undefeated. His heart felt proud for V. He had survived the onslaught of Maya, the enchantress. All around him angels lay dying, losing their spirits, succumbing to Maya and yet V stood still.

He remembered a conversation with V while they were facing Caesar for the first time outside Rome. He had laughed at V asking me to not let his mind get rigid but embrace Maya to be able to move out of it. Today, he felt a pang of jealousy. Maybe the rigidity was what had saved V, the last angel standing.

The Lord raised his eyes and slowly the heaven’s flew upwards. He was in Free Fall. One more life was spent in vain searching for the task. The empty space flew past him. Once he hit the ground, it would all be over but he knew his fall will be prolonged. This was the punishment for the most loved Angels. All through they would wonder if they deserve this and if they will ever know what the task really is. Legends have it that at times new wings grow out of their bloodied bodies as they are falling and they can fly back from mortality.

He was in Free fall. He prayed, not for miracle but for V to find the answer that he would now not know for another life, till another age.