The Stoneleaf

Akarmanyata (Inaction) Continued

2008-12-24T16:23:00.006+05:30

Dear Reader,

I am guilty of putting away efforts to hide under 'something else' to occupy my time, I am guilty of not having expressed what I think - WE should be thinking. I am guilty of procrastination which makes me no different from the other indifferent us. Those who crib about the system, and corruption and inaction and what difference does it make and the works, but refuse to do anything about it. We choose to remain silent, unmoved, dis-en-gaged, as a mark of protest against the state of the affairs, not realising that by staying mum all we are doing is add to inertia, the very thing that we want to change.

I have for days heard and read what actors, leaders, ministers, activists, celebrities, models, singers, strategists, and so called think-tanks have said or written. I would accept for almost all this time I had a cynical grin on my face thinking about how soon will this voice, and noise die down and Page 3 will prevail and how it all will just end up being a business case study. I had decided that my silence will be my protest against it, however I failed to realise that my silence will only help bring the pompoms sooner than they should. This was brought to my notice by an argument I had with someone who never fails to question my cynicism, and I realised that maybe that one more voice is really not so miniscule as all. Who knows when we reach the tipping point?

But procrastination never let me say what I wanted to say, everytime I read one of those articles/statements/slogans. I am not taking names here, but you know there is only so much that hollow sloganeering can do. And news channels HAVE to take care of their TRP's for their celebrity reporters, who become more celeb than attend to their primary responsibilty. However I should also accept that I never did my part. Today I realised, I dont have to. I read this one appeal by this young woman in Bangalore, and I know that I dont have to articulate the voids, that she has said what I have been wanting to. And here I go back to the shadows and give you this one by Payoshi Roy of Bishop Cotton School, Bangalore. Cheers to her, and that fact that not all of us are in the snarls of inaction. That there is some action after thought. And that is hope enough.

---

'STOP THINK CRY LOVE..'

The siege on Mumbai left even the most experienced of us stunned. Even those who have become immune to grief and tragedy stopped for asecond. The 48-hour encounter with these extremely sophisticated and trained terrorists of Pakistani origin left India burning in every sense of the word. The versions and accounts are endless. Trying to quantify people's grief would not only be futile but indeed low down. People who went for their daily evening session of beer and gossip atthe Leopold café, that special once a month dinner at the Taj or forthe bitter sweet occasion of farewell at CST Station never returned.

This isn't the first time we're hearing about something like this. These stories have been talked about through out this year and to be honest through out our lives. We have experienced five separate series of bomb blasts across the country in this year alone. The dreadful cries of the Gujarat riots are yet to recede from recent memories. The2006 and 1993 Bombay blasts and riots haunt their victims even now.

However, we are not here to talk about the grief that these victims suffer. Nor do I wish to discuss the various and repeated intelligence failures and lackadaisical attempts of the government and its security agencies. We are here to figure out what exactly is wrong with us,because it is evident that there is something horribly amiss in this country and it's people.

People are not born terrorists. Teenagers do not get up one fine daywith the conviction that violence is the path of their lives. The terrorist that battled with NSG in the Taj hotel for over 24 hours was not more that 25 years old. Can any of you imagine the kind of courage and determination that this young boy exemplified in accomplishing such a feat. He is a terrorist, a terrorist who is responsible for the death of over 150 people. He is also a mere boy. A boy whom we have forced into becoming the man he died as. The Indian mujahidin consists of young boys from the JMI College in Delhi. Sadhvi Pragya is in her early twenties. These people are our age. They are people who we seein movie halls and at street corners. They are not aliens of another race. Terrorism was not brought in from Mars. It breeds within us. The worst part is, that we created it.

Every kind of terrorism stems from extremism; and extremism is the most obvious ramification of discrimination. Discrimination is sadly practiced in every nook and corner of our country. We think it's insignificant, we think that it's just the way people are. But it is discrimination and if only we were brave enough to face it.

It is discrimination when the age-old story of Hindu parents refusing to marry their daughter into a Muslim family repeats itself. It is discrimination when parents of Muslim children refuse to sing Hindu bhajans. It is discrimination when Christians refuse to participate inHindu and Muslim festivals. All of this is discrimination. And every form of terrorism and extremism finds it's roots in this kind of discrimination, which is practiced in each and every one of our homes. That is why we need to look at our homes and our thinking before wecry out in rage and protest against the government and security forces.

Last night you had emotional and angry Mumbai mobs screaming out anti Pakistani slogans. That is the beginning of terrorism. Have we all gone mad? What does the normal Pakistani family who is probably intheir own way praying for the Mumbai victims have anything to do with this? This is the quintessential problem that we are facing. When will we realize that by blaming each other the problem will only intensify.

The Hindus destroyed the Babri masjid. The Muslims blew up a Hindu coach. The Hindus killed a city full of Muslims. Wave after wave of madness. Stop! How long can we go on like this? An eye for an eye has never been the answer and it should not take us a thousand years to accept the truth of this statement.

You had Raj Thakare chasing out the north Indians and Biharis from Maharashtra. Over three hundred North Indians of the NSG saved his beloved Marathi manoos. Where was Bal Thakare then? Forget about this one man, where were the rest of our cosmopolitan Mumbaikers who let this man get away with what he did.. Where were the progressive and peaceful Hindu leaders when churches burnt in Orissa and Karnataka? We should all hang our heads in shame.

In another 60 years we'll have Bihari terrorists attacking Maharashtra and Maharashtrian terrorist retaliating. Next we'll have border security squadrons for our state borders. Don't smile skeptically. TheIndia-Pakistan feud had also started off in 1947 with Muslims being chased out of Delhi and Hindus being chased out of Lahore. Look where it stands now.

Today you have every news channel proudly acclaiming the army, NSG andMarine commandos as heroes. People in Mumbai are running out on thestreets to congratulate them. These heroes weren't born today. They have been here all this while. Where were these people of India, theMedia, when the IAS used their Machiavellian minds to reduce the salaries of all the Defence Forces. Where were these people when the corporate world squabbled over a few hundred rupees rise in the salaries of these men who always risk their lives to keep us safe? I could not see the bureaucracy putting their life on the line to save hostages in the Trident. I did not see the corporate world dying at the border during the Kargil war. And I did not see Indian citizens who today call these soldiers heroes defending them when they needed us the most.

You want to know what the problem with India is? We're cowards. We don't think as a single nation and we can't stand up for what's right.

I'll give you a small and perfect example of what is wrong with us. We all complain about this country's dirty roads. We love holidaying in London's spick and span streets. The most educated of us are yet to hesitate while throwing a sweet wrapper or Lays packet on the street. Or we'll throw it in an already existing dump on the street. We can't even wait till we come across a dustbin. This is what is wrong with us.

We have enough and more to say about Manmohan Singh and Advani and every other useless politician and rightly so. But the fact is that in all honesty we couldn't care less. The best of us don't vote, don't contest in elections and don't even help out N.G.O.s When we can't do anything for our country how dare we, I repeat, how dare we expect anyone else to do anything.

We can go on talking about stepping up security, straightening out our coast guards and eradicating terrorism. But the problem lies not in our security system but in us. It lies in our madrassas, in our temples, in our schools in our homes and in our minds. And until we realize our role, until we open our eyes to this truth, not a thing will change.

Everyone talks about this new India, a shining progressive and youngIndia. Well it's time for Young, New and Shining India to prove herself. Stand up and prove your worth. This so- called liberal and progressive thinking generation needs to root out those weeds that grow in the oldest corners our gardens. We need to start thinking and start talking. Talking to ourselves and to others. We need to start doing. This has to be a national youth movement. We have to make it the beginning of a revolution. Every historic movement starts like this. Vague, uncertain and hesitant but moving towards a common calling motivated by the same inspiration and dream. This is our chance.

Don't tell me that we won't be able to reach out to the people who need to hear what we have to say. These people live among us. There is no limit to what people can achieve when they set out to do something.You are talking about a country whose founding father won a war without raising a weapon. Who have lived on stories of Subhash Chandra Bose calling out for blood and promising freedom. Well we've bled. Now it's time to get our freedom. Freedom from our own mindsets. Freedom from shackles we've placed on ourselves.

These last two days have been the worst attack that India has ever dealt with. If this alarm wasn't loud enough, no alarm will ever wakeus up.How many more people have to die before we respond to India's desperate plea for help?

----

Thank you Payoshi. I needed this wake-up call.

Escape...

2008-03-15T02:07:00.004+05:30

When every additional moment on that back supporting grey cushioned chair becomes another eternity on a gas burner, stand up and escape. Look for a place on the internet, walk up to your colleague and ask him where to go. He will look at you incredulously, but you'll have to convince him on the gravity of the situation. Find out about that place, how is it, and how to go?

Book tickets. Yes, you would have got them a lot cheaper if you had taken time and planned it out. But think about the best moments of your life, and tell me how many of them had you factored in advance.

Having decided where and how, pack your bag. And keep it light. [But on a friendly note, do keep a sunscreen if you intend to go follow the sun, scaling skin is not a souvenir that you want from the trip].

And then go.

It only works this way, you act on a whim. And trust me it works; you realize that there is atleast one point worth being, that inspite of everything that goes wrong like a toppling queue of dominoes, this is not too much of a bad place. I did.

Love, Lust and Humanity...

2008-01-21T11:53:00.001+05:30

Yes, weird to start a 2008 post with, but then I don't write everyday do I? (Even though I vehemently, fervently wish that I did). So I came across this, small clip on Reuters, where a 19 year old woman had filmed the murder of her married lover by her boyfriend. And then I leaned back in my chair and thought what could have gone in the head of the three involved. What could have been going on in those Neuro synapses while they were at it.

The victim who had been chopped into little pieces, obviously would have been dead by the time the hacking started. So we can rule out his mind theatrics. Unless we believe that the brain is alive for sometime after the death, we can assume he must be thinking of the family he was leaving behind, and for the rut he had gotten into for Coelho's 11 minutes of fun. A victim of Lust.

The boyfriend, must have been acting on "Love". The victim was a 39 year old "lover" of the woman, who had met her when she was being a hostess at a night club. I can ascribe, jealousy and anger for the man, who had managed to gain access to "his" girl. And anger is a pure emotion, when it erupts as rage it can do the undoable.

But what about the girl? The 19 year old woman from a struggling family in Beijing was a college student, who must have been working on the side to make the ends meet (no pun intended here). But what drover her into the killing? Perhaps the victim never told her about his wife and family, but then jealousy could not have been the motive of the murder. She already had a boyfriend, so that implies she was not looking for a full commitment from the man. Her boyfriend was an accomplice to the crime, which also underlines that she might have discussed the victim with him. So what was it that drove her to it? And the most interesting part is why did she film it all? Did she want to watch it later? Was she not repulsed by the entire idea being carried out?

I do not have these answers. I have juxtapositions and assumptions but no firm explanation that succeeds in getting a full approval from me. But more than that I shudder at the ease with which they must have carried out the carving. The film acts as a pointer to how coldbloodedly they executed the entire thing. I have a fictitious thought tapping in my head, that perhaps this was not the first time they were doing this. That perhaps on further investigation the Police might find that they have several video tapes of earlier killings. This news might result in some files in the Missing Department of Police closing for good, and some families grieving on the dead hope that was keeping them alive. You know thoughts that come under the folder of sensationalism, because these days anything like this is possible.

And then Scorpions go on their Humanity Hour tour.

Himesh, Emraan, Ganga and the Internet

2007-11-11T13:38:00.000+05:30

Weird title, but when I try to capture 2 distinct events separated both in space and time within a single post, jarring aberrants are wont to occur. It is one of those sudden urges to write up and put it here, and luckily unlike 99.438% of the times when I do not have a laptop switched on, this time I have no excuse to not write (err type).

On my way back home this Thursday morning, having left Gurgaon and then Delhi all before 9:00am, and witnessing mobs waiting like swarming bees for any vehicle to take them home for Deewali. [Reminder to self: write on transportation problem later] And finding the FM channels go weak as the NCR fades away, I witnessed a sigh of relief on the drivers face as we had no other option but to listen to a CD which he had. And yes, it was Himesh. The squirm switched faces, the driver was as happy as I was while listening to classics on the morning FM earlier, while all I could do was feign an understanding (and sympathetic) smile.

The same guy, while Aashiq Banaaya Aapne was playing said, 'Yeh Emraan Hashmi ki film bahut sexy hoti hain![This guy, Emraan Hashmi's films are very sexy!]' And when I refused to comment on his wonderfully intelligent observation, he added, 'Bahut sex karta hai har film mein, hai na? [He does a lot of sex in every film, isnt it?]' I knew I had to respond otherwise a few more incriminating evidence against the guy would pile up and I'll have to listen like one of those HR sessions on caring organizations. So i said, 'hmmm kismat hai [yeah, lucky guy]'. But I guess that was another spark that he was waiting for, so I had to listen about his short stature, unworthy looks, and miniscule acting talent not coming in his way to "doing sex" with actresses aplenty.

Just when I was trying hard how to bring a braking halt to this conversation, he braked the car and reached out for the window on my side. Plop, went down a one rupee coin into thw waiting waters of Ganga. Before I could ask him would it not create a jam on the narrow bridge, i saw almost every vehicle stop and repeat a routine that I have witnessed so many times before. So here was a guy, who shaked his head to Himesh's dhin-chak beats, and lupine croons, who would halt his diatribe on Emraan's unworthy sexual success, to offer his respect (ok! ok! one rupee coin) to the holy Ganges. All I could think of was sadda-India! and a smile made its way through the conflicts that were playing a little while ago within my mind.

Cut to a vastly different world, which involes the far removed America and that too interspersed with Cyberspace. Today I read about how Internet changed the love life of a guy who spotted a girl on a subway in the Big Apple. Strange was the fact that I came across this snippet on the small adspace on top of the GMAIL inbox. Apparently this guy fell in love (yes at first sight) with a lady he saw in the train while coming back from work. they both boarded and deboarded at the same stations, but because of the crowds he lost her. Unfazed our hero, set up a website, gave a short description (which is nice and can be seen here at http://www.nygirlofmydreams.com/) of the girl and the train ride, and requested the readers to pass on the information about her at his email id and phone numbers. Within a short time his inbox was jammed with mails and his cell assumed a constant ring. The bottom line, he found the girl. Read the complete story here.

What I wonder is, will something similar work here in India? I for one, would definitely like to know more about some people that stick to the mind, just after a fleeting glance.

So that was the story for this edition guys. Till my laptop manages to be switched on, while I have this next writing urge, Stay Beautiful.

Hope all of you had a lovely Deewali. To those who were with their families and those who could not, I wish you all a great year ahead.

Loos Control and Bloody Birthdays

2007-09-12T18:58:00.000+05:30

Yes, that is not a typo-error. I actually did mean loo's control, but if sometimes omitting a punctuation here or there, makes a headline a bit more readable, I think one should have the liberty to do that. Coming back to the headline.

When I say Loo's control, I mean the control in terms of the kinesthetics that men portray when in the loo. Being sexually correct, I could also talk about women, but then I do not have the necessary wisdom to indulge in this seemingly voyeuristic expedition. And before i launch into another tangent, this post is just to put into words, the weirdest of actions people exhibit when they are at taking the natures call.

I think psychologists, or sociologists, or even anthropologists can learn a lot in the mannerisms of a person taking a leak. The actions before, while and after the sprinkle can just be unique identifiers of a persons idiosyncracies. Maybe politicians have some common pattern in the way they take a leak, or perhaps criminals could be identified by using a correlation code to match and relate the way they relieve themselves of the fluid presssures. I myself have witnessed countless approaches towards and away from the privy, come plain stupid, to some pretty ridiculous. I wont be quoting gross details here, but all you guys will know what I am talking about.

So if one fine day, you see in the crime-based hollywood thrillers, a special covert department with the NSA, that analyzes and catches serial killers basis Pee mechanics, sont be surprised. and dont be shocked if you see someone working as a Pee-do-file, he might just be not lusting after kids. He might just be collecting bloody-data on the peeculiarities of some bloody peeple.

That brings me to the bloody birthday. Why bloody? Well I had my birthday sometime in the last of the last month. As my birthdays (infact my life, and freak incidents go hand in glove) are wont to, my mobile connection went under transition at 6pm on the previous day. So yours truly had to go to the teleshop and get it in order. Somehow excusing myself from office for an hour I went to their office, only to discover that there was a long queue. While supposed to wait, I decided to roam around in the complex, and there was a Blood Donation Camp set at a corner.

And bingo! I turned myself in for blood donation. All was going well till I suddenly found 4-5 mean-looking ladies walking benevolently towards me. These aunties wanted to get their photographs taken while volunteering for the blood donation. And here was I, lying helplessly between posing faces, and smearing smiles, trapped with a nail sized needle sucking my blood, while someone behind the camera was coaxing me to face the lens. Which I did not.

Blood donation is a nobel task, and I am not saying it since I do it, but because it can give back lives to people. To see it reduced to a posed portrait is something that I do not appreciate. The trivialization of something sufficiently serious is not for me. Though I do tend to find weird humor in the gravest of situation. But come on! this was not even humorous.

You may say, I should look at the brighter side, at how they are trying to take things which people are generally scared of in a lighter vein. On their attempt to make a possibly worried person scared of seeing his blood flow through the fiber veins into a sanitised collecting-bottle more relaxed by clicking his picture. But somethings are temperamental, I guess I had my reasons for angst.

Anyway, I did manage to get my SIM restored, and later had a great sleep at night, which was possibly due to intrinsic exhaustion that sets in when the body experiences loss of vital fluids.

The point? Donate blood people, atleast onoce. It doesnt hurt that much, you get to eat apples, sip some juice, you may even get photographed (we are a photo crazy nation, more on this later) and you help save someone's life.

Stay beautiful!

Oceans...

2007-08-08T19:50:00.000+05:30

It never ceases to surprise me! The sheer magnitude of the collective wisdom that lies between us, has always left me pleasantly wonder at the maturity that I witness while rubbing the goosebumps on my right forearm.

There are a dozen random blogs that I follow. When I say follow, I mean I check them for updates religiously, and I read each and every comment that other bloggers make. And so very often beneath the parchment of a post, I have found the most profound phrases peppered in the comments section. Words that give you a new perspective to things that you have forever known.

I have seen people share the pain, and say words which have a healing touch of their own, while all I could do was to stay tongue-tied. I have witnessed amazingly varied perspectives on psyches and life, and I have seen paradigms expressed in ways indescribable. And yet I have seen a lot of agony, so much so, that sometimes I forget to exhale. I marvel at our capacity to hurt, not only others but ourselves. And hurt in ways that no matter what, its only ourselves who can redeem us. And I question, where did the wisdom go? What becomes to the words that seemingly salvage people from self destruction? How are they lost when it comes to the redemption of the self?

And then sinks in the fact, that we are standing on the shore of an ocean of life, watching someone drown. Sometimes that someone is them, but sometimes it is us.

When Devil Tags

2007-05-30T12:17:00.000+05:30

So first Vibhashu and then Monsieur Humbl Devil tagged me, and being averse to tags, I have taken so many days to attempt it. But being a sachcha Hindustaani, who believes in praan jaaye par shaan na jaaye, here I am.

Rules are:
1. each blogger starts with eight - ten random facts/habits about themselves...
2. people who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about the tag and post these rules...
3. at the end of your post, you need to choose people to get tagged and list their names...(Anki didnt do it and neither am I doing this)

ONE OF YOUR SCARS, HOW DID YOU GET IT???
Stitches from surgery long back.

WHAT DO YOU WANT MORE THAN ANYTHING RIGHT NOW???
A break from this now.

WHAT DO YOU MISS???
Days spent in college, and the bike rides in Goa

WHAT IS YOUR MOST PRIZED POSSESSION???
My family

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SMELL???
Freshly brewed coffee, closely competing with the smell of rain on earth, and those from wet shampooed long hair.

DO YOU GET CLAUSTROPHOBIC???
Noe, abhi tak nahin.

DO YOU GET SCARED IN THE DARK???
Not unless I am sitting in a graveyard alone, :D. Sometimes though, i have been real spooked.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE COLOGNE / PERFUME???
Nothing ever beat the Old Spice classic for me.

COFFEE OR ENERGY DRINKS???
Coffee.

IF YOU COULD EAT ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, WHAT WOULD IT BE???
The Polo Cannelloni at Infantria, Goa.

WHO IS THE LAST PERSON WHO MADE YOU MAD???
Right now Humbl Devil :p

DO YOU SPEAK A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE???
Nope, i speak the same language as others. But metaphorically, yes.

WHAT IS THE BEST WAY TO TELL SOMEONE HOW MUCH THEY MEAN TO YOU???
Actions speak louder than words.

SAY A NUMBER FROM ONE TO A HUNDRED:
77

BLONDES OR BRUNETTES???
Depends on what lies beneath, but brunettes generally.

WHAT IS THE ONE NUMBER YOU CALL OFTEN???
1436

HAVE YOU BEEN OUT OF INDIA???
For a few seconds yes, to Pakistan.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN???
A small place called Kashipur, now in Uttarakhand.

FIRST JOB???
is often an illusion.

WHAT DO YOU GET COMPLIMENTED ABOUT MOST???
The same thing for which i am cursed most, my words.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF ALCOHOL BECAME ILLEGAL???
I'll drink water.

WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY???
A booker would be nice.

HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU WANT???
None.

WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE???
The sky.

DO YOU WISH ON STARS???
Sometimes.

WHICH FINGER[S] IS YOUR FAVORITE???
All of them, though i like the pinky the least because it doesnt work well on the guitar.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING???
Not at all, never got good marks because of it. :D

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT???
Fish, but is that meat?

ANY BAD HABITS???
Brutally honest.

WHAT IS YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING CD ON THE SHELF???
No shelf these days.

IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU???
Perhaps.

WHERE IS YOUR SECOND HOME???
These days Gurgaon.

DO YOU TRUST OTHERS EASILY???
First impressins take the decisions.

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TOY AS A CHILD???
My science kit.

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN A MOSH PIT???
No.

DO YOU UN-TIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF???
Mostly.

THING YOU ATE???
A half bar of Snickers

SIBLINGS???
2 younger sisters

YOU LIKE SUSHI???
Absolutely Love it.

ARE YOU TOO SHY TO ASK SOMEONE OUT???
No.

Phew! Now for the song THE END by THE DOORS.

Writers Block...

2007-04-16T18:23:00.000+05:30

Sometimes enough is really enough. And then it too lies in want for some more.

And this is my story, a story that involves a dozen stories, all incomplete, all with hundreds of loose ends. Imagine a tapestry of unwoven yarns, each threadbare with all the fibers coming undone, and a weaver who so wants to finish the flying carpet but just does not know what thread to pick up first. And now come back to me.

I am not a writer, for the sole reason that I don't write. Putting up my hands on a keyboard in a rare hour, once in a while and thinking so much of what to write, does not entail a writer. It is someone who wants to be one, but is fraught with the frustrations of being not. With this verb of existence, this state of essential nature, this heaviness of being becomes the sole reason to live. Not to be, but to be involved in the process of be-ing. Of attaining the state that one wants, and thus becoming someone that one had to become. Most of the time with a realization that this is not what they had imagined it to be.

So many stories I have had to say, so many tales to tell. But I narrate them to an audience inside my mind and then conveniently forget about it. While everyday I scan through a dozen blogs to see what new has come up, and examine them with a critical eye; my browser has forgotten the URL of my own blogs. Sometimes I myself have to double check.

And I will be honest, this makes me sad. Not about not-writing, but wanting to write and then failing myself. It is the agony of a lover who has to see his beloved everyday as a wife of another man. It is the pain of made-up smiles and the ache of empty arms that yearn to hold. It is the storm in the vacuum that I carry within.

While every breath leaves me wanting for more, and every word I say is another empty story in itself; tell me, do you listen to me tonight?

Free Verse and a New Year...

2007-01-06T12:13:00.000+05:30

I would admit that the title is obscure and conveys no information, just like titles are wont to. But this sudden coming-back-to-life after shaking the shackles of procrastination is catalysed by an 18-year young girl, more correctly a woman. But to be precise, she is somewhere between the two frames of being a giggly girl and a graceful woman. She, is in transit, very much like the blur of the verdant landscape between the dark eyes that peer from the inside the barred windows of a moving train and the stabler slower mountains in the distance.

She sent me a poem today. More than the words, it was the form that set me thinking. You see, 18 is a wonderful age. It is the time when there is courage and the optimism of youth, unbeaten and unconditioned by the ravages of happenstance. When almost everything pales in comparison to the expectation. And it is the time when expression invariably finds its utterance in poetry. The form always free.

Free Verse revolutionized the concept of poetry. It brought the esoteric to the masses, but stopped just short of making the arcane inane. Anyone who had the idea, the inspiration and the words to freeze the feeling could take a dip in this ocean and bring out his own oyster. Sometimes with pearls and most of the times with dirt. But the quest is not for the pearls, it isn't even for the oysters, but for just one moment within the folds of the muse, sorrounded by her watery arms and fluid fingers. It is for the satisfaction of creating something that has residual beauty. Even if only its creator could behold and witness that.

Some argue, free verse is too similar to prose. I myself found it insane to break sentences into fragments, and split it into different lines, for the effect of creating a poem. But then with time I started distinguishing between the two, and realizing at the same time that a poem is a very personal experience put out to share with others. It is an attempt to say the unsaid, to talk the unheard. Sometimes the original thought is lost in translation, and reader reads his own version. This is the ability of poetry. To transcend from one personal perspective to the other, sometimes retaining its form, at other times melting into the other self.

She had raised the same question, about what demarcates the poem from the prose and where does the muse figure in. And so I told her that a poem is a poem, and prose is all that is not. And a muse is aah... the hardest to define, but she is the one who touches your soul and leaves behind an inspiration that somehow bursts free in the form of words. Poetry is when long suppressed solitudes of the soul find utterance.

And when the verse runs free without limits or boundaries like a flooded river into the great plains, then my dear reader, is the free verse born. Free to touch the limits of your skies, or perhaps the writer's.

All this while the New Year has crawled into our lives. The last digit of the dates have changed, and I am yet to practice the '07 figure in places where I have to sign. Alas the calendar dates dont work like free verse. And some rules are yet to be followed, even if each day is a long poem in itself.

Note: For you Vipz

Never Say Goodbye

2006-09-03T21:43:00.000+05:30

Point blank, here I share my perspective into what is (or was) inarguably 2006's most awaited Hindi Movie, Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna.

Prima facie, KANK is a true blue (and Red and Yellow, and Green, and Purple) Karan Johar film. With its identifiable easy-to-listen rich soundtrack, the slick cinematography, and the very-very Karan Johar'ish wardrobe; it stands out as every thing his signature style entails. Yet it also signals the possible coming of age of our multi-starrers. The hint of the possible power in the script is something that is only let down by the final execution of it. When you have actors who are stalwarts in the niches that one can carve for them (SRK in the usual passionfilled romance, Rani in her gullible indolence, Priety in the strong woman semblance, and both AB's in their own forte of suave style), and yet the film delivers hiccups, there is something to be questioned, and some conclusions to be drawn.

The premise or the protagonist of the movie, contrary to what 99.8% (just a random sample) of viewers find to be SRK and Rani, is the story. It is not about there being a customized soulmate, in the altars of whose pursuit every other relation ought be sacrificed. Rather it is about questioning the foundations of relations.

It does not ask you to work on a marriage or to walk out of a marriage that does not seem to work. It asks you to examine it for yourself, that what you wanted or thought that you wanted from a liason, and what you actually take out of it. It asks you not to justify or rationalize what was done based on plans, it prods one to ratiocinate what has been already done. To determine how much is enough, and to derive -borrowing a phrase from Rushdie- that how much of bathwater can be lost before one loses a baby.

So the fact that Dev has to leave his wife Rhea and son, while Rishi has to let go of his love Maya; is not what this movie is about. It is about how frustrations turn a man bitter, about how career can be too dominating at times, about how fathers relate to their sons, about how physical can jealousy actually be, and about love being as much about the body as about the so called soul. But more than all of this, it is about the fact that the root of the word relation is not a ritual, but a verb called relate.

So when I decide to look beyond the veneer of a commercial film, I feel that apart from instances of pure Hindi phillum infection; the movie is "good". It gives some basic points to ponder, and allows the viewer to think, which is what I think this medium of communication should essentially be about. Just that Hindi films have a tendency to have an invariably happy ending, and in that pursuit of commercial viability the script suffers.

Perhaps here is a story that raises question that will find more relevance in days to come. Where it falters is in its attempt to answer them.

But I choose to overlook that for the moment.

Stone...

2006-08-28T19:24:00.000+05:30

When I started out months ago, I presumed many things. I believed that what one does is of consequence and that actions resonate till they attain higher dimensions.

I still believe in that. But at the same time another belief has steadied and grown in the time that has passed by, the belief that it is the motivation that drives the action that atrophies. That active unnoticed turns to passive, and only the stone is left of the leaf.

I thought that this akarmanyata can be conquered by volition. But when the volition is jaded, who drives what?

I don't have the answer now, but I hope I will.

Ego Piercing...

2006-01-13T19:30:00.000+05:30

I was talking to an online friend (though she insists on us being called stranger). And someway, somehow, the conversation came to Body Piercings. Now i know it is my first post in this blog for this year, and an online discussion is not quite the thing to write about. But as usual, this is not about the conversation, it is about the prevalence of piercings every where i see.

Delhi is a happening place. Though the mumbaikars, may contest this idea; and bagloreans would never agree. But the fact remains that Delhi is a happening place when it comes to picking up the fads, and continuing them to such an extent that one would be forced to think that they existed forever.

And today it is about Piercings, and that too body piercings for the time being. The issue that popped in my mind is why do people pierce their body parts? I know nose and ear piercings have had to do with tradition and cultural beliefs. But you can also see a pierced eyebrow, a pierced lower lip, a pierced tongue, a pierced navel. And many other piercings that not everyone can even look at.

I was told that it hurts a lot. And that for a tongue pierce you can not eat solid food for many many days, and it hurts even while talking, then why do people do it?

It may be a sexual fetish, an accessory for lust. The taboo piercings may serve a purpose, anatomical studies will conclude that they can, but that alone can not explain the extent to what people can go for their piercings. I think it is about making a visual statement. Just like rudeness is a weak mans imitation of strength' maybe piercing is a symbol of machismo. Of the body's ability to endure pain. The insignia of the yang.

More than that, i think it is about ego piercing. A vent to let out the ego. A chance to assert the otherwise battered souls.

But it may also be that people are just being blind, and accepting fads for fashion. Everything said and done, piercing must hurt. And perhaps, that is the price to pay for the extended 15 minutes of fame.

Of Ideas and Grand Plans...

2005-12-17T00:06:00.000+05:30

It's weird, how easy it is for people (like me) to make ideas, evolve philosophies, conjure grand plans, and even more easily forget their existence. You do not need any additonal IQ to understand that the reference being made is here to this blog, The Stoneleaf.

I had started writing this blog, confident of the idea that when there is so much going around me, there would be ample inspiration for me to write about it. About the things that matter, or the things that i think, should matter. But i was unaware, or rather in the spur of the moment conveniently overlooked the importance of the will turning to action. Its not enough to be hungry, and know what to cook and how to cook; to satiate the hunger, one needs to act upon it, one needs to roll the sleeves, and cook.

In our sanskrit text book (and i dont remember what name it had), of class 6th, 7th and 8th; we had a specific chapter Subhashitani (i do remember this :D) - literally it meant the 'Good Words' more appropriately "Wise words"-, in three parts, one part every year, we used to read and mug the ancient wisdom condensed in two lines of sanskrit words. And today i remember one of them,

'Udyamen hi sidhyanti, karyaani na manorathe
Nahi suptasya singhasya, pravishanti mukhe mrigah'

Translated, it means;

Action and not the will alone, makes the wishes come true
The deer would not walk into the mouth of a lion asleep

So time passes, days turn into dates as milestones of a life going by, and steadily things redefine their priorities. some day you discover that its almost 2 months, and your daily resolves, which someway had turned to weekly, have become rare oppurtunities. And then you wonder, whether it is the name, of the blog that has taken life. The leaf which never unfurled itself, but turned to static stone. Muted, with ossified veins , and stultified sap. While life decided to go its own way, raising clouds of dust that cover the plan maps, to be forgotten, and archived.

Yet I try...

Spaghetti...

2005-10-17T16:25:00.000+05:30

It took me a month to come back and be able to write something here. And it is because there is so much that i have been procrastinating over the days, i call this post 'Spaghetti'. The tipping point, apart from my growing aggravation on my newly acquired habit of a prolonged vacational procrastination, is the recent spate of events and little happenstances that will form the strands of this course.

In my recent cursory travel through the Southern Part of India, i vividly recollect the re-realization that we are not a nation at all. We infact are a salad that has been tossed by a master chef. Mixing ingredients that are not necessarily complimentary. Nations have been defined by their language, their culture. But India with its chaotic vernacular, and a hundred dialects; is an aberration in the general scheme of things. There has been a lot of brouhaha over english corrupting our indian souls. But what experience says is that there is nothing like an Indian soul. There is a Bihari Soul, a Bengali Soul, a Punjabi Soul, A Pahaadi soul, a Thamizh soul, a Malayali soul; with a common thread, a streak that may become visible at times of grave consequences, an Indo-Pak match, a Kargil War. And it is this streak that is the remnant of an Indian Soul. What experience also says is that, where nothing seems to actually tie us together. The alien language that English is cried out to be, is a great unifier. And it is the uniformity of this spaghetti strand that inspite of the many ways of pronouncing "Sir" across our state borders. We all know what is being spoken. I negotiated with an autowallah in Chennai, who did not know hindi or english ( i ofcourse could not make a head or tail out of Tamil apart from a few rudimentary words) , and i used english deliberately broken and colored with the Tamilian accent. Succesfully.

In another spaghetti string 21 kilometers long, yesterday Delhi ran. It is a matter of conjecture that what percentage of Delhi is the number 20,000+ that participated. But we are not talking about numbers here. We are talking about the spirit that makes a marathon. The Delhi Run is Asia's richest marathon, and Delhi is only the second city in the world besides London to have the insytument to turn the inertia of people into momentum, to have a marathon this size. But apart from the celebration of human stamina and endurance, the coming together of people of all nationalities, creed, color, age and sex to come and participate in the most primitive of human sport, (besides the worlds favorite sport) and the triumph of the fastest human meter after meter pan kilometers; a marathon the size of Delhi Run is a great revenue generator. Is it a media ploy, a BIG HOARY advertisement, that gobbles up newsprint and public attention? We see the social kinetics of a marathon, what we are unaware of is the economics of it. But since what matters is that people came, and ran and then went back home with a comfort in their hearts, that they were there for Delhi. We can excuse companies from making an Archies or Hallmark out of human proclivity for emotion. It is the age of commoditization afterall. Package is the product.

The flavor of the month, the oregano was the IIPM in locked heads with the freedom of expression. And in the onslaught and mudslinging, in between the flashes of heroic integrity and meritorial probity; rises the question of the laws governing the blogdom. Jug Suraiya in his Jugular Vein this Sunday in the Sunday Times of India, talks about Brand Inequity. It is the power of the words to distance the buyer from the product. And IIPM is a packager par excellence. Its gleaming buildings that they mysteriously called towers, though they are inevitably dwarfed by the neighboring constructs. Its mercedes driving students, xeroxed from the foreign campuses, though poor contrast and resolution. And its cosmopolitan culture that is as conspicous as the Loud Bhangra being belted from the open windows from one of its denizens. IIPM has been a consistent marketer pulling throngs to its gates. And when there are so many many fests that happen every month with unfailing frequency, no wonder those in search of a "corporate" lifestyle are spellbound. Thus IIPM goes on. Their own home production had fore-warned Rok sako toh rok lo.

Every spaghetti has its sauce, the gravy that makes the strands stick. And this gravy is what flavors the entire preparation. Its the clash of ideas that colors this sauce. While, We, the people season it. And when every idea conceived is shaken together with the will to bring it to fruition, sprinkled with the myriad day-to-day cheese, warmed by human perception, and served in the receptacle of the mind. The delicacy is warm and ready.

Bon Appetit.

The Medium...

2005-09-15T21:20:00.000+05:30

It's been some time, days infact, since i came back after watching the movie Iqbal. And its one film that i believe should be seen by anyone who considers film making to be an art that extends itself as a medium to reach out and touch lives. This film does that. The blogs are full of Salaam Namaste, and with me being stuck in the now coined M(ediocre) B(ut) A(rrogant) schedule of mid-terms, end-terms, project submissions, and my mandatory quota of time spent doing nothing; have not yet managed to squeeze in time to watch the hallowed film. But i think it is films like Iqbal that make a film worth the experience.

I am not here to write an ode to Nagesh Kukunoor, but he is an excellent filmmaker. And has never ceased to amaze me. Watch the little hopes blossom into determination, and watch the humble will overcome the hundreds of sleazy hurdles that the Indian bureacratic system has managed to erect over the years. It is a fantastic story, fantastic with the fantasy that i agree it incorporates. For the Iqbal saga is something straight out of the books, true blue fiction like Howard Roark , or John Galt. But watch the film and you can see, how simply the multiple elements of India can be incorporated in a simple story, all the while keeping its grip on the script.

Way back in 1964, Marshall McLuhan pioneered the thought, The Medium is the Message. And with the blossoming of the electronic media in the current situational scenario, the medium gains importance that it never had garnered before. There was this song Urvashi Urvashi in the film Hum Se Hai Muqabla, released in 1995; and in this seemingly dumb dubbed song, there was a line that went,

"...agar ladki ko andhere mein, aankh maari toh hoga kya?"

I started writing this blog in the belief that blogging has a responsibility, something that is as fuzzy as the much talked about Corporate Social Responsibility. Yet is. With the rapid proliferation blogging has become a new status symbol. There are people creating blogs just for the heck of it. And heck as in pure unadulterated heck. They have pasted their photographs and have posted things like,

"Heyy, this is my pic!"
"I am standing with this and this" et cetera et cetera.

I know i should not be criticizing or putting down anyone. And i amy sem to be arrogant in saying this. But then do we need to have a blog, I want to know why is it being dome? What exactly are they thinking when they create blogs like that? Is it that they want to see their names in google when they search for it (once there was a fad of doing this, it was called something like an ego-search or some other thing like that)? Or is it a symbol of telling "heyy i have a blog"?

This entire business of bogus blogs, sometimes drives me nuts. But then the medium is the message. And its a democratic world. Thankfully there are some gems like Iqbal. And all the bloggers whose written words are a treat in themselves.

Like in Savage Gardens, Crash and Burn video;

Communicate Anyhow...

Where the Mind is Without Fear...

2005-09-09T03:15:00.000+05:30

These lines by Tagore, have always inspired awe in me. I was in sixth standard, or maybe seventh; when i read this poem for the first time, in my english textbook, the 'Gulmohar Graded English Reader', and i remember trying to hum it in a weird crude tune (I always have had this mad streak in me). But nostalgia apart, this poem still leaves a longing in my heart, for a country that could be just that. And the belief that India does possess the mortar to be this and more, is more or less subdued by the missing gumption.

In the movie Swades, when Mohan Bhargaw (SRK), claims at the public meeting that the slogan Mera Bharat Mahaan, is merely lip service. he goes on to say in the face of shocked villagers that we are not a great country, but we do possess the fibre for greatness. I wonder how many people would have given second thoughts to those pregnant words.

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit

It was sitting in Trade Logistics lecture and in the gray stupor that generally wraps me in the monologous lectures; i heard the professor tell us that we are a nation capable of producing a million Vivekanands, but alas to recognise them as Vivekanands, we require the approval of the US of A.

I am not preaching patriotism, neither is this a critique of neo imperialism. But yes, think of Yoga, and Vaastu, Organic Farming (our poor farmers have been using the dung fertilizers since ages) et al; did they not get popular post their re-import from the distant shores?

We talk about the 'Head held high'. We write odes singing 'Saare jahaan se achcha'. We shout about the superior culture and values, and yet at the drop of a dollar (no devaluation here) all the facades of granite crumble like cheap plaster of paris.

The problem is not about the belief in 'them'. It is more of a lack of conviction in 'us'. Its about seeing and not believing, till it is aired on CNN. And its about cursing Naipaul, for he criticizes India and then paying 500 Rs. to the line-man, so that the telephone keeps working.

Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father,
Let my country awake.

Ears Tight Shut...

2005-09-01T23:58:00.000+05:30

The MG road in Delhi connects Mehrauli to Gurgaon. Everyday at least 10,000 odd vehicles ply on this road (this may be an under-estimation); and like all the roads in India and elsewhere, it is subject to wear and thence tear. There is another route, NH-8, one that further connects the capital to the pink city Jaipur. But owing to the construction of an 8-lane express highway; the traffic situation has skewed towards the MG road. And so anytime of the day, one would encounter automobiles of all types whizzing on the broken asphalt.

Roads are the most democratic of all the human constructs. On its surface the rich and poor alike find motion. And be it a Maybach or a humble Maruti-800; everybody is entitled and empowered to his share of the ride. Amidst the gleaming cars, and scurrying bikes; one can also find a few bicycles, a transport that is very rare here in the capital of Indian dreams.

But this post is not about the road, nor the vehicle ratios that finds the largest number of cars in the country to the disproportionate number of bicycles. This is about the little people that ensure that that the roads remain the roads, and mot turn into the friction worn memoirs.

It was just another of these numerous commoditized days, when i was on my way from Delhi to Gurgaon. It’s not very often that I undertake this little journey, and so I was not aware of the repair and maintenance work that was going on the road. A couple of kilometers from Mehrauli towards Gurgaon, there is a bend in the road; one which has swallowed quite a few lives. There is a white metal board, 3feet by 1 foot, which pronounces in red letters ACCIDENT PRONE AREA PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY; but like the countless many things that we tend to neglect it too finds its name appended to the list of the neglected ones. Vehicles have a proclivity to hit the road divider on this bend, and in their sheer inertia, break it.

On this very bend there was a woman. Young by the number of summers her skin had seen; and old by the woes that time had bestowed on her. She sat on her haunches, with a small mallet in her hand, working on the broken concrete slabs of the erstwhile divider. And lost in the growing grass leaves was her little girl, dressed in a dusty matted frock and with a flaming red ribbon in her dry wiry hair. Her underfed sight gave a unique contrast to the monsoon fed verdant grass blades. And her red ribbon defined her even more clearly. But what many eyes that would have been busy comparing their latest auto possession to the one that just zipped passed them; would have missed is the way in which she sat on the grass. She sat with her tiny feet spread in front of her, she sat with her hands over her ears.

Hands to shut out the drowning roar of the kilo BHP engines. Hands, that shut out the reality pronouncing her place in the race of time. Hands, that asked the world to stay where it was and leave the childhood untouched. Hands, that no one would see, leaving out the noise that would not be able to pass through the air-conditioned moving glass palaces. So maybe there was a story that was being whispered in her ears by a friend from her own neverland; a story that we shall never hear. Maybe it was a script of the future dreams that she nurtured, dreams that have a rare chance to come true. Perhaps it was a song of redemption, to salvage her lost childhood amidst the dust and fumes; songs whose strains will never be played.

When we all are rushing through in our own pursuits, who has the time to look and see what the sounds shut out have to say. And even if we have the time to listen, what are we doing to make a difference?

You are not, I am not...

What We Are...

2005-08-24T22:00:00.000+05:30

A picture speaks a thousand words. Now take hundreds of pictures, all speaking about the same thing in different flavors. And then try to listen to what they are saying.

Seeing is believing, is something that all of us have come across one time or the other. In one of my google searchs for black and white photographs, i came across a beautiful online gallery. It had pictures that within the binary confines of Black and White deftly painted a million emotions.

The pictures were arranged thematically, and neatly tucked amidst the poignant titles like Love, Life, Faeries, and People; there was 'India'. So inspite of the Synthetic Patriotism that Ms. Bachi Karkaria wrote about in her essay last sunday on the Sunday Times Life; the urge to see what the other eye of the othercamera saw India as, dominated the desire to plunge into the virtual gallery.

In the all 15 breathtaking photographs was the image of an India that has characteristically been referred to as the land of snakecharmers, sadhus, and classically 'where people still ride on elephants on the roads'. I do not intend to pass value judgements here, neither am i interested in dictating the artists eye and his/her freedom. But what concerns me is the question that, is that really what it is? Are we still where we were a 100 years back? Has there been a movement at all?

VS Naipaul in his book India: A Wounded Civilisation writes, 'the outer world matters only in so far as it affects the inner'. If that is the inner vision of India within the minds of those who observe it , it would not matter what lofty claims we make or accomplish. We shall always be seen as a civilization of 'alarming innocence'. What Naipaul mentions as a nation of 'people having there being', and the possesors of 'underdeveloped egos'.

A photographer freezes the moments of life, An artist who can capture a fleeting moment and preserve it for eternity. And what he sees is what he shows. While we cannot be what we are not, we cannot afford to be seen otherwise. Nations have fragile egos. Egos made up of a billion perceptions are susceptible to chinks at every link. And while the only difference between a sunrise and sunset is the cognition of time and direction. India should not forget that it is not a subject for a painter. Aesthetics aside there is reality outside the canvass and the celluloid, and it is not just enough to possess that reality. The fundamental principle of Cogito Ergo Sum applies equally in case of nations. We are what we think, and what we think is what we become.

So while Lata Mangeshkar may sing, "..kya naam hai apna jahaan mein, khade hain kahaan pe hum?...", we should take a moment and think where we are, and more than that who WE are?

We the people...

Why the Stone Leaf?

2005-08-23T05:31:00.000+05:30

This is the first question that i thought needs to be answered before getting down into the nitty-gritties of this yet-another-blog.

The debate about the responsibilty of the blog and their respective bloggers towards the fading art of journalism is being mooted in innumerable newspapers, magazines and yes blogs. This debate and the countless opinions that are party to it, is a portent to the power that this medium holds. And the long way that the blog revolution is slated to go.

August 1999, Evan Williams dreamt a dream, and today millions of blogs are living testimony to it. There are hopes dreams visions and critiques that are being served to myriad palettes, one can choose whatever one likes. In an age where the art of journalism has metamorphed into th business of journalism, with 5 seconds of fame and even lesser attention spans; blogs give a medium for people with the real stories to reach out and touch the horizons of those who care to notice.

It was another of these blogs that caught my attention today and this proved to be the last word in the drama that had been going on and on inside my mind. Are blogs just a means of creative expression or can it really be more than that? I do not know for sure, but i think its the journey that will take me to my destination, and then i'll know what it is. So heres my blog that is an eye to whats going around, through my eyes.

And about Stone Leaf, after trying so many names for the blog; starting with the 'web of our life', to 'the crucible', to various combinants of them, i looked upon my mess-table and there i have a tree with leaves made of multicolored stone. It is a tree, the leafes just do not serve the purpose that they can. They have mutated into being something else, yet by this very property they remain the same with time, unchanging, constant. Neither living, nor dying; yet watching everything, like only a stone leaf can.