Untitled, Scene 1.

(Round table in the middle. Left, seated is Harish, right, seated is Raj Kumar. Both formally dressed. A deck of cards on the table. Raj Kumar shuffling. Scotch glasses with both of them.)

Harish : So who is this guy you've called over?
Raj Kumar : Nishant Chauhan. Haven't you heard of him?
Harish : (Irritated.) Well, apparently not. So what about him?
Raj Kumar : He's the biggest name in the industry today, Harish! Reportedly has the biggest winery in India. Rolls in millions. (Harish irritated.) But he's one of his kind. No personal interviews, no background. Anyway, he earns more than either one of us. And I've been unusually lucky. So I thought, well, why shouldn't I loot the two of you for my bread and butter, or should I say, wine and whiskey. (Laughs.)
Harish : (Disturbed.) A winery? Then how in hell have I not heard of him?
Raj Kumar : That's because you don't read, Harish. You do know how to, right? (A distasteful look by Harish.)
Raj Kumar : All right, all right. No jokes with you!Anyway, he's on the cover of every magazine I read. Wait a second .. (Takes a copy from side table, hands to him.) See for yourself.
Harish : (Reads a bit. Almost looking for something negative.) Hmm. He imports his grapes .. From Spain. Huh. Winery in Goa .. Already has business tie-ups in South America, South-East Asia and West Europe .. I just don't ..
Raj Kumar : Oh, off with it! What difference does it make to you. You make whiskey. No competition, right. Except on the poker table. (Both smile.) And cheers to that!
Harish : (Not entirely satisfied.) Cheers. Correct, but .. Something doesn't feel ..

(Enter Nishant Chauhan. Harish stops immediately. Both observe. Dark overcoat and stick in hand. Ramesh follows, with gun strap visible. Raj Kumar gets up, offers his hand, they shake. Ramesh removes Chauhan's coat, pulls seat, seats him in the middle of scene, then backs off.)

Raj Kumar : Welcome, Mr. Chauhan. What shall I get for you?

(Chauhan gestures to Ramesh.)

Ramesh : Please don't bother, Sir. Mr. Chauhan is extremely particular about his concoctions. I'll take care of that.
Raj Kumar : (Surprised.) Very well, then. (Gesturing.) The bar is to your left. Oh, and Mr. Chauhan, let me introduce to you, Mr. Harish Sharma, Chairman of Findler Whiskey.

(Chauhan looks, shakes hand. Harish apprehensive.)

Harish : Pleased to meet you. I'm surprised we haven't met before. Certainly would like to know you better. There are ways we could help each other? (Wry, yet confident smile.)

(Chauhan smiles back. Gestures to play on.)

Raj Kumar : Well, certainly, you must be sparing valuable time. Let's get on with it. (Chauhan raises glass to approve of idea.) Harish, your deal.

(Lights off.)

(Lights on.)

Raj Kumar : Three games in a row, Mr. Chauhan. Seems you have all the aces up your sleeve, eh? (Grin.)

(Chauhan grins back confidently. Gestures Harish to deal the next. Harish is disturbed. Gulps down his drink. And orders Raj Kumar to get another. He obliges.)

(Lights off. Slightly long pause.)

(Lights on. Ramesh on the phone. Then goes to Chauhan and whispers something. Chauhan nods.)

Harish : (Seemingly drunk.) And I raise you another ten thousand!
Raj Kumar : I'm down, Harish. Can't take this beating anymore. Anyone for another drink? (Tries to address Chauhan. Then realizes.) Umm .. Ramesh, would you fix Mr. Chauhan with a refill?
Ramesh : I don't think that would be possible, Sir. Mr. Chauhan really must leave for urgent business.
Harish : Very well, then. This would be the last hand. So why not, eh, Raj? For old time's sake, I raise you my Rolex! And this time you won't beat me with your tricks. (Laughs devilishly.)
Raj Kumar : (Disturbed.) Oh, no you don't! You've had one too many now! Relax! Your son gave that to you as a birthday present, remember?
Harish : Very well do. And the watch stays. (Laughs.)

(Chauhan picks up the watch and keeps it next to Harish's money.)

Harish : (Gets up.) Hey you! Don't you dare touch it unless you win it.

(Chauhan gestures Ramesh to handle him. Ramesh does. A scuffle between the two.)

Raj Kumar : Enough, Harish! Enough! That's it! You want to play, play in your seat. Else, leave!

(Harish does what is told. Points a finger at Chauhan and keeps back the wrist watch.)

Raj Kumar : (In disgust.) Fine. If that's what you want. Go ahead.

(They play. Harish doubles his bet time and again, till he has nothing. Gulps down drink after drink. Sports a wry smile always. Chauhan wins in the end. Always was confident.)

Harish : (Clearly disturbed.)You bastard! You cheat! This is all a trick, Raj. He's robbing us! (Falls while trying to catch hold of him. And does. Chauhan gets up and fights him off.)
Raj Kumar : (Helping him up.) Off with it Harish! That's enough. Get a hold of yourself! I apologize, Mr. Chauhan.

(Chauhan gestures to Ramesh, who gathers the money. Gets up fiercely. Ramesh is just about helping him with his coat, that Harish snaps out a revolver and points it to Chauhan.)

Harish : (With bloodshot eyes, barely on his feet.) Give me back my watch!
Raj Kumar : (Clearly unsettled.) Look, Harish. You must calm down. Hey, listen. I'll buy you another watch. Just let go of the gun. Give it here.
Harish : Shut up, Raj. This man is a cheat. (To Chauhan.) Give it back!
Ramesh : Sir, in the name of sportsmanship, Mr. Chauhan won it fairly!
Harish : Fairly my foot. There's something fishy here. And I want to find out. So what do you do? Some magic trick? Or are you a freak? A psychic? Give me back my watch, you freak!

(Chauhan is extremely angry. Throws off his coat, approaches Harish who can barely hold the gun, snaps it off him points it at him and shoots him. Raj Kumar is in shock. Ramesh quickly gathers things.)

(Lights off.)

The Navel Speculates

And thus to the mirror, spake the navel,
Speculating in her safe haven...

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who's the happiest of 'em all?
The one who lied,
Or the one who cried,
Or does pretending beget a fall?

With half the heart, all body, no soul,
She strained her way through strife.
With all the heart, sealing the hole,
She embraced the beauty of life.

Cluster-o-phobia!

Cluster-o-phobia* : The fear of, well, clusters. Clusters of people. Mainly people with some mischief, vengeance or hate in mind, body or soul. Quite correctly, the permutations and combinations are clearly way beyond finger-counting. So in all probability, let it be at clusters of people, a general assumption at that.

In every national daily, every day in a week of frenzy and constant development of this story, sits pretty the same report. Gujjars v/s Meenas.

Today, a young man was driving his mother along the busy by-lanes of a local shopping street. Too lazy to accompany her, he parked nearby and asked her to finish off her routine window-shopping wander in haste, the heat being extremely subduing. The radio on, his mind carelessly wandering, he noticed from the corner of his eye a group of six-to-ten men, unarmed, yet seemingly dangerous. He immediately missed a call, gave a missed-call rather to his mother, who was hardly aware of the ghastly happenings only a few feet away. He told her to expedite. "I don't know why, but even though they looked like an ordinary sub-set of the Indian male sample space, a part of me was involuntarily fearful, quite contrary to the Gaussian distribution of the probability of invoking fear in a person on witnessing a group of men, which states that a minimum of a rowdy mob is required for the purpose." The young man had clearly had either too much to drink, or spent too much free-time on wikipedia, or his mind was window-shop-wandering at the most horrible of places. Needless to say, he needed to get a life. Yet, he acted true to his instinct. Whether it was worth it or not, he escaped the heat, which was a much more of a relief than the stay of the OBC quota bill, in his own words. Little did he know, however, that it was a Gujjar get-together, publicly voicing their stand and exercising peaceful protest.

"This involuntary fearfulness", our expert psychiatrist relates to us, "is the growing trend of 'Clusterophobia' ". This damned ailment of the Indian psyche is extremely widespread, although not contagious. It's strange symptoms are that of tension, hypertension, constant fear and acting completely shell-shocked on seeing a group of more than five men together. The worst of cases might also consist of severe schizophrenia where the patient has delusions of a crowd constantly around. "The reasons could be many. The press, for one, does nobody any good by constant exaggeration of facts and misrepresentation of reports of crimes.", finishes (thankfully) the expert. The public seem to have a better idea of things, we found out, as the latest SMS poll was conducted on the subject. "TV is biggest culprit", "The police are like sitting ducks", "I love John Cena", "I need help", "Thr s a cnstnt fear englfn us n dat s nt a gud sign fr d cntry", "Nethn is pssbel", "V hav 2 b prepard 4 d wrst", "We have too much corruption and poverty" were some of the best of the lot. Ladies and gentlemen, kindly avoid the expressions of 'tru luv' in times of national crises such as these.

As prevention measures, it is advised that one should stay away from crowds, lock him/herself at home and order free home delivery. Use the internet for your work and shopping and the telephone for communication. Suffer, instead, from claustrophobia.

* You're right, you literary geeks, you! It is the official Oxford dictionary opposite of claustrophobia.

The Greeting Card Gentry

I stand in front of the stacks of birthday cards, selecting the 'most appropriate' one for the occasion and purpose*. After going through with the mental ordeal, I stand in line to cash out my singular simple little brithday wish. Priceless.

To my utmost shock and surprise, it cost me a whoppingly meagre twenty-five bucks! Aww, man. My Birthday wish is worth twenty-five blood-sucking smackaroos? Damn! Why in the world don't they write the god-forsaken MRP on the card? Every other thing thronging the unholy aisles of retail stores and gift shops alike do a seemingly small but heartily selfless favour of carrying a simple little price-tag, saving us from falling from grace, as I have now. No, no, no, I think to myself, the relationship is deep. It deserves a minimum of fifty, no hundred .. Okay, chill .. Seventy-five bucks worth of effort. This is outrageous. This just can't be. I pay the twenty-five and force my way out of hell.

The explanation. There was only one force against me in this decision. My own conscience; the onus of protecting and celebrating the relationship, that I honestly cherish, lying on it. What is the relationship really worth? Of the scale of one-to-ten, how much INR** is each unit worth? The rupee is appreciating against the dollar, by all means. No doubt about that. So if there is an international standard that I clearly don't know of, do I benefit now by paying less INR? But then again, there was only one force within, still standing by me. The one which these EQ tests make fun of; and newspaper supplements thrive on. Have I, like, learned nothing from Tulsi and Parvati? How dare I put a price on the sacrosanct bonds of a genuine relationship? How dare I consciously think of a bond's worth? After all, I have selected a suitable card myself; how dare I track back on natural selection? What right do I have to judge how far a relationship has gone, or is capable of going? Why has my unconscious gone so quiet? Should I resign from worldly life and meditate for revival of my true senses? Rather, have I become completely capitalist in a mixed economy, once briefly being slave to liberal tendencies?

As these two true-type forces started to collide, I paused for a moment to look at the bigger picture here. This battle of mine is too trivial. There is a bigger war we're all a part of, a greater meaning engulfing our every action. The war waging on for ages between Grand Master Money and Grand Master Emotion. Money has been renowned to have telling upper-cuts and under-currents to deal the death-blows to Emotion on many an occasion, especially recently. This great battle, of which I find myself a part, has the Greeting-Card gentry handling the left wing of Emotion's blood red-flagged army. Money's black suit-flanked green army has engulfed the teddy-bears and have even bribed some of the other enemy soldiers at MRP to march to their newly found homes and not participate. Now the Greeting Card wing has devised a guerilla tactic to confuse Money. They have removed all traces of MRP from their bodies by some recent advancement of technology. Money is now utterly helpless, having hardly any battle strength or combat expertise. But then, suddenly, there was an unusual and abnormal arrangement of stars and planets, such that a time-warp was created. The battle had to be finished in haste; and the warring soldiers had to escape the unknown dimension through the Gate of Transaction. Money used his power in numbers and forced it's way through the Gate and pushed Emotion out of it's way, heavily outnumbered by this time. Hence, Emotion, trapped for eternity within the unknown dimension had no option but to wait for the next battle. His army is reportedly recuperating, but the progress is sluggish. Money is said to rejoicing and celebrating the debatably deserved victory.

So, I, owing to paucity of time to think, rethink, imagine or consult my inner/outer/peripheral self, pay the twenty-five and force my way out of hell.

* The occasion and the purpose, both, not relevant to be disclosed here.

** Indian Rupees.

Hail Comrades!

Note : Translated from orthodox German. Bear* with the divergence from the obsolete grammatical complications of orthodox British English. No word, or anything between the lines, however, is lost in translation.

Comrades!

Hail Fuhrer! Hail all neo-Nazis and the dedicated followers of our dear Fuhrer! He has personally sent me a divine, yet grave message from beyond the grave! Believe it or not, there is a camp currently in the making that we, as able descendants and scions of the revered superior clan, must protect and aid at any cost!

The camp is stationed at Bhopal, in the state of Madhya Pradesh, India. Kindly visit the link for the geographical coordinates. It was initially disguised as a Lord Ganesha temple, supposedly sacred to the Hindus of India. The Hindus believe our revered black Swastika to be a sacred theological symbol of some sort; they adorn the walls and floors of the temple with their Swastikas. They use them once they bear children, occupy new homes, ride new cars, scooters or the weird gear-less things they call scooties (Thank goodness for German engineering!), or any other sacred possession. This is usually accompanied with the smashing of an exotic fruit called a coconut. They consider this absurd ritual to be a symbol of happiness and prosperity to come, and protection from the evils of the unknown dimension. The third world country, needless to say, is beyond the comprehension of the Third Reich.

However little importance all this may be of, it is necessary to note that these Hindus have, through our telegraphic, telephonic and telepathic influences, distorted their original Swastika sign to many a different figures. Reversed, rotated, they twist and turn it at will. However, my dear comrades, it is my utmost pleasure to relate to you that an increasingly large percentage of such distorted signs is created by the rotation of their Swastika by forty-five degrees, clockwise. Yes, dear brothers and sisters, that becomes our symbol. The symbol of our struggle! The crown on the flag of our nation!

The fraction of our Swastika shall be enough for us to occupy the temple in due time. Hence, brethren, we shall together raid this camp three days before Judgement Day, so that once and for all we may take over what is rightfully ours. Come together, comrades, and make our Fuhrer proud!

* Or beer with ... Cheers!

Mr. Confusions, Episode 1.

He strutted with pride, to fall in puddles,
Stirred stride-by-stride, as ever befuddled,
And 'cause of his generosity,
Of incessant curiosity,
His own cat died, the one he cuddled.

A chameleon he met, and 'fore him press't his case,
"Aye", he did fret, "whatever be thy race?",
"Not black, not white,
I'm seasoned; yet spite,
Gifts plenty-a colour-set, so I hide my hideous face."

DreamTheatre 01

Disclaimer : The following chronicles are accounts of dreams. They might not make any sense whatsoever, but I somehow find it imperative to record them. So there go the chronicles of a million contradictions and random, involuntary thoughts. Although I am tempted to include them, no interpretation, no separate facts, no representation of real life or real things is intentionally added here. There is no theory subscribed to. All coincidences are purely imaginary, and bear who-knows-what resemblance to anything living or dead or trying to be alive.

The night of May the 24th, 2007.

I am a prince, the would-be 18th king*, of the Rajputana clan. My father is the present emperor, ever since my grand-father had decided to hand over the helm of worldly activity to him. My grand-father looks forlorn, and my father, determined - all, including me, dressed simplistically, but with vibrant colours. However, there is immense tension in the household as there is an argument regarding who will climb down the hill first. On the top of this hill is none other than the Rajputana palace. Through the torrential rain, I was one of the last to climb down, followed by servants clad in white. We reach down to a barren, red land, where we continue the argument.

There is a blank**.

My little cousins and I are all aboard a super-fast train, extremely smooth and complete with fibre-glass window-panes and automatic doors. This time, all of us clad in white. All my cousins are wearing a transparent white traditional Muslim head-cover, but I am not. There are no seats; we are all sitting on the ground. Suddenly, a Muslim fundamentalist enters the train from infinity, with an automatic black rifle. He sports a white kurta-pyjama, has a young black beard and has the appropriate head-cover. He shoots and kills each person without the headgear. Nobody gets up in panic, all sit and wait; and so do I. When he reaches me, he pumps in six bullets straight into my head. Immediately afterwards, his attire turns blue. I feel heavy, but I get up and grab him by the collar, and shove his head out of the running train door. His head is severed, yet no blood is spilt. He is lifeless and I leave him on the floor, only to return to my seat on the ground.

* From what I remember, there was a papyrus script, engulfed in smoke, and on it was written in English with red ink the successive kings, I assume. And the last on the list, number 18, was my real name. It seems I tried to turn back the pages to 'visit' my ancestors, but there were no names against the previous numbers, starting, of course with 1.

** Let me term a sequence of events I cannot recall as a blank.

In The Line Of Corn

Just this other day, I was waiting in queue for a bag of cheesy popcorn at a beefy price. I had this seemingly distinguished gentleman in front of me. He had a hoarse voice, when he conveyed, probably to his child over the phone to not wait up for dinner, as he was catching up with a friend. Now, I had observed nearly a minute ago, that a lady-voice called out for a cup of coffee, on her way to the rest-rooms. And he had responded. After pondering the obvious (My goodness, what have we come to), I gave it up, thinking it was none of my business.

A little background. The counter was large, adequate for two queues, yet there was one. There were three people waiting for their precious corn. The gentleman in front, ordering, then me and I had observed another dude had arrived behind me.

“There is a line, Sir”, the gentleman said, to this other dude who had mistaken (I hope) the vacant space at the counter to be for his kingly benefit. “Nothing comes without wait, dude”, I thought. Any which way, the dude obliged and joined the three of us, at the back.

Moments later, an elderly gentleman arrived in a hurry with a 50-buck note, occupied the same space, conspicuously glowing with absence of mankind at the counter and shrieked for a large popcorn packet.

“Excuse me, there's a line”, I said as I gestured towards the four of us, all of whom looked at the gentleman, with a mildly-forgiving smile.

“But there's..”, he said as he now gestured towards the vacant space.

“Yes, but we've been waiting, Sir”. I think he mistook my 'Sir' to be either sarcastic or contemptuous.

“Well, then take it”, he retorted, coming as quite a surprise to me, I recall. He patted me hard on the back, as if condescendingly appreciating my quest for order. Pun intended, by the way. And he marched off.

“The gentleman seems to be having an ego problem”, the gentleman in front of me remarked. I nodded sideways, agreeing and contemplating at the same time.

“Yeah. But this is the attitude we've got to take if this country is going to change”, I remarked in a way foreign to me before.

“Cheers”, he nodded, as he picked up his corn and beverage and walked off.

Thank you, unknown gentleman. Couldn't have done it without you.

The Protestant Grantha, Chapter 01

The Basic Truths

Sons, Daughters :

Disclaimer/Statutory Warning/Foreword : With this, thou doth not guarantee thyself heaven, hell or anything in between or thereafter. But thou doth hold the key to a meaningful life. And maybe even the fifteen minutes of fame thou fo'ever hath wisht for. Read this. Learn this. And pass this on via email to at least ten other people, else thou shalt face the wrath of thy own self and the misery of thy own infinite potentiality. Oh, and this text has been drastically abridged and hellishly simplified for your benefit. Also, the word hellishly was coined before the word hell. What? You Protest? Good. Anyway, this scripture does not endorse the concept of 'hell'.

Behold thy God. It is I. And I am thou. We art one. And that is the lone truth. Trust no gospel, trust no sermon. But hold this psalm in thy palm, and thou will glide through life.

Protest, my child, is expression of the sacred human voice, true to itself. It doesn't precede anything, it doesn't follow anything. It just exists; engulfing every other form of expression, if not taking its form, instead. Everything else, in comparison is just a hypertext link to further Protest. The essence of Protest lies in the very basic human instinct of negation, denial and self-centered thought. And of course, in the basic law of mathematical proportions. Through the explanations of these basic truths, you shall gain the requisite knowledge to advance to the more grave chapters of this sacred scripture, that of course, you must revere more than any other object or desire.

Basic Truth Zero :

The foremost basic truth of life, O' dove of peace, is that the world revolves around first, the Sun and then, Protest. There is nothing said, no deed done before a Protest against the same subject. And henceforth, my carrier of wisdom, it becomes your duty to uphold Protest and negate any statement or deed that defies this basic truth. You will exercise Protest if there is something done without Protest. This is because I create, and I destroy. And if there are anomalies, it is the duty of my children to abhor such ghastly mutations.

Basic Truth One :

Child, there is no statement that cannot be contradicted. And your finite life will have infinite such examples. There is no saying, no deed that is entirely true, entirely beneficial or entirely positive. You shall, for the sake of completeness, comply with this basic truth and henceforth uphold Protest and negate all, I must be clear, all statements and deeds, for the above reasons.

Basic Truth Two :

A statement or deed made by any non-believer in appreciation, in support or in aid of any being of a different caste, creed or whichever other divisions you may wish to create, is directly in conflict with your interest. You will, by all means, at all times worry only about your own interest. There exists no other person, under no circumstance, that you should consider the health, wealth or life of. Live, my wonderful creation, and let die. Uphold Protest, hence, O' young learner, and earn your rights in this cruel world, for others think just like you.

Basic Truth Three :

There is nothing that I, as your commander, can allow that can please and appease all of you. This is in compliance with Basic Truth Two. Do not worry. There is no hidden agenda, no celestial vendetta behind this. Yet again, you cannot comprehend the necessity of this fact. For your benefit, it would be best to understand that it just exists. Hence, there is no statement, no deed that must be left without making it the subject of our Protest.

And hence I retire this Chapter with these following words. You have now the Basic Truths, my child, and with that all the knowledge required to while away your measly existence in your mortal body. Follow these, and you will be on the path to correct Protest, founded with the eternal beliefs and the infallible wisdom of Protest. Rise in masses, my children!

The World Protests

There is just the one thing, safely assuming, common among the innumerable religions of this known world – they all comprise human beings. And from this assumption lies the underlying principle of the 'religion' that governs each man today. Hence, if there is that one religion that is universal, that binds the very spirit of mankind today in such a simple, yet inane manner, that upholds the nature of the thought process of today's man, woman and child alike, then by mathematical and logical induction, it has to be Protestant. Protestant, not just against the Church, ladies and gentlemen, rather against anything that has or hasn't the courage or the muscle to bat an eyelid. The question is not whether I'm politically correct or not, but whether we are ready to accept our true calling. And the truth is, lovely ladies and magnanimous gentlemen, The world protests.

Now with this fundamental knowledge, my dear brethren, I wish to reveal to you my most startling revelation! But first, a few basic ideas. Since we have accepted that all humans alike have immense faith in Protest, we must be concerned about, one, the subject of protest and two, the nature of protest. And in this respect, I scavenged for the ultimate truth. The truth that shall unite us! And lo! I stumbled upon The Protestant Grantha, the sacred scripture that has been preserved to this day and age only to be found by me, to preach to one and all. Behold, the wonderful protesting people of today, I have discovered your faith!

Washing Away Those Years

Aww. The Delhi monsoon. Yeah, I see it as a kid now, on experiencing two severe and seasoned monsoons in Bombay. But the cheerfulness of this cute child is as cherry-red as a new-born's blush. For the unfamiliar, the North Indian monsoon irregularly interrupts, as a bright child questioning it's mother, rather a defiant one troubling her, the horrific heat waves spreading their spans across the entire half of the country, comprising probably half a billion people, a million cultures and a billion cuisines*. Searing temperatures nearing fifty degrees Celsius are quenched, although momentarily, by the magnanimous supply of water. Though these impulsive and unpredictable puerile spurts are few and far between to say the least, you couldn't possibly count the bright smiles of the young-at-heart at India Gate or the number of "happy cupples" out on long drives on wide highways after a pre-monsoon shower. Probably, just as a result of getting some unexpected respite.

Hmm. So much for the initial information. Now for my story. At times, with 'external influences', certain youthful, (childish, rather) urges emanate from me. And I find it extremely difficult to purge them, as would anyone, I presume. One of these 'influences' is rain. Plentiful rain. And as I was planning my trip to somewhere nearby, I saw half the night horizon intermittently lit up by fiery strokes of lightning. Instantly, equally lit up were my eyes. The opportunity to let go of all worldly-elderly responsibilities, and bring to life my inner child, was just a measly impulsive reaction away. And so, with expectations from the sky above, however rare an occurrence that may be, I chucked the keys to the car, and I chose to walk a then lonely road. It is only now, while scribing my account, that I realize that I didn't contemplate at that instant what a pity it was that the roads I tread on had just the singular patron. Now I have. It is no less a pity now.

Any which way, all worldly or ethereal thoughts aside, I was finally greeted by a huge cloud burst and embraced by a blanket of water droplets. The sparkle in my observant eye noticed through minimal visibility a vast number of silly old fools running for cover, worrying about their health, and for heaven's own sake, cursing the rain. I paid little heed, as another opportunity came my lonely way. I saw the ice-cream parlour waiting to close, as if inviting the last customer, the best for last, of course. And I enjoyed my lovely butterscotch cone like I had never had one. Like I had never had one, huh. You can't possibly imagine the exhilarating current of air produced when you hold your cone close to your chin. Now that's something you ought to do before you die. The flowing air before, after and during the rain cools by convection and you feel a cold wave on your face. A cold jitter preceded my carefree smile. Time to make a dash for it, I said to myself; and I purposely ran toward my house, not intending to leave an inch of my clothing as an offering to the heavenly aqueducts. Which made me momentarily think. It has been proved that one gets more wet while running, as compared to walking. However, obviously, one reaches one's destination that much quicker. Now how much water have our clothes absorbed in either case, comparatively?

Aww, darn it! Let the bigger boys think about that. I made my way splashing on puddles, dirtying my jeans finally to my home; as I regained a dozen years in a matter of seconds. These years, of course, I hope to lose again, sooner rather than later.

* This statement inspired by a statement made by Vir Sanghvi, in his show, 'A Matter of Taste'. A post on food shows or shows for foodies is obviously pending.

Off-White? Nah.

Once upon a rare time I looked at myself in the mirror and the first and most instinctive colour I could describe my teeth was 'Off-White'. My faked smile turned natural. The reason? I remembered the blessed advertisement in which the amazingly cute kid replies to the seemingly under-rated question "What colour are your teeth, kids?". And he says, in an angelic tone that I or any other person who's ever seen that advertisement would ever forget, "Off-White!". I loved it. It's one of those things one remembers that will never cease to paste a smile on one's face. It's a happy statement.

But this raises a question that I've been wanting to ask. What was the brand of that toothpaste? Which, in turn, brings me to the question that this post revolves around. Are the choicest of advertisements bigger than the brands they endorse?

The Hutch ad (I hate using acronyms and slang alike. I'm learning to adjust through this, though. Thank goodness for blogging) with the unforgettable pet dog; the brilliantly choreographed Nokia ads featuring the tatooed guys and the canoes; the creative genius of the Honda ad (I'm not sure if it's open to public eye), to name some of my favourites. Noticeably, though, none of these actually have any direct relation with the attributes/features of the product/company. It seems Ogilvy, Mather and (warring-)family have moments of creative brilliance, pieces of of extraordinary audio-visual/emotional appeal, and that in the process somehow relate it to one of their core principles or fantastic features. Far fetched, no doubt.

Now there are three kinds of ads today. One, the simple, low-budget 30 second reminders that this product still humbly exists in stores near you. These may also include scientific research of some kind. "Bah! Who cares?" Second, where the starlets and models start to filter in. They reveal, with much hesitation, some new product/feature available to the dear consumer in an (modestly termed) 'innovative' way. "Bah! Who cares? Hey, but who's that model, man?" Another sub-type of these exists, which purely attack the sentiments/emotions of the to-be consumer. I don't like. They unnecessarily exaggerate. "Poor old man, had to go all the way to the bank earlier, now just has to make a phone-call!" The third, well, is nothing but an ostentatious display of raw brand power (read money). Here, the big stars dance, act, flaunt and flex their muscles. And they say to you, "Yeah, well, we are endorsing something. But don't bother about that, guys. Get a load of this first!". And the girls go, "Gawd! Ooooh! Look at Hrithik! Isn't he looking, just, you know, like, fab!?"

Let me say, at the very not-so-outset, that I dislike interruptions in the cherished time I share with my television programmes. I hate forgetting what I was watching. Of course, one or two ads in the middle, tickling the creative fraction of my mind are most cetainly welcome. But then, of course, coming back to my trivial point, I am easily able to associate the ads mentioned a few paragraphs ago with their brands. Any which way, I think it's genius, this business of advertising and marketing. Who knows how they affect market share or if anyone, for that matter, is compelled to buy the product after seeing flowery advertisements which, in my opinion, have nothing to do with the product under consideration. But I like. Stay within limits, Mather, and thou shalt be appreciated with all my heart and soul.

Sivoham

Beyond the waking, dream and sleep states; beyond the conscious, unconscious and memories; beyond ignorance, knowledge and intuition; beyond all thoughts, feeling and psychic modifications; beyond all qualities, definitions and words; beyond sights and forms; revealed in the silence of the pure heart I exist. In me, worlds and words resolve. I am peace absolute, goodness absolute and oneness absolute. I am the fourth dimension, the great beyond and I am Siva.

Sivoham
~Manudkya Upanishad, Mantra 7.

With you..

My soul-wings have grown,
And with the seeds we have sown..
Green breathes life divine,
Through this sea of a lifetime..
And within, above,
This ocean of love,
I can sense Sunshine..

Apart from the poem, let me stress on the fact that it's a 5-7 syllable pattern.. Also, it's a sort of a combination between a routine aabb rhyme with a limerick-style bbccb, which creates a half-Sonnet as I like to call it.. Yay!

The Dawn..

The Angel taketh her hand and blest the canvas with 'er grace..
She doth but create mountains, and rivers and great cities alike..
She doth give life to trees, and to good men;
And taketh away from those who dare sin..
She giveth to me the gray-vest viewsing..
An Angel ever did bequeath to her child..

Another rout of a routine day and we negotiated for a dine-out outing. I hope you could have seen the drag of a face I felt burdened to carry, for it is not usual. I insist on your presence there for I know, these words are not nearly enough to describe the death of activity in my mind during that array of insignificant events. A few months away from home, and I embody home-sickness. Anyway, that was all to change, albeit momentarily.

In the midst of the crowd, we sit, sipping something I do not remember, gorging something I care not to remember. Any which way, in this particular direction, I notice this family of three, blissfully enjoying their meal on a table for two, with the child, I trust to be not more than a third-of-a-dozen years old, on the fathers lap, particularly disturbed and in envy (I had learnt from fables authored apparently by my mother, that she insists involve a protagonist that somehow resembles me; hence I could make out..) regarding her mother paying undue attention to food and her husband (not necessarily in that particular order), than to her. I smiled; somehow she reminded me of myself. The only way to pacify her was, as the following series of short-and-sweet events revealed to me, for the mother to take her into her own arms and stroke her gently on her back and feed her with her bare hands, bite-by-bite. And then she was to be set free onto her elder sister (elder only by about a couple of years) where she'd easily pass the remainder of the time taken by her parents to finish off their meal, brimming with the satisfaction of the day's work done.

As I follow the hop-walking sugar-coated white chocolate of a little girl that she was, I stumble upon another table for two, occupied by another little girl, who seemed to be (not from resemblance, but merely from the sequence of events that preceded) her elder sister. My engineer mind (trust me it wasn't me, not that I am ashamed of it; just that it's odd to me then as it is to you now) was immensely satisfied at the satisfaction of the law of proportionality, with each of the family now having (relative to my perception) precisely one seat.

On her table, I notice, what I remember to be six glasses with differing quantities of water. The first impression was that of that musical instrument we're all so fond of being played. However, the lack of any sound, or that of intent to play, or that of a metal spoon, pivotal to the instrument led me to believe otherwise. Next, I remember, very lucidly, I noticed three straws on the tables, a-third of each was still drenched in water; and yet another one in her bright white hand, held with the apparent finesse of an artist. And she dipped the straw in precisely the third glass from her left, then flicked it further left on the table. Further, she bathed (now to a lesser degree) the seemingly too-long-to-handle straw (I remember it seemed disturbing to me at that time, an artist of her caliber was using such archaic measures) to the second glass from the right, then reiterating the flicking procedure. After she was satisfied, and I could easily see the tension wearing off her beautiful face (well, it's unfortunate I have no other word for something so beautiful), she caressed the water she had laid down with her fore-finger and spread it in, what I could make out of it to be a rectangular structure, with an upward-pointing triangle on top. Aah, a small little village house of her own. She then used her other instrument of creation, the straw (I was already beginning to miss her holding it) to fill in the voids with whatever was the vivid colour she imagined to be.

Following the house, she created the trees, a gushing river with a boat and a smiling boatman waving at her in the joy of creation, in it. She lit up the sky with an orange-vermilion sun and painted the rest of the void with shades morphing from the hot surface of the sun to the tranquil turquoise of dawn. She didn't leave the little barking dog, or the village-women begging for life, and gave them clothes she was magnanimous enough to provide. Somewhere from the woods of the far side across the river, she left a cow to graze all she could, and a well stood nearby, around which half-a-dozen children were playing hide and seek. Further across the page, there were approaching the kings own men, with eyes gleaming, helping the sunshine to grow, with the aid the gracious saviour-of-all had sent. There were also fishermen, scouring the river for the catch of the day, and the their women preparing the grills for the village feast there was today. It was a carnival, I say! The way the temple had been adorned with all the glitter and food the village could conjure up with and more. The priests prepared for the customary traditions and fire lit up the temple foyer. It was the start of the new year..

And then she looked up at me. And I turned away. I hope she didn't believe me to be disturbing her in her own world, in her own figment of imagination. Her new world so pure, it could crush a creature as adulterated as me. Yet I cannot and will not let go of the smile she inspired me to wear to this moment. This is the beginning..