From me to you -1

Dear T,

Life is short. Life is fast.
It is a deadly comination. A fast life and a short life. How much time you have?
Less, very less.
So just don't sit. Don't just stare. don't just lie down and sleep.
Travel the world. roam around. Roam with purpose, without purpose.
Make friends and then fight with them.
Fell in love and get you heart broken.
Laugh. Laugh till your jaw aches.
But don't be afraid to cry.
Move ahead in life, learn new tricks but don't forget the past.
Revisit it. Live it again.
Leave your footprints. Write a diary and click pictures. Pictures with family, with friends.
Write thoughts, write thoughts in poems. Then re-read it after years and see how you evolved. Be embarrassed of your grammar, your intellect, you immaturity And your ignorance in past.
And smile. Smile looking through the footprints of past and maybe laugh.
For life is short and life is fast.
And we have too less a time.

Love, B

Habituary to Bard

I am not a poet. If I would have the dexterity in my hands to paint my thoughts, I would not have flirted with these words. I am not a writer. I am a stupid expressionist. It is not something that I do because I enjoy it. It is not my hobby.

It is just a bloody habit.

-Remember

Art- An Agnostic's view again

“Ha! What was your question- aha, what is art, eh?
It’s surely beauty for anything not beautiful in this world is not worth looking. Yet it begets pain. It’s no value. It is intelligent and like all things possessing intelligence it is quite worthless.
It is ... what difference does it make what is it, because it is something that will not be comprehended. It is oblique. Hence, it will have many interpretations. People will vow for it. They will suppose they understand and may even offer explanation of it. Ha! But it is not about that; believe me. How I know? Ha! I know.
Are you getting anything, anything I blurting out here? Or are you taking me as an old fool? You certainly think I am stupid. Don’t you? Ha! No, no it is not your fault. It is me. I am not a good teacher. Let me try again.
Look, art is not just scratching a painted brush over the cotton canvas. Neither it is sculpting Hercules from the stones. It is not composing the silken verses. It is neither a play nor a living act. It is much more and so less. It is not the end, not the final composition. It comes much prior to it. It is generated at the genesis. It meets the intellection at beginning, bearing the composition and then as composition takes shape, the art, the genesis fades to oblivion. So, whatever you see in front of you- This emotional face, these eclectic colours or this, whatever ghoulish is this, it is not art. Art was what was consumed in making these things: An innocent, divine and ethereal feeling. A feeling which enwraps every creation, be it ghastly carcass or a beautiful diva. It is everything. Yet it ends up as nothing.
Oh, but you are a fool. I can see it on your face, with your squinty eyes and stupid face. You can never understand this. Why did he send you to me? Why is he torturing me? Oh! I am wasting my time. Do you really think you can learn art? Ha, tell?”
He looked over to me with venomous eyes and I just babbled, “I want to”.

- Remember

The painting is blank- An agnostic's story

A laugh vibrated heavily in the room. The discourse was cut short. I trembled. When eyes are blank every noise causes a tremor in the body. We all cuddled close. I could smell sweat and fear. Then a loud jeering voice surfaced.

So, you all want to know how the divine painting looks. And you hope that the Philosopher in front can explain to you its beauty; that what it epitomizes. You believe that he will tell you about its dimensions, its value, the feel of the colours, the shape of the canvas, the curvings, the fading texture and maligned cloth binding its edges. You believe that when he completes his portrayal of the portrait, you all will be cognizant of “THE DIVINE TRUTH”. And barge out to the world, struggling with your blindness. You will go long and away and say proudly that you know how the painting looks. You will proclaim with contentment how good the hue of green is, or how majestic is the burgundy, how soothing the use of azure. You will praise the stark strokes and fine lines nestling over the corner. You may even make people wonder by defining the visage in the painting even more vividly than the Philosopher in front had ever defined.
My dear friends, but one day a person will stand up in front of your face and with equal belief describe “This Divine Painting” in his own fables. He will uphold his account true. He will challenge and say that he had been here, in front of the painting. He will vow that with his blind eyes but eager ears he had heard description of the painting by his own philosopher guru.
You people will fight then. You will cut each other's ears and throats for spreading the falsified image of “YOUR” divine painting. You will brandish each other as non believer. And fight to preserve the truth, the truth which only you heard from a sacrosanct pundit, but never experienced yourself.

Dear Believers, I pity you. I pity you for you are fighting over a blank sheet. You are cutting heads over a divine painting which was never painted; which is as blank as the sky must have been at the start of universe. I feel sorry to tell, it is not as beautiful as your holy philosophers had painted with their eloquence. It is nothing more and nothing less than nothingness.

I pity you dear worshippers for I know the truth. I know the truth which none of you know except for your preaching philosophers. And the truth is- Everyone is blind. Every eye sees the same darkness, even the blinking eyes of your philosopher-gurus. And all these hallowed stories are imagination of your revered teachers. These are beautiful but these are ideas not the Divine TRUTH”.

He scoffed at last. And amidst silence I heard the clinking of his stick as he felt his way out of the hall, leading a huge mob, proclaiming aloud, “The painting is blank; the painting is blank.”



"What is beauty?"
asked the Savvy
"Perspective lit"
replied Dim wit.


-Remember

Actions with reactions!!

Doesn't it happen sometime that you are compelled to do an act?

An act, if it was performed by some other guy, would have flooded you with torrents of antipathy for that guy. For you are aware, how much loathsome the act is. Its whole inception is revolting. And you know perfectly that once you are over with the act and the people around have laughed their bellies off, your guilt will summon the conscience and rebuke her.
Lately I am performing such acts and it is going on for a while.

And whenever Lady Guilt summoned Miss Conscience, lord intellect came for her defence. The explanation given by Solicitor "Lord Intellect" in defence of his client, the very petite "Miss Conscience" was that the whole abominating act was part of one of the social experiments that was being performed as part of the study "Understanding the human psyche in an unadulterated way" and undertaken in accordance with the writ of “King Wisdom”, the old monarch.
(To tell you the truth, I have a definite feeling that the writ was issued by King Wisdom under the spell of the evil witch, “Whimsy” who roams around the Kingdom of “human psyche” with her humped back and a glass eye. She is always looking for a way to break the shackles which were placed by Late “Sir Ethics” using a magic spell named “Society fear”.)
So, every time Lady Guilt filed a public litigation, Lord Intellect, armoured with his astute arguments and sly comments, aptly defined that none of the acts were party to any physical abuse to any person around and the emotional outrage was meticulously monitored and kept at minimum hazards.
After a slew of defeats and mental exhaustion, Lady Guilt preferred to ally with a notorious goon “Mr. Instinct”. Well! Mr Instinct has always been infamous for creating the greatest gaffes in history and of late with the proper and timely instigation by Lady Guilt, he is causing much trouble. It is kind of out of court settlement to prove to Mr. Intellect that his reasoning can be made helpless in front of the uncertain and spontaneous reactions of Mr. Instinct (mind the fact that it is not actions but reactions).
Off late Mr. Instinct is reprimanding my acts with the sudden and honest expression of my dislike for them and in that way sabotaging the whole objective of the study.

So, what is more terrifying to me is the fear of a backlash by my instincts and a sudden burp of an honest confession that: In fact, I understand the act was offensive and believe me dear people around, it is truly not what I want to do; not when I am sane. And that the honest confession will make me look like a buffoon much more than the performance of those stupid acts ever will. It is one thing to be a fiend but a to be a fiend cognizant of his devilry is a bloody image carnage.

But even if the instinct doesn't drive me up to open my mouth, I understand and after every such act I ponder over. But it is just a bit complicated to explain why every time I am lured into such acts and then castigate myself as my guilt cries off in a dark room along with my conscience?

Wait a minute. Hey. Is this you Mr Instinct?

-Remember

Chopin Show!

For last few months I have been frequenting the Mazda hall in Pune, to experience the western classic music and specially the piano. Yesterday, after a long hiatus I went again.
To be true I don't think I am a connoisseur of Piano. But I like it. I like the sound. But the problem is every time I try to picture a scene with the music as background; the music fails me and breaks away into some other realm.

Like this time I was picturing a guy who comes back after long time in wilderness, to meet his love interest. And as he is about to approach her, a little girl jumps out on his love interest. A smart guy comes behind her and then they all cuddle and nuzzle. The protagonist stops his advance and then as the music floats fairly on the background with single note, the guy saw little tear beads dropping and a smile snuggle across his visage as he takes a few steps backward getting back into his hide( I recollect I had pictured a dense shroud of leaves or bushes). He is happy now. He laments but miraculously contended somehow. For he believe that she will be loved now.

Till now the music aligned well with my scenery. But then suddenly when the music should have built up to show the pinnacle of his emotions, the music failed me. It breaks down and silently moves into some other direction.
This is the problem. This and also because it is so serene that sometimes I fell deep into (I will not say sleep) a trance with the images impaling my mind. Sometimes this subconscious state is wonderful but many time embarrassing among so many people. I hope no one had noticed it yet (but I distinctively felt a nudge from my friend yesterday thinking maybe I was asleep).
The experience was good as always but the more interesting moment of the day was experienced when I was waiting for my friend on bus stop. Suddenly I noticed the feet of a person standing nearby. His feet were completely wet and had left wet marks on the kerb. I was baffled to see so wet feet and looked around to see any water source but can’t find any under the nicely burning sun. And then after few seconds of rubbing his feet to the pavement, he gently slipped his feet into his brown leather shoes. It surprised me and with no other satisfactory solution to this mystery, it led me to believe it was his sweat. Well I moved to the footwear of next person. His chappal was black and rugged. But surprisingly, his feet were even more rugged and ebonized. I looked up and his face was like his slippers with crisscrossed lines smiling over the dead and effete leather. I moved to the next in row. His slippers were torn and worthless. I moved up and saw a semi clad shirt and he was scratching his chest. I again looked at his slippers. Then I moved forward. But there was no sandal this time; no chapal, no shoes; It was just two bare feet. I looked up and surprisingly the guy was in an old jeans (but not torn) and decent shirt. Again surprisingly he seems to be uncaring about his bare feet. Who knows what the story of his bare feet is? And I just wondered how many stories are resting, breathing and crossing us in every juncture. So many wonderful people and so many wonderful fables enshrouding their lives.
May be one day I will be able to capture a few of them with the perfection I desire.

- Remember.

The Beginning

This is the first post. So, I will set the tone head on. This blog is to remind me down the line after years, what I was? It will make me recollect: What I thought and what I believed in?
And also what I didn't believe in.

I don't know where I will end up and more horrifyingly I know that anytime anyone can end up. The most beautiful and most horrible thing about life is uncertainty. That future is completely untold. The perspective and proclivity of people make it intriguing or torturous; so unpredictable, yet so certain. It will end.
Some time back I read something. The premise of the read is not important. What I end up thinking was, and matter of fact I don’t even know was that exactly the author wanted me to think. But I ended up seeing probability in a very different light.
Now, I am not seeing probability as the chance in an absolute way. I realise, it is more of a chance in timing. The event will occur, it has to occur. If we take the sample to infinity the outcome is definitive. What had ever happened in history would have happened. Everything was set so precariously balanced and yet if it had been altered in the past; it would have ended up like this only, because of this prodigious expanse of time. We cannot alter an iota of outcome in the longer run of time. But then the best part of life. We don’t know what it is going to be. The “Uncertainty” gives pleasure here.
I may sound, in the lines above, as a pessimist running away from life. But it is totally the reverse. For if looked upon with different colour glasses, the theory gets a whole different hue to it.

You know it is going to end, and will end up when the time comes and exactly the way it is destined. But you don’t know what the end is or when it is going to end, no absolute measures are there. Think this and then think what is there to fear to try out something new and have a better ending; an ending you may want; an ending that you think you deserve.

“It is my hands that sculpted thee
My enshrouded, mighty destiny”

-Remember