Euthanasia

From where I am, and what I see

Parting feels far wiser than a phony life

Farewells much merrier than a smooch of strife

Yet you can refute as much as you want

Deceive as long as you wish

With lies told amid a plastic smile

With promises to be my pillion till the eternal mile

But I hate to admit

Your honest lies, kept me going

Those fairy tales we were meant to bring alive

Those sandcastles meant to be our hive

Like magic, they felt real sometimes,

For I really was nothing but absolutely naive

Though I know

It’s not safe to tread alone

And your mirage can still be my own

But alone is how I wish to be

Cos when the arc lights dim,

And the curtains roll

I wish that stage be empty

Cleansed of your ghosts and all your stain

From all the feelings that you faithfully feign

Coz not just in death but in our parting too,

All I plead is a little less pain

All I plead is a little less pain

She’s not Fiction anymore!

I still remember my first experience with a book. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her, head over heels, weak in my knees.

It was a peculiar relationship wherein the more I got to know her, the more she changed - mercurial in every sense of the word.

She was blushing in the beginning, slowly revealing herself, page by page checking if I can endure her full recital. I just listened, mouth wide agape with wonder as she slowly disrobed for me to take a peek at her joyful contours.

Sometimes she was all witty and sarcastic in her wodehousian avatar, but when she talked about the horrors of 'partition' or the pain that the Danish prince had to endure, I was shell shocked and couldn't control my tears. I hated her for doing that to me.

But she always did, and opened me up to subtler nuances, where it wasn't all black or white. It took her a lot of time to teach me the true nature of grey. And now I realize why, for she wanted me to grow up to understand all its shades.

There were times when her voice had a poetic undertone as she spoke about the tender dew drops on the winter wheat, or about the west running brook and the solitary daffodil; of less traveled roads in snowy evenings or of high flying albatross in the sky’s canopy. And every time she did, I felt as if there was a new sky; A new earth; unblemished by the scars of the past - something worthwhile to live for.

She teased me with rhetoric, quizzed me as to be or not to be?

I was confused and told her I hope to 'be' someday. 'Hope' she said, might be a good thing, but is still a placebo; just like God.  I had a little too much philosophy that day.

People say she’s is just someone’s imagination. She makes it up. You are just a hopeless romantic. Time to call it a spade

But they haven’t held her in their arms; they haven’t let her caress their soul or allowed her to chisel them bit by bit into a fine sculpture; they haven’t had a conversation with her in the middle of the night, argued with her and then understood the futility of the argument. Neither have they been tele-ported to the universe having a restaurant at the end of it, of oddly numbered platforms and of odder nose sizes.

I wish they surrender themselves like Eliza Doolittle to Professor Higgins and experience the magical transformation in themselves. Magical yet you’ll believe it to be the truth, and for a moment it indeed is.

Because now when I speak, I realize she speaks through me, the wisdom of a billion bards.  

And when she holds my hand gently and says look Sushil, that’s how love was made, that’s why you should take a leap of faith, that’s where you will find the pillar for platform 9^3/4 , that’s the heel which was left unprotected, that’s the pond where a kid like you used to sit alone and pen his poems,

I realize she’s not fiction any more!

Monsoon musings

Serenity is the last thing that one would expect when he lands at a place where chaos rules the roost. With curious eyes scanning the millions who were juggling their lives between local train platforms and figuring out the right proportion of work-life balance as well as bhaji-pav balance in their breakfast, I prepared myself to be one with Mumbai –‘the city of contradictions’ and boarded a local train to have a glimpse of what awaited me.

There, suddenly like a bolt from the blue, the magic happened. The pregnant clouds looming around the skyscrapers united together to erupt, and the WATER BROKE!! What it ‘delivered’ was sheer bliss.

A lone ripple having an orangy tint of a blooming chrysanthemum swiftly germinated from the thud of the rain drop and slowly dissolved into the placid pond. Colorful umbrellas sprouted suddenly and formed a halo around the city like confetti on a bride.

It was that sort of a moment, when the pristine rain drops became questions, and I answered them back in kisses, when the metropolis wore the chic bridal look and was unscarred of all the dust and deceit, when everything was pristine like cobblestones and oceans –a painter’s delight.

And in this moment of epiphany I realized the monsoon carried a story – A story of a city getting atoned for its sins, or that of a city getting goodies from Santa for being the well behaved child, either case the monsoons were the sole harbinger of hope for a desperate city.

The story struck a chord within me, and therein I found my inspiration. There might be days filled with frustration and unexpected accidents, where the local I’ve between waiting for an hour would be of the western line and not of the harbor line that I intend to board, but there are always a few blessings that make those frustrating moments worthwhile. Like the monsoons, they might be a bit late, but deep down I knew I can definitely count on them to provide a fresh gush of blood through my veins.

And I, the virgin mumbaikar, wish this monsoon just stays.

Because when I go back home to dry Chennai, I wish to carry vivid images of these mirthful memories, to store them in a tiny little private abode of mine, the same place where old Wodehouse books and Bourbon bottles go, the place where these monsoon rains would make puddles that leave an indelible mark in my soul. The place I found serenity midst chaos.

Baptized

It’s almost two and half months now in my new home; the monsoon has silently hid herself behind the curtains like a blushing bride. Yes there are still a few showers now and then reminding me of the initial honey moon period, but the muse has become the wife now. Familiarity’s ill fated twin, contempt, is slowly trying to pollute my troubled mind.

Disturbed, I look back at the sheer excitement that engulfed me, when I saw the hallowed pond for the first time. As Ilayaraja played in my Ipod, I had discovered a new found skip in my step when I sashayed wondering if the rumored crocodile would say hi to his only nocturnal visitor. I had believed nights were meant for small talk with the stars and for penning poems in the moonlight; a well deserved escape after a hard day of meaningful work.

Oh how naive I was. A stark contrast called reality slaps me now. The maestro’s tunes that had echoed across the pond in the night have been replaced by the cacophony of supply chain jargons that extend well beyond sunrise.

I wonder if the crocodile, is feeling conscious of being surrounded by rats shouting and racing against each other. Rats running behind cheese, working this rainy day to save for a better and brighter summer. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way round? But who listens.

Still I care, because slowly but surely I am becoming one among them. Remember the Animorphs books of yore? Whose foot notes we flipped as children just to see the magical mutation of a human being into an animal.

Yes friends we are just the rodent edition of Animorphs. Peter Pettigrews cloaked in a lie called  ‘Scabbers’.

And I am sure we are smart enough to come up with a well drafted, verified and rehearsed explanation justifying this rodent behavior, like answers to our HR questions, it would be spot on. 

But did anyone care that the moment we drafted or copy pasted answers for ‘tell me about yourself?’, our friend spontaneity died a silent death. His funeral had no attendants, coz it was no ‘you know who’ committee guest lecture.   

These 75 days, I have attended every clichéd process that a typical Indian B school student has to go through to get baptized (Human to rat mutation). Pointless interviews which had hypocrites under the garb of panelists, typical factory made parties where the surprise quotient was conspicuously absconding, lame faculties who gave  lamer assignments which were supposed to artificially extract feelings out of students. And don’t even get me started about the CV thing.

Oh how I wished my b school would be different; where I would actually learn and not be someone else's idea of what my area of specialization would be.

Yes I was a fish out of water in an IT company and still remain the same here, despite 3 water bodies surrounding me. Beat that for Irony!

But despite all this whining, am thankful for this place for teaching me things the hard and irritating way.  Yes these 75 days have battered and bruised me, but I have I come out of it bleeding but wise by realizing and gaining some valuable survival skills in this battle-field

I’ve realized that… being loud is more important than being right

I’ve realized that… unless you are useful, you are invisible and beneath anyone’s sight

I’ve realized that...that you can absolutely adore someone and yet they wouldn't care

I’ve realized that...you can run all you can, run some more and still get nowhere

I’ve realized that...you can be alone, yet not lonely

I’ve realized that.. you can be in a party, yet pine for books-your delightful company

I’ve realized that...I could do things just because some said I couldn't

I’ve realized that.. You might find the rat race funny, yet someone else didn't

I’ve realized that.. Some women are indeed innocent, but most of them feign

I’ve realized that..An episode of friends is a panacea for all the pain

I’ve realized that...sometimes, the road not taken is not-taken for a reason

I’ve realized that someday the fish out of water, would survive till the rainy season

I’ve realized that…someday the laughter will return to my eyes

I’ve realized that...someday we’ll all learn that we are more than just mice

THE NITIE TYPES

STEREOTYPING is so much fun especially when you are the one doing it. So here I am stereotyping each and every single person I (met, ogled at, stalked, fake smiled at, stared, dreamt of having kids with like Dhoom Ali, or cursed with my voodoo spells) in my first month at NITIE. You could be a perfect match to any of these stereotypes. Even I might too. But you know what, I got the idea of writing about it first, so I call dibs on it coz as Rachel from the Dark-Knight says, it’s always ‘finders keepers’.  

And if you are offended, I give a rat’s posterior about it. Its high-time we Indians, stop getting offended by silly things. Like umbrage taken on sharapova’s ignorance about a cricketer. Come on that chick’s hot and she deserves to get away even with murder!!

If you are still offended and want to emulate what political parties or sangh parivars generally do, I suggest you start doing something I have 25 years of experience doing – growing up.

So here we go then, fasten your seat belts and prepared to get offended

1. The Johny Bravo wannabe – If you are one of those peculiar homosapiens that go to the RAMADA nearby not to fill your body with calories but to burn them instead, then you are indeed the deluded, narcissistic pain in the asset I expected you to be.

It’s not a compliment dumb-wit.

To you every-day is Look-I-Wear-Playboy undies day. Wearing five or six ‘Livestrong’ wrist bands don’t show you support for the fight against cancer, it shows you consider cancer a prop to show off. Would you like a testicular tumor with that protein-shake?

And one sincere request, please replace your ‘Being Human’ gym t-shirt (which you fold it up to your shoulders) to a ‘Becoming Animal’ one, if that is expensive at-least wash em once a week. Not Pheromones but slimy puke gets emanated from our body when you jostle ahead of us.

2. Mein Barbie doll banna chahti hoo - As the name indicates, you are made of plastic. Yeah especially recycled ones!!. Market research suggests that your face contains up to 100,000 variations of chemical compounds and can turn pristine monsoon drops to acid rain. Thanks to this menace the ISEM course was started here.

Sitcom accents, stiletto sashays and Botched up Botox jobs characterize your pinkish universe. Conversing in a vocabulary peppered with Muahuahhs and aaawwwws, and maintaining a chip over your shoulder which would never stoop to send a FB friend request to us innocent guys(IIT brothers and Say Cheese guys are exceptions) are few of the many rules you adhere to become the perfect ‘mannequin on the move’. If not for the Supply-Demand imbalance in the gender ratio over here, you would have met the same fate as that of a forgotten heroine’s second cousin in some Bhojpuri film.

3. Hostel 5 is my home- You are one of the most talented human beings to have stepped in the campus. Completely shameless, without an iota of ego, you are ready to bend over if any senior (be 10 years younger to you) even clears his throat in front of you. Don’t forget to include ass-kissing in your CV (which I guess you had got reviewed by all the 240 seniors) A winning (read ‘annoyingly permanent’) smile, flattery and downright pet-like grovelling are key-characteristics of this ‘person’.

There are high chances that you don’t belong to this group, because you would only read this if I were your senior or if reading this gets you into a committee. But then there’s a good chance your budwiser is a guy with exquisite taste and would have shared this write up on his wall. So yeah moron, I made you read my blog about you!! :P

Quite how you maintain any semblance of dignity when you’re licking dirt off the ground and liking, retweeting every one of your seniors social networking shares is beyond me.

4. The Flipkart Fetish’er’ – That rare class of people whose instinct answers Bansal when a sentence ends with Sachin. Those magical alchemists who can turn any topic even ‘Neymar’s Injury’ into a supply chain concept and attribute it to Forecasting error.  Operations oracles who have a spare copy of Heizer in the loo just to productively utilize their bowel movement breaks.

You don’t even have time to realize that the hot chick from your office broke up with you, when you were busy making love to Chopra Mendel and Tony Arnold.

When sane people point out in a GD that Amazon might even stand for a south American river, you guys convolute your face to a constipated look and start spewing a jargon rain at them. Yes I do envy the fat paying job that you would land, but be rest assured that your idea of small talk about ABCs of supply chain is going to put you in a sausage fest for life.  

5. The Hollow men - Please don’t be flattered by the uber-cool name I gave you. It was charity and part of my CSR CV point.

You are those who walk among us unnoticed. You are those who might only be a few inches away, but are a complete blank in our memory. Remember those who are names on attendance list, but missing faces in our minds, yes I am referring to them.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present The Hollow man. Unseen and unheard, they are mere whispers in the crowd of screaming human beings. They are generally excluded from Amrut gatherings, assignments or even birthdays. You know you’re a Hollow man when people react to your name with the question – “Who?”. They are mostly males since the law of supply-demand, amendment 2014 – Gender ratio NITIE ACT suggests ‘THOU SHALL LOVE ALL GIRLS, IRRESPECTIVE OF SHAPE SIZE AGE BODY ODOR etc.

To be continued (Provided – this series isn't banned).  Stereotypes coming up – ‘BFFs within a month’, The AMRUTanjans and loads more

The Highways call me aloud

Sometimes a palanquin journey to carry the angel of our dreams, sometimes an excuse to vent our frustration on the innocent pedestrian through our swearword screams, but almost all the time, at least for me, the late night bike ride home, is a frustrated guy’s only chance to shed some tears, to race against commitment fears and most importantly a chance to breath that fragrant waft of fresh air called ‘Freedom’

A mystic midnight, a half waning moon; the empty highway extends a soothing embrace

A flickering headlight, a fast fading shadow; images of a chimeric pillion’s angelic face

A sweltering sandstorm, a dust spangled forehead; parched -look the cloudless skies,

A dollop of a drizzle, wetting me a trifle; frosty past melts from my foggy eyes

And then,

I rub the rear view mirror off its melancholic stain

Prickly pages erased from life’s panorama of pain

A reckless kick-start, a paralyzing pang; bulging bruises fail me to choke

A jarring engine, an out of tune melody; cacophonic lullaby usurps the nocturnal folk 

A soaring speedo, a face-slapping wind; the airy mistress unbuttons my silken shirt

A tire’s sensuous smooch, a moaning virgin road; rubber proves to be the ultimate flirt

And there,

I throw my bags to belch out a relaxed breath 

The haunting ghosts of commitment die a silent death   

A muddy stretch of road, a screechy disk brake, temporary skid in my eternal race

A confusing crossroad, a betel stained signboard; weeds of doubt itch my hesitant face

A thirsty fuel tank, a flattening front tire; time for the road warrior to rise from the ashes 

A tilt of the bike, a thud of the engine, a life with a new lease fortunately flashes,

And thus,

I mirthfully meandered through the less travelled road

Adventure was indeed this vagrant’s real abode 

And now,

As the blooming bougainvillea’s early morning dew

Bids a moist adieu,

I never turn back,

The ceasing engine keeps on chugging,

Hacking horizons, spitting smoke,

Fuelling dreams running amok,

For its final vroom,

Towards a much needed reincarnation