Dragging The Line

Makin' a livin' the old hard way
Takin' and givin' by day by day
I dig snow and rain and the bright sunshine
Draggin' The Line

Finally, I’ve something to write for my defunct blog. For starters I’m done living on diet coke, cigarettes, Pearl Jam and DC metro. One year of semi-bohemian and semi-constipated (literally) life has ended with the result that I get to be a bona-fide shrink in four years (maybe even a Forensic Psychiatrist some day). But I don’t know whether I should be excited or not, for I have to leave DC (and move to Ohio) -the city which I had started not just like but love-in addition to, I’m ambivalent regarding my admission. Even after all these years I have no clue what I want to be in life or what I want out of it. I at times become so imbued with indifference that everything around me seems inconsequential and disconnected. I’m like this autumn leaf drifting in space, waiting to fall on ground and crumble into non-existence.

My dog Sam eats purple flowers
Ain't got much, but what we got's ours
We dig snow and rain and the bright sunshine
Draggin' The Line

DC was a novel experience (it had to be) - nerve wracking at times and other times ecstatic- and so much changed in my personal and professional life but I’ve again reverted (rather remained loyal) to my anguished self, trying to find my Ithaca. I think, my life for some inexplicable reason seems to move in a never-effacing-vicious circle, and even, all the tangents seem to lead to the same loop: reading the same books, listening to the same music, feeling the same emotion, same unrequited dreams, writing the same insipid poetry on the same angst filled thoughts, and the ever self-defeating thought that I have again fallen for the same girl (again, again and again!).

I feel fine, I'm talkin' 'bout peace of mind
I'm gonna take my time, I'm gettin' the good sign
Draggin' The Line

I have litany of experiences to write about -the Sri Lankan landlord whose beautiful and smart daughter who would drop me to the metro station every morning and how the landlord one day had a completely loony idea of rechristening my name as Gurusinghae so that I can play in the Lankan club cricket team against the Indian club team; about how every third doctor in the Veteran Affairs Hospital in DC happened to be an Indian; more importantly about the surreal life of most of the veterans who fought in Vietnam and those fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan- how their life is filled with disarray, depression, entitlement and drugs; and about the horrible experiences they narrate of the war which can just make you cringe and squirm and lose your mind. But I don’t want to write anything, for I’m lazy and don’t want to come out of the slothfulness which has enveloped me. Also, I have started to feel that writing is no more cathartic (at least to me), and is a puffed up talent. And, to add to the misery I’ve started to re-read Nausea (by Sartre). I don’t know, whenever I read him I nose dive in a quagmire of nothingness and despondency. But the more I’m reading him nowadays, the faster I’m coming to a conclusion that his philosophy is borrowed, redundant, and meaningless (how ironic?). I think I should start re-reading my favorite author (no points for guessing!), and also Heidegger to see if one can really make sense out of life. Can one? What the heck, I’m not going to read anything, rather binge on the plethora of red wine I have and mull over whether L. Pasteur was true or not when he said, “ There is more philosphy in a bottle of wine than in all books”.

Lovin' the free and feelin spirit of
hugging a tree
when you get near it.
Diggin' snow and rain and the bright sunshine
Draggin' The Line


Draggin' the line

"In my insanity lies my greatness"

EXISTENTIAL ANGST

He took his café-late and sat on the table facing
the entrance of the union station.
Through the window up on the roof he could see the sun was not on fire, and the grandeur of night was still to light up.

He sipped the coffee and bit the cold turkey
sandwich languidly, while the neurons in
his mind were kept active by an old melody.
Even in the hustle-bustle of the station;
surrounded by myriads faces he felt a pang of loneliness,
nay, not lonely but estranged and disconnected
between the ostentatious show of emotion- of love and respect
in this country, and the struggle one puts back-home
just to prove of being a human.

He thought if there was any destiny to his existence,
And the trains he needs to take
before he finds the station he needs to get off at,
he thought of, how many more faces he needs to
lock in his memory before the space
in his brain runs out, how many more pages of poetry
he needs to read before his life becomes a poem too.
And then like an epiphany he realized what Cavafy meant.
Maybe unlike Odysseus he will never have an Ithaka,
but even the search of the mirage is a journey of experience.

He glanced at the page of the book he was reading,
threw the half-emptycoffee cup in the bin,
and walked into the dark platform to catch yet another train.

ITHAKA

"Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor,
Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become,
so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean."

~C.P.Cavafy

I believe in experiencing the “experience”, so I find it extremely naive when people try to convert almost every experience into wisdom. Even though, I’m also guilty of committing the same ingenuousness.

Read the complete poem

After I have written a poem, a fearful though always comes in my mind- whether I’ll be able to write another one or not.

SMOKE RINGS

He vacillates nonchalantly on his easy chair,
staring at the dusk covered alley.
The men standing below the window of his room,
can smell of old tobacco mingled with
Arabic coffee emanating from him.
In the room,
the whiskey drops are dispassionately
falling on the floor from the broken
old bottle lying on the table.
Adding to this pitter-patter, is
the disconcerting sound of the radio,
and the wild love making of the young couple next door.
He seems untroubled by all the clatter,
but his mind is agitated.
Soon a smoke ring will form in his mind,
and he will jump ecstatically.
His eyes will glow with excitement,
his face will show desperation,
as he will try to concatenate his thoughts into a meaningful verse.
The black ink will wash the virgin white paper.
A self-conceited smile will appear on his face,
as once again, he will make people read his words.
People will read and mock his appalling poetry.
He’ll scorn back at them for their lack of poetic understanding.
But soon the poet in him will calm down,
and he’ll again go and sit on his easy chair.
Only to vacillate nonchalantly,
and wait for another smoke ring to appear.

MOONDANCE

Waves splashed on
the rocky beach.
She sat holding his hands.
The proverbial enchant
running through them.
A glance of seduction,
a mischievous restraint.

Tender touch of her face;
pressing of lips.
Their ragging spirits
filling with rapture.
She locks him in
the chain of her arms.

He rustles his hand
through her dark hair,
to her silken skin.
They caress each other,
kissing like lovers
on death bed.
Her luminous
and unblemished body
glows in the unspoken night.
He lays his wet lips
on her pristine body,
as she streaks his back.

Silence is interrupted
by the moaning of
two lovers in ecstasy.
Storms and desires
are all ignited.
Bodies’ burn,
figures crash,
particles dance
while in one
fleeting moment
two souls unite
into one.

CRICKET

A field of grass around the battle of 22 yards
A toss of luck, and an army of 11
The ball of venom and the attack of bat
Cutting through the point with a grin of delight
The ability to drive gives a chance to survive
A cry of anguish and a duck of fall
The skill of defense with a class to hook
Catching in air to the clatter on ground
Sweat of fear and the wind of crown
A look of pain and a jump of joy
Arms in air to the heads on ground
Men in blue play this game, and
They say cricket, is its name.

My Lost Mind

In my mind,
hides
the madness of
fixation
for
a memory
trampled
and destroyed.

In my mind,
survives
a void which
has become obdurate,
and
the silence
which has lost
its meaning.

In my mind,
lives
a thought
lost in the
abstractness of
time and space,
and
the sinister
darkness
of nubilous insanity.

To-spend-or-not-to-spend!

I’m in a conundrum, in a philosophical predicament. The moral and the righteous side of my character, is trying to kill the desire residing in me by overriding my dishonest side. While the action which I’m contemplating to do, is miles away from being branded as insincere or fraudulent. Now we all grow up to the ideas which are fed to us. Our jejune mind is framed to the concepts, by not only the experiences we have, but also by our preconceived notions. Whatever the case maybe, we become conditioned to react to situations according to these concepts. And when you try to act in antithesis to these formed concepts there is clash of ideas, and hence, the birth of the conundrum.

Two days back, I had gone to railway station to help my mother board the train to Delhi. And while waiting for the arrival of the train, I was dither–dallying when suddenly I found myself staring at two five hundred rupees notes lying just inches away from my feet. My first reaction as I picked up the dough was of utter bewilderment and amazement as, in 26 years of my life not once I’ve had the experience of rejoicing at an unexpected and fortunate catch, while I on the other hand have done enough of this social-fortunate-service to be labeled as a philanthropist.

After floor-lifting the dough I proudly strolled to my parents, and told them excitedly but in hushed tone about the windfall. And as was expected, I was told by my mother (who happens to be an epitome of idealism!!) that we should observe if anybody comes and starts looking for the money, as it wasn’t prudent to go to the counter and make an announcement. Further, if I wasn’t able to get the money back to its rightful owner, it was to be given to some destitute and needy. So for the next twenty minutes I waited for somebody to prop up asking for the lost cash, but nobody came. The train arrived; my mother boarded it and left, while I stood there with thousand bucks in my wallet, and with not so righteous thoughts burgeoning in my mind.

Now I’ve been conditioned to the idea that you are rightful owner of only that money for which you have paid by your sweat and blood, exception being the money which your (grand) parents/uncle/aunty/friends bequeath to you. I left the railway station with my mind contemplating that this money wasn’t earned in a dishonest or corrupt way; rather it might be nature’s way of paying me back and showing gratitude for my benevolence (I’ve lost two mobile and two watches in the past one year). But my conditioned mind wasn’t ready to give in. It made me feel horrible and miserable, as it bombarded me with one despondent thought after another. I realized that it might be somebody’s hard earned money, somebody who was suppose to give this money to his/her old parents, somebody who required this money for the treatment of his/her child. I felt sad for the person, but I couldn’t do anything. I was helpless.

I went home and asked my father what to do about the money. He was of the opinion that nothing is right or wrong, but it’s only our perceptions which shape our actions. Not much help, so I decided to go with the karmic theory. For two days, I kept killing my desire to spend those pieces of paper on myself, and hoping that somebody needy will come my way. But to my utter disbelief, I found nobody, and also not even a single beggar bumped into me (now this is another type of conundrum).

For two days, whenever I opened my wallet those two pieces kept staring at me, as if berating me to get them rid of my fucking-shitty-wallet. But again I was helpless. After hours of exasperation, I finally decided to get rid of the load on my conscience by actively searching for beggars. I went to the market place, to other places of public hangout but to my astonishment I found not even a single one (Do you think India is shinning?!?).

Finally, I decided to go to the railway station to get rid of the money by hook or crook. It will seem stupid or even ironical when I purchased a platform ticket for three bucks, but one can get desperate when the problem is to get rid of 1000 bucks. I walked all around the platforms trying to get hold of a person who fitted my version of indigent. Disappointed after fifteen minutes of search, I came out and decided to forcefully thrust the money on some rickshaw or auto driver.

As I was coming out I finally saw my moment of glory. A rickshaw driver with tousled appearance, emotionless countenance, tattered clothes, and one feet bandaged was sitting on his rickshaw and smoking. I ran towards him in joy. As I reached him I could see he was startled by my sudden appearance, and was about to ask me whether I needed a drive. But I shocked him further when I asked him about his feet. He told me he had met with an accident few days back. This was enough for me, as I saw this as an excuse to shove him with a thousand bucks on the pretext that he needed to see a good doctor.

After forcefully thrusting the money in now shocked-to-death rickshaw driver, I treaded back to my car carrying a much lighter wallet and conscience. And with the thought “I hate my conscience!” in my mind.

PS- I’ve written all this, as I need confirmation from people that what I did was right. Otherwise I’ll go back to the railway station, and get the money back from the druggie-rickshaw-driver, and if he refuses I’ll not only beat-him-to-death but also rob him of three rupees which I spent on the platform ticket.

AN UNTOLD STORY

Born in a mediocre hospital,
To a mediocre family.
His parents were mediocre in education,
Worked in a mediocre firm
To earn a mediocre income.
So it was natural that
He had a mediocre childhood-
Went to a mediocre school,
Got mediocre grades, and
Had friends who were mediocre too.
Even after schooling his life dint change.
He went on to become a mediocre doctor;
Treating only mediocre patients.
His love life was no less mediocre.
He wedded a mediocre maid and lived a mediocre married life.
For years he sustained to live at a mediocre pace…
Giving every second of his life to perfect the-art-of-mediocrity.
At 70, he had become a bona-fide mediocre.
So it was not unusual when he died a mediocre death,
Suffering from a mediocre disease (they said it was common cold).
On the day of his mediocre funeral-
All the city’s mediocre came,
And when interviewed, all of them
Blurted in unison-
“He was a genius among all of us”.




Written after reading an interesting post- “The genius and the mediocrity” by Jerry

ELEGY FOR A TEAR DROP

Drop of melancholy,
slowly spreads over
the placid façade.
Fleeting circle
carrying with it
the silent feelings,
swells, only to splinter
in countless shreds
to lay rest in the captivity
of forgetfulness.

Finally we have a winner!

After 21 days of grueling and exhausting cycling covering 3547 km over the placid flat lands, and gruesome and deadly mountains, the Tour-de-France finally finished in Paris (on sunday).

The rookie from Spain, Alberto Contador became the first rider since Jan Ullrich in 1997 to win both the maillot jaune and the white best young rider's jersey, and he's the first Spaniard to triumph in the three-week grand tour since Miguel Indurain's five-race run ended in 1995. Both of these are remarkable feats considering the fact that the 24-year-old needed emergency surgery following a gruesome crash in the Tour of Asturias in 2004, and ended up in the hospital, nearly losing his life to a brain hemorrhage.

The seemingly endless drama that made this year’s tour one of the most contentious, controversial and compelling Tour's in the race's 104-year history finally ended when Italian Daniele Bennati (Lampre-Fondital), crossed the finishing line to win the most prestigious race on the Champs-Élysées.

The 2007 edition will be remembered for epic battles in the Pyrenees, stage 19's dramatic race-deciding time trial, a litany of crashes - including two involving unleashed dogs - and a steady stream of doping scandals that saw pre-race favorite Alexander Vinokourov kicked out of the race after returning a positive test for undergoing an illegal blood transfusion, and then-race leader Rasmussen's dismissal by his Rabobank team for lying about his whereabouts on the lead-up to the race and missing several out-of-competition tests. But in spite of the all furrow and flutter, the tour will be remembered for the way Contador rode, and how is indomitable and unconquerable spirit won him the most coveted award in the sport of cycling; an award which every cyclist dreams when he paddles the cycle for the first time.

We don’t know if Contador will be able to repeat this feat in coming years, but one thing is for sure that his name has been written in the history books of professional cycling.

PS- Of the 189 riders that started the tour, only 141 finished. The difference between Contador (first) and Cedal Evans (second) was only 23 seconds. And between Evans (second) and Levi LEIPHEIMER was 8 seconds. Can it get any closer than this?

More bad news

This is the most bizarre of all tours that I’ve followed up till date.

Within twenty hours of Vino being thrown out of the tour, comes the most shocking of all news. Yellow jersey leader Michael Rasmussen has been consumed by the doping scandal. Rasmussen was kicked out of the race by his Dutch team Rabobank late on Wednesday for lying about where he was last month - he had said he was in Mexico when in fact he was in Italy. There had also been revelations that he had missed four random dope tests over the past 18 months.

And, as if this wasn’t enough, cycling fraternity was given more unpalatable news to digest. Cristian Moreni has tested positive for testosterone after last week's 11th stage, and has been asked to leave along with the entire team of Cofidis.

So, 3 teams out of tour in less than twenty four hours.

This tour is fast becoming fantastically outlandish.

Check the tour videos, esp. the rider protest at the start of stage 16

A Champion's Disgrace

I’m distraught,
I’m feeling miserable,
I’m shattered.

The man from Kazakhstan, whose performance in Monday's stage was feted in the French press with headlines such as the 'Courage of 'Vino'', has failed the homologous blood doping.

Yes, Vinokourov is out of the tour, and so is his team Astna.

From being a pre-race favorite, to going through a horrendous accident on stage 5, and losing time on the ensuing flat stages, to then carrying his 60 stitched body, through the alpine mountains with pain and suffering, but showing guts and courage, and audacity to compete, Vinokourov was on path of immortalizing himself.

He showed lot of mettle on Saturday when he won the stage 13, and in the post race interview, had told reporters that he was optimistic of his chances going in the 3 beastly stages of Pyrenees. However, on the very first stage of Pyrenees he was blown away, clocking 28 minutes behind the winner Alberto Contador. His tour was surely over, and so was his chance of winning the race.

People were expecting that now as he was out of contention, he’ll abandon the tour, and save himself of the all the agony and distress. But on the very next day, he showed the world that why he was has been such a great rider over the years. The whole of stage 15 was like a canvas pianted by Vino’s mental resilience and tenacity. And he not only showed the glimpse of his old-self, but also won the stage convincingly.

All these 16 days, he was hailed by the fellow riders and revered by the people for his never-to-say-die approach, for his fighting spirit.

Then on Tuesday (yesterday) came the terrible news.

The undulating tour of Vino’ finally came to an end, though, not with glory as was expected, but with disgrace. And as the word spread, the whole of cycling fraternity was in shock and dismay. One of the riders broke down when he heard the news, for him– “Vino’ was one of the most beautiful riders in the peloton. He was one of my favorite riders. And if a guy of his stature and class has done that, we all might as well pack our bags and go home right now”. Few felt betrayed and were outraged at how these drug junkies were killing the sport. Though, most riders were restrained in their reaction, but deep down everybody was sad and disappointed, because they all thought of Vino' as intelligent, charismatic champion.

As for me, I don’t know what I felt, yes, I was upset and poignant. But above that I was left with the thought, as to, why did he do this? Why?!? Was it due to fact that the tour which he was tipped to win had gone horribly wrong, and he wanted to salvage something out of it. Or was it that he had realized that at 33 his body wasn’t growing any young, and next year odds will be stacked highly against him. I don’t know, and I think nobody will ever know till he comes out with a confession.

With last year’s winner Flyod Landis still facing doping charges, and with this year’s tour also marred by drug acquisitions, I think what it has done is that it has sown the seeds of skepticism in my mind. Now every time a rider comes out from down-and-dump condition, and performs astoundingly, I’ll be doubtful as to whether he performed on his own natural ability, or was it due to the effect of some contraband substance. In the coming days, I’ll try to reason out my suspicious approach, but reason is fallible, and so are our champions.

Twist In My Sobriety

You pick the newspaper as you open the door lock to your small, begrimed and cluttered hostel room. The air in the room is warm and humid, and ironically it smells like the emergency room you are coming from. You release yourself of the burden of the white coat and stethoscope, and walk to the corner to switch on the fan, only to realize that there is no power. You feel exasperated, and want to cuss the electricity department, the government, but then all your vengeance falls on the colleague who took an untimely off from the work. You fall on the dilapidated chair, which creaks with every breath of yours. You open the can of beer which you have picked while coming from the hospital. You sip the cold liquid, along with the drops of sweats flowing from your forehead. You close your eyes to kill the chaotic thoughts running in your mind. The moment you shut yourself from your surroundings, your mind goes back twenty hours when you were fast asleep, recovering from a crapulent bacchanalia when you got this call from professor to fill in for the truant colleague. And you were forced to give away you hard earned sleep, and get your ass back to the morbid emergency. When you reached the emergency, it was in utter chaos and mayhem. Seemingly normal people where pouring in with seemingly innocuous problems, and seemingly sick people who were improving few days back where becoming seemingly very sick. Soon started the fall, and like pack-of-cards they all fell. First went the bed number one, then the fifth, then the sixth, then the fourth, then the second, and then the third. Seeing all this carnage, the seventh one got so scared that he pleaded to us for the leave. You were so dazed, that you were convinced that the whole world was conspiring against you, to make you feel miserable and despondent. For, how can one justify so many people feeling ill on the day when you yourself are mentally fatigued, and above all when you have to do twenty four hours instead of the twelve hours? During the ensuing hours you kept ordering interns to carry out the orders as fast and as diligently as they could, you pleaded your senior resident to help you in putting treatment, you asked the sisters to take smaller breaks, you shouted at the relatives of the patients to, not to make a fucking fish market in the emergency, and you compromised the high standards you have set while writing history. In between all this you sat for twenty minutes, took two pills to prevent your head from bursting, drank ten cups of insipid coffee, and ate a pack of glucose biscuits. All these hours you fought life, you fought death, you fought yourself, and if this fight wasn’t enough you came back to room to fight more.

Mirza Ghalib Decoded

dil-e-naadaaN tujhe huaa kya hai ?
aaKHir is dard kee dawa kya hai

The lover is distraught and troubled and he is asking- what has happened to him? Why is he suffering like this? His simpleton heart is all lost in her love. Even if she does not take notice of him, he craves for her embrace, as the pain that dwells in his heart can only be cured by her healing touch.

hamko unse wafa ki hai ummeed
jo naheeN jaante wafa kya hai

He yearns for faithfulness, from a person who does not even know the meaning of love. However, he feels once she knows the value of her love, she will reciprocate with the same feelings. Today, she is ignorant but tomorrow she will shower on him, her affection and adore him to the deepest.

(These two lines happen to be my all time favorite. They are full of pain, but still give hope and optimism. He pines for loyalty from a person for whom he is non-existent; I think that is the beauty of love, as just the thought of somebody makes you live through every second of your life.)

ham haiN mushtaaq aur woh bezaar
ya ilaahee ! yeh maajra kya hai ?
[mushtaaq = interested, bezaar = displeased/sick of ]

He ardently loves her, but she always seems to be disinterested in him. He always looks at her amorously, only to find her eyes staring beyond him. Lord! Please help him, for he cannot live without her, make her love him…

jab ki tujh bin naheeN koee maujood
phir ye hangaama, 'ei KHuda ! kya hai

She is not with him, but he seems to feel her presence. He can smell her fragrance; he can see the delight and mischief in her eyes. Is he hallucinating? He knows she isn’t here, then why is he experiencing all this?

jaan tum par nisaar karta hooN
maiN naheeN jaanata duaa kya hai

Today, he gives her, his love. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be blessed by her love, he doesn’t know whether his prayers have the power to bring her to him. All he knows that his existence is doomed without her presence; he’ll give his everything to get that elusive touch that eludes his worthless life. He’ll give her his life, for he has nothing else to give her…

dil-e-naadaaN tujhe huaa kya hai ?
aaKHir is dard kee dawa kya hai