Asterix-Tintinix Comix

I was reading The Adventures of Tintin - Red Rackham’s Treasure this morning. I was thinking about about Hergé’s brilliance more than Tintin’s search for the treasure. I really wanted to draw the Belgian master reporter again and searched for Tintin, Haddock, and Calculus in one frame. When none satisfied my hunger for strokes, I dropped the idea, and surfed online for a good picture. While I searched a few, I thought, “Why Tintin alone? Let’s ‘innovate’.” So, I got Asterix and Tintin in one (page) frame.

It wasn't difficult to do this. I obviously replaced Captain Haddock with Asterix. 

Take a look at one of my old Tintin Drawings.

P.S: Oops, I forgot to mention little Snowy. I put the white furry canine in the middle, beside his master. I should have got Dogmatix in this, for his company. Hmmm!

OK! I’m off to investigate why I am attracted to Belgian people. Here’s another Belgian genius I drew a long time ago.

Did you know Hergé's actual name is Georges Prosper Remi?

Au Revoir!

Misters of Cricket

Those Men. This Man. Their Management.

The next few paragraphs don’t just reflect agony or pain but refine my expression; my opinion about some Gods and their subjects.

When I tuned into the match between India and South Africa in the recently concluded — a conclusion for India — ICC World T20, I had my eyes on the Indian batting lineup and, in particular, Virat Kohli. I must say I didn't have my hopes high on the sluggers or the sluggish in the team. Minutes before the game, I spent a quiet moment with myself trying to raise the heat in my debate with my alter-ego. I strongly believe that the players who make the composition — for the paper and for the competitors — mighty and ruthless are, in clouded reality, deep inside a cocoon fighting their beleaguered and distraught spirit. My alter-ego, on the other hand, ridiculed my belief and expressed confidence like never before that the team is just like a fast ageing mouse. It crawls fast on young legs, but, all along its life, is surrounded by the fear of getting caught. I let the sound of the debate fade into questioning silence and waited with bated breath to get a glimpse of the young emerging Virat Kohli.

Virat walked in, like he always does, with unparalleled charisma. His determination and commitment was evident in the way he played his first shot through the covers. It didn’t have to result in a boundary but it had the mark of genius and characteristic brilliance that is often associated with his much older teammate. Weird, we wait for runs to be scored but we underestimate what stroke-play or defensive steadiness can present us! And I quote his commitment only because it carried the weight of truth and patriotism when he spoke to Rameez at the India-Pakistan post-match presentation.

I often have this discussion with my brother and my friends about how India is meeting its past — although it is making frequent visits to the unsatisfying times. My teenage days in the 90s remind me of how heavily dependent the country was on the legend and how we, despite occasional brilliances from the team, end up looking at the scoreboard to see x-runs-to-qualify-for-the-final. Latest praise and accolades poured over Virat’s improving brilliance suggest that we have a young legend who has the blood of a warrior and does not mind using his wrists and fingers — sometimes just one of them — to make a statement. And, most will agree, how he is today’s equivalent of those old days!

I vividly recall Sourav Ganguly’s opinion that this-pressure-is-bringing-the-best-in-him. True, if that means he has the stamina to carry a billion hopes along with his own. (Yes, even Nike’s #BleedBlue ad begins with Virat waking up to attend to the country’s hopes.) And he does possess the ability and magic that nobody else in the team has yet unleashed. He did talk about “carrying the burden” referring to Sachin whom he carried on his shoulders after last year’s World Cup victory against the lankans. The teary-eyed legend(s)’ comments stood out then and are slowly turning out to be true. His pain and disappointment after India’s loss to SA, like Harsha Bhogle said, is not something you can do for the camera.

While I write this in sincere admiration and subdued haste — for the fear of losing a budding genius — I constantly think about the group and the system the man is a part of.

With every passing day, my respect for MSD, the Indian captain, has only been growing. He, like nobody else, possesses the power of spitting truth in the face of cameras and counterparts and making bold moves that are sometimes termed “tricks” or “blind strokes” by people who have little knowledge of facing the heat of the post/sport. I will, however, admit that the captain panics and tries to play defensive or unconventional but he is a man aware of his responsibilities. I am sure he knows he is accountable for India’s poor form to the Indian people first and then to the management that manages him. The management, now, is a legend in itself!

I was reading a few articles and websites online that have called India’s failure to make it to the semis of World T20 a direct consequence of the cash-rich IPL and that that the team hasn't qualified even once since its inception. I am a huge fan of the tournament, of the format, of the players, and of the sport. But the bug is breeding in the system where the lords have their eyes set on future seasons of the premier league with miniscule attention given to the formats that breed players and grounds that build skill. Grounds aren’t just a platform to perform but a platform that also provides feedback for the players. If Ishant Sharma isn’t hitting the deck hard, the problem is not just in his ankle or his weak arm throwing the ball at a mere 130 kmph. Our pitches just aren’t good enough to make friends with live grass or the curator who complains of half-cut paychecks. Improvement begins with addressing the first mistake rather than taking a leap to show the world that boys in the country can travel the world and fight budding cricketers from New Zealand or Australia or USA. There is money that can be spent on giving the talent the atmosphere to perform. Most of the A-league players have seen enough of the world to travel places!

At the end of it all, I just wish to come to terms with all debates around the M’s. Or just shake hands with my alter-ego with whom I have had quite a tough time.

Rapping

First Fall

My shoe, caught between the cracks of the rocks, was turning into a raddled burden. My backpack got heavier with different colors of rocks I was always fascinated by. I sensed the danger in my hunch. My grip wobbled. My white shirt turned transparent from perspiration. Sweat trickled down my temple giving me an itch. I had to resist the urge to wipe my face with a shoulder-stroke. I wouldn’t want to make a fatal move. The weight would become a weightless fall, eventually.

I looked up in the sky. Huge dense clouds gathered to sound my thunderous fall. The forest beneath – with parched dry trees – was awaiting season’s first rain. A slip meant death from piercing!

I was already wet from the sweat and the slow dew.  My grip on the slippery cleft was weakening. My shoe refused to come out. I was past the point of praying for help. I couldn’t ease the weight on my back for the rocks were meant for a study. And, ironically, for my life. They had breakthroughs hidden inside them.

Help! Help! Help! Shit, not a rerun of 127 hours!

“You think you know the place?” the director of my research project asked me. “Yes, I do. Deep inside the jungle,” I said confidently but with a whispering “maybe” at the end of the statement. I was excited at the thought of getting him the stones. And visiting the haunted hills to prove that science heeds no myths. “You do know that this project is no secret and…” I cut him short, “Yes, I do. Could you just let me go?”

There was a legend around the jungle that said, “Natives of the place treated the valley as the home for the angels who brought dead men back to life. Strangers to the place, on the contrary, would be cursed with a life of nightmares.”

I thought it was true. I was living a nightmare. My limbs played the game of opposites: my leg wanted to let free, my hand wanted to hold tight. Rain came. My mouth went dry. A tiny stone plunked onto my head. A girl was rappelling down; to help me perhaps. “Hand...” I called out. And then I passed out.

“You got yourself into this without any gear?” she asked when I opened my eyes. I was dressed in brand new whites. I was caught in a shock; in awe of her beauty.

 I could have made a perfect poster! Instead, I was being photographed by the Gods! And then she got there in time to save me. 

It was derisive madness. The place was no haunted. It just helped me fall into something.

Of deprivation

On a false night

She called him in the dead of the night. "Here. Right now!" she said. "What? Why? It is three in the morning," he replied. "I want you here in 15," she retorted. He cleared his eyes drooping heavy with sleep. "Damn! How does she expect me to meet her now?" he thought. Last night's heavy dose of sleeping pills put him to sleep so deep that days of insomnia seemed to take leave.


He put on his trousers, torn and faded; reminding him of borrowing a new pair from his friend. He spent the last few months of his life living off his friend's pocket, and paying his huge visa bills with his savings. He could lose his wallet and not fear losing sleep!


He drank a bottle of water before he stepped out. It felt like the Sun left his heat with the Moon. The night temperature hovered around 32 degrees. After a day in the Sun doing market research, he now has the night to travel 10 miles. But how...


He locked the door to his 2-room apartment for which he pays a useless 3000 every month. Now left with how-to-travel question, he began walking cursing his shirt wet from sweat. He walked into a treeless street in the night's dead silence. He walked and waited for her call; his phone felt lighter with zero balance, and enjoyed a healthy battery for over a week. He walked past a 24/7 restaurant that flaunted a shiny board of 'all night pizza'. He walked in and took a glass of water. But he wanted more along his long walk to her place. "Pennyless," he recalled. Attempting to forget his misery, he decided to walk on singing Sinatra's 'Strangers in the night...'. 


"Excuse me, Sir," asked a blind old woman. It sent him creeps but replied, "Yes, how can I help you?" He suddenly felt the exchange of words like a role reversal of his job. "I need some water," asked the blind woman. He walked in to the restaurant, handed her a glass of water. And then bought a bottle of coke for himself. 


Heavy breeze began to blow across the street. Trees swayed with a whistling sound. He leaned on her friend's door and knocked on it several times while he waited for her to open it. "What the hell are you doing here at this time of the night?" she opened and yelled at him. "What? You called me a while ago, remember?" 
"When did I?" she replied.
"Half-an hour ago. I thought it was something urgent so here I am. And you say what and why and when?" he asked in frustration.
"No. You called me a while ago from a pay phone. Twice. I gave you directions too. And why did you even ask me the way here? You've visited me several times. Just when I asked you this, you disconnected the line," she said.
"No. I didn't. I didn't even call. And when did I visit you...ever? What are you talking about? Look into my pockets. I have not a single penny. How would I have called you at all?" he said in a fit of anger. "Look. Why are we arguing over this? I am drop dead drowsy. I need to get some sleep. Can you please tell me the reason you called me?" he asked calming his nerves.
"I did not call you and how in the world did you buy coke if you had no money" she asked.
"Look at this. This is your number," he showed her his call records.
"What? Wait. How do you know I had coke?"


The breeze got heavier and closed the door behind them.

Science. Dot.

An Idiot in the Story

Your thoughts can undergo such friction that you begin to wonder how your brain processes information. Seems senseless, you know. When you have two different thoughts served on a plate, raw, you would ideally have them one after the other. Unless your lifestyle and growth are marked by gluttony! The consequence of such a lifestyle choice is usually crap packed comedy. Here’s why.

I spent the day watching a programme of Science that talked about railway engines and USA’s Environmental Protection Agency. I quickly switched on to watching Air Crashinvestigation. Two different modes of transport, one common beauty – the physics of mechanics, I thought. I looked up Rolls –Royce on Wikipedia and with no proper means of justification, placed it above GE. Don’t ask me why. Sit in a Rolls-Royce and shut your mouth. Like Boeing & Airbus are the two largest makers of aeroplanes, the former two are the largest manufacturers of engines that are fitted in to these beauties. Now what? I could fly a plane. I know what’s what. Some pilot from Delta Airlines told me landing a plane with ILS is as easy as playing a videogame. [What!] I could make a brilliant pilot. [/What!]  If only I had 20/20 vision!

 I get disturbed by the ease of communication. Methods, rather. My twitter timeline keeps buzzing. My fingertips feel an itch. If I ignored reading them, the itch transforms in to pain. My diligence could fetch me several accolades. (That is how wonderfully well I check every tweet!) When renowned filmmakers, in their cataleptic state, rant about stalling the telecast of Vidya’s ‘The Dirty Picture’, you never question his ideas but begin to think before rejecting the insanity in every word of his. I switched on my TV to find it was another master on screen. Oh. It wasn’t beautiful Bidya. It was Amazing Aamir. Aamir began to give us a quiz. (I still miss @bhogleharsha. He was superb in his ESPN School quiz and was instrumental in shaping careers of many young men! I bitch about how much sense he made at IIM-A once. That was long ago when he was still bald.) So, Aamir asked me what Farhanitrate and Prerajulisation was. I, and the devil in the lisping giant Virus, began a frantic search for the definition. I used Google while the others used a textbook they were given. I didn’t know it was a test of Aamir’s skill as a teacher. At the end of the little exercise, he mentioned one point, fundamental to our learning, fundamental to our approach towards knowledge and life – Why the race? Why the herd mentality? Two big personalities taught me two big lessons - @bhogleharsha at IIM-A taught me about talent and attitude . Aamir taught me how to use it. I connected them. Getting caught in the crowd is easy. It is how you stand out and get noticed, matters.

It was past midnight when I put an end to Aamir’s class, a textbook written by Raju. [Putting on cool shades] In our names, there’s an intersection of 3 letters.[/Putting on cool shades] I then moved on to a class of my own – picking and processing thoughts served on a plate. It was a day with overflowing information and jigsawed knowledge. I take night classes for a bunch of idiots. I was to be a guest lecturer in an engineering college. I was called to teach dynamics. I took a metro and then it was bang! I met with an accident. (Well, I met with a metro that would go on to meet with an accident.) I called the fire department. I wasn't hurt. I found my way out of the debris. There were no casualties, luckily. I realized I was getting late for my class.

I stepped in to see quite a good student turnout. It was my first day with a chalk-piece. I began.

I hate introductions. Science is too vast and we engineers are too busy for crap. Writing an equation on the board, I asked how many of you can prove this? None came forward. A guy in dark glasses wanted to try his hand. Sure. Go ahead. While the guy-with-glasses does his bit, can you guys open your books to find the solution? He started writing, equating, assuming before arriving at a conclusion. ‘Hence, Qx = Ted(J,L),’ he wrote. Brilliant. Why this herd mentality? I saw no one attempting to prove it. This is basic science and math. You cannot get in to designing Rolls-Royce engines with this work ethic. That was the end of my speech. 

I received a call from the Train Crash Investigation team. A young boy on the line said to me ‘I saw you coming out of the train wreck while others were battling for life. I noticed two coaches locked in an angle that suggests shearing strain that gives us a clue about what caused such an impact.’ Young genius, I thought.

And that was that. My dream made a dirty concoction of events through the day. But science played significant role, a link to learning and attitude. 

Now for this idiot to make sense of it all.

P.S: I have no clue what Ted function does. That just might be a consequence of attempting an invention in a dream! I am not sure if there even is a TrainCrashInvestigation team. Yes, there are young geniuses for sure!

Everyday...

Kindred

His cup of noodles was lying on the table before him. Six times before today, he shared it with that someone who he thought would last. It was an instinct – a tingling wish to share time, a slice of life, a feeling that would only be fleeting. Alas. 

Not far away, she put an end to a long conversation - over the phone - with someone who would be an enjoyable part of life. ‘A filler of a fling,’ she calls it. She never bothered the aftermath. She spent most of her time ticking off conversations and crosses with a guy. 

He forced himself out of bed, kicked the table, cracked his cup, and combed his hair – after several washes to remove her perfumed stroke against his short brown hair. He dressed himself in shorts, locked his door and walked out with the sound of music in his ears. And She dressed herself in a stunning blue gown. She kissed her roommate, Jo, and left her room asking people for The Café. 

There is a remarkable quality in every individual story, today. There are impressive clichés. Yet, there is outstanding relevance to every life around. Every time I wake up to the morning light- occasionally by the disturbing darkness – I take the mirror and ask is today different? Stepping out to spend an entire day (and night, for the chosen few) with friends, presents a new chapter to observe and learn, outclassing the traditional way of learning lessons - if life is meant to live by learning. If you lived alone, you have the mirror. If you lived with people – chosen by choice or fate - you are obliged to share a word or two, necessitated by the acts of the previous day. And that’s where it begins. An exercise. An act of meeting with people titled friends. Until this point, there is neither a smile nor a frown. 

You are, at times, dragged by the force of bond, to wrap your hands around your love, or a partner. Otherwise, you walk in to a coffee shop for a cup of steamed bliss. It is usually the former that begins the day, I am informed. And then hour-by-hour, stories unfold, own and observed. The sight of misfits walking out of a friend’s house –probably after sleep hours - presents a story.  While it might be usual, there are revelations that happen through the day. Truth isn’t there to hide, I tell myself. When I pass on the story to others, there is almost a sense of responsibility (mixed with Déjà Vu and panic) in the other’s face. However, it is a moment of relief when the other brings it in the open to keep the score clear. Not just me, even she does it. 

When the Sun is at its brightest best, there is a plan – elaborate and scheduled – to drown in the beauty of intoxication. The next few hours are spent in countdown while there are usual sights of food-sharing. You could lend one ear to tales of marriage, or simply taking the relationship to the next level, a level that had everything in the forefront already. You could lend the other ear to miseries, long standing relationships seeing time dead useless after only a handful of hours – with better ones lasting unto days or longer. Discovery can happen, anytime. 

At the fall of the night when the Sun turns bright orange and the Moon rising with its help, you could be emotion-stricken, sometimes slapped by what happened to you. But, there is beauty in realizing opened truth – what has set rises with the setting Sun. I often see me in moist eyes but buoyed by grit. You would want to grip it hard and not let it go. There is a niggling worry of inviting drooping shoulders encouraging vengeful attitude. But the feelings have had their share and the observations must be dressed to escort tomorrow, battling those niggles.

As I lifted my glass of wine, I could think of more examples characterized as unique and ‘bookmarks’. These are the kind with the power to make an impact. Some could just be thankless and traitors of trust, marooning a blossoming something. Some could just paint a smile and send a fresh lease of life. 

I am glad there are Hes and Shes to flip pages called days. They are an important part of even those unnoticed lessons we learn, gleaning and meaningful. These might just be the Kindred.

And then...

Miles of Silence

Why would a movie end with the reappearance of evil especially when the protagonist goes through the intricacies of investigation and reaching a logical conclusion? Why would the nature undo the entire process of reaching happiness? Why should we realize that happiness is not an eternal asset? Why is that, when answers are found, more questions are posed? He was suddenly a lost man. Until the last frame of the movie, he had his nail totally bitten off; the gut of his fingers exposing a freaking pink. He hated old style English movies. He hated its Indian copies. He missed three of her calls all this while.

She, separated from him by a ridiculous thousand miles, was seated in her couch battling confusion. Pink or yellow or should it be both? She had questions, rational, striking her head but poked her enough to reason irrationally. Which color would fit this kind of an occasion? Who would like to see her dressed in pink? What kind of people are most likely to attend her friend’s wedding? For every question she asked herself, she called him only to see it end as a missed call, literally.

Both were bathing in a huge bubble of questions, of rant and racket.

Looking at the volume of calls missed, he felt a strong sense of guilt. How could I miss her calls watching a movie that ended with questions rather than credits?  But, he put off the worry for a brief while and thought of a way of making it up to her. He thought of flowers and bouquets. He thought of poems and chocolates. His phone rang again. Just once. And it denied him of a call. Missed.

She was dressed in beautiful pink and dazzled in light gold jewelry. She was having the gayest of times but was occasionally troubled by what she did last night. Why did I? she thought. She danced, she ate, and she clicked pictures and cracked her heel. She shed a tear while she slowly limped back to her room.

He had his mug of coffee in his hand. He did not call her back. Something stopped him. Fear, perhaps. She’s having her time. That was all that he thought. He barely recalled what he watched last night. He just rued what he had done. He oakie blew his nose. He wiped that odd tear.

Can I have a good ending now? He wished. He held his phone in his hand, tighter than ever.

I missed the best dance, she thought. She put her phone aside and put herself to sleep resting her head on the tear-dabbled white pillow. 


[an episode cont'd from the previous post]

Gameplay|Playgame

ThePloy

A happy talk ended. There was his pulse beating high and happiness writing a new musical note both disguised by a faint smile on his face. Just when he had the quiet moment for himself, she broke his heart’s opera. I quickly need to attend to some priority work. For him, it was the start of that hour, rare and seemingly gifted, when he picked up his book and resumed reading its 99th page. He could barely recall the plot that unfurled in those 98 pages. He couldn't recall the name of the Doctor who poisoned his patient. The doctor isn't guilty. There is nothing so interesting in this book. It is just a revenge plot that every ordinary author could write. Read it anyway, she said. He looked at his watch. It had been only a few minutes since She left him, to finish drafting a work-email.

He and She began talking again. There is a nagging worry, a condition disquieted by the accumulation of thought. And before they rust my composure, I need to dust it off. I need to feel good. I’m done with the confusion et al, she began. “WTH! She just ruined my reading. And now she wants to discuss something that sounds like sorrow?” was his instant response in the head. It had to come. He hated ephemeral sensations of delight. “Yeah sure. What’s bothering you?” he asked.

…that’s exactly the reason why I am scared – of these frets. If I am happy now, I fear losing it forever. You are a part of this mire too. It is good but sticky… With those words she ended her narration.

For the first time, he said nothing.

He could not ask for more Equilibrium, darned and part of a dysfunctional fact phase of life.


He didn't have to make it to page#100! He just lingered over their agony.

Instinct!

That chat of Instinct

Plan and prepare, when the mind is set,

I go about today with no ado.

But when the seconds unrest,

I call for a plan redo.

Annoyed and upset I sit,

Hitting a needless mindblock.

Think not, nothing is going to take a hit,

I keep hearing the inner voice mock.

Do none, talk to the one.

Sounds right let me make the call.

Hello beautiful! I’ve thought of a mission,

But restlessness sucked it all.

I, instead, thought of having a chat marathon

With you for a righteous spent of time.

Hours went by, all ears she gave.

What do I do? Suggest in dear, will you please?

Sure dear, small chaos doesn’t decide what you ought to have.

Plan and plot your thought, seconds will be a positive ease.

Honest you are, correct you do.

Instinct it is, let it be your guiding marquee.

Much she said in the shortest of dict,

Made such sense that put her in new salience.

Instinct it is I should see,

Plan and prepare would find the right track.

Content I felt, upright I sat.

Thank goodness, she was there.

For this Life and Love, I’d go to the mat.

Gladness galore was the heart’s fore.

Dr.Gordon

Mull Over

"Delusion. I see. Sanity?", I asked Gordon.

A condition, I felt, under suspicion.

Flashes of irregular future me riding on,

mind harping on the tenacious gone-by second.

Soliloquy set in, unending conversations.

At a Bar was I, drinks to buy high.

Spoke and Saw twice over, bore a fevered condition.

Ho Santa! Gift me clear sense from that sleigh.

Hanging on weightless body, mind cracked.

Pieces of delusion again; Gordon help me!

Memory on me jig-sawed,

this Christmas bringing on me brain's enemy.

His chair rocked, flat I lay.

Happy memory, fake sense stay away,

his word's piercing the numbed mind.

Gordon's efforts, for my wish, so kind.

Nothing son. Nothing out there.

You master your mind, not your recall's tear.

Silent he kept, glanced and gone.

Stiff I sat, with body and thought.

Christmas ended. Gordon was he? 

Pondered I after he fulfilled my plea.

So I thought. Gordon was he?

Gordon. Dr. Gordon. He still is for my psyche.

Filth & Froth

Facing Filth

He thought he was part of an agenda, an agenda that goes against the simplicity of everyday routine. The moment he embraced the unfaithfulness of the World, he loved himself more; his living in disbelief made so much sense as he ignored the pricking deceit he faced. He enjoyed being numb. For once, he could see his always-moist-eyes dry.

He barely slept during the night and lived the day, lethargic and listless, much to the agony of the Sun. He fell asleep on his plate of fried vegetable, something that expected the dampness of the drool. He thought the buzz of the day calmed his haunting thoughts that usually visited him during the night. I am so made for the other side of the planet, he often thought. My body is dead in my sleep. And so am I. My eyes go on for a roll at a time when they are supposed to see colored dreams. This pill I take, for whatever reason, is a mere catalyst for peace, he said when I asked him about his metastable dullness at night.


And the reason played hide-and-seek. While I put this thought here battling my sleep at the dead of the night, he's busy counting tears with a useless piece of cloth in his hand. I could easily boast of my content in my everynight diary but I it robs me off my smile looking at his state of a 24-hour cycle. And I fear his fear infecting me but the reason still hasn't surfaced thanks to the mystery and selfishness.

Much to my surprise, it only took a tight slap on his face, red enough to explain the mystery. Filth & Froth, he began. Little did I know that if I hugged a toy, it would fart on my face. If I kissed a rose, it would taste of wither. If I looked at a lovely painting, it would spit paint all over me. If I touched silk, it would send a bolt of shock through my fingertips. He paused. I ignored the on-going silence that instilled the highest sense of thought in my mind. And then, I cursed. I tried to fish out smiles from the beautiful river that surrounded me but I just found the froth of the dross. I saw smirk for a smile. I saw a finger for a gesture. I saw deceit for trust. He paused again. I wondered if I was anywhere visible while he narrated his story of agony, in broken, meaningful, striking style.


Yet, I kept my hand rock-steady. I had one reason left to forget the froth. But, like they say even 1% is a possible probability.  I noticed the boil even in the love that now seems feigned. If this isn't Filth, then what is?

That was it. I needed nothing more than those few bleeding words. I left him to his world, curled up in the  corner of the room. I switched on the light, for him to be the morose one; hoping the darkness to stay away forever.


And I... switched off the light and switched on my alter-ego.

No Man's Quest

 Dodged Quest

The rain came, but the flame thrived.

The step forward, for the love to survive.

The enigma lingered; emotion revived.

I took the flight; hoped no fight when I would first see her.

The cloud burst and the bolt of light was gone, what remained was the thunder

Of my heart; the turbulence aiding my muster.

Miles away on no man's land I stepped. I could hear

The whirring of the train engine and the call in its coo grew louder.

Alone in a long train, I was so detached

but this is the way to her, the thought keeping me relaxed.

Wind and Gaze, the worst hurricane

But it wouldn't collapse my strength; no way would the quest be in vain.

Off came a flying leaf, hybrid in dry and sodden,

Silence befell as it withered in my hand.

I stood by the tree, ramified through its age.

Greater than the miles I came, it stood tall

Seeking the reason for the blindness in love so small.

The Lady has a secret, and only that binds us all.

Shining through the light, smirk on her face;

towards me she walked, with an indifferent gaze.

A quiver of sorrows rooted from my legs,

Darning the secret, my sweat-wrapped-quest rot in pegs.

Who's to explain, the turn of events?

Undoing the sight, yet, my heart pumped spirit.

I began to question the uncalled nuance.

The stubborn stack of thoughts buried in mind,

There's still hope the secret would be kind.

The Line

 And The Fly

I was standing in the line when the little girl from no where crawled and tapped my feet. She, raising her head over a tough, good ninety degrees, looked at me. I might have looked like a monster holding a brown bar in my hand. I dropped it, the chocolate making a splatter design on her cute little frock. She crawled away. I lost my spot and had to restart the hope of reaching that first step to the fly.

I rejoined the growing line; the line now looking longer and bustling with cries of joy, hope and anxiety. Just behind me was a plump old man. Worried? Well, just wait a little longer. Son, this is my first time too. I guess you aren't alone! He gathered the conclusive expressions from my face shooting evident quirks.

The guy in front of me overheard the thoughts talking to me. This isn't my first time but that first step you take to fly has to sport a meaning, an explanation to our wait, a justifying statement to pain incurred through years of wait, he said. He looked young, anxious to experience the journey ahead, again, something that he would eventually do. But he meant a world in that one little sentence. I turned around to ask the old man a question - What made you wait so long? to this replied - It took an infinite amount of clock ticks to wait for this day. I dreamed a great deal but my obsession for 'the fly' gathered constant deceleration thanks to other factors that make up life. I tried tagging this process-on-the-side with my obsession but it was the fight for survival, fight for the buck that kept building hurdles. And here I am, accompanied by my gray hair, matured mind and the memory of the struggle. I tell you, it might well be an experience!

It took a while before the line granted another person a wish. It did take an awful amount of time for it to stamp its approval and grant that excitement. I began to think - What if I could give some of the wishes that meant a little-nothing to the man in front of me to the man behind me? Would the wish work the same way it did to him than it did to the other? The man behind me had the meaning, an explanation and the justification. Yet, he was on a track of hope that trailed. Why is 'the line' there to grant what I wish to have? Why would it make the wait only longer by making us wait, with questions that shoot like arrows of Jade? 

When would all this question-hope concoction dilute the anxiety and concentrate the fading and dying hope and make a perfect solution? As my eye rolled down a tear, the little girl looked up and gave me the candy-pop in her hand. I took it with a renewed sense of hope only to see the line getting longer and then vanishing from the scene. 

The flight of stairs ahead transformed to a painful spiral. The fly flew.

Cut to Power

 In No land

Christopher Nolan, Your mind is the scene of power. It is with that power that you have weaved magic with the use of the word crime. Here on, anyone who could come close to your mind or even tries to emulate you, is a criminal. For you, the World is a place of Aliens and you, the Human.

I now consider myself being part of a club that has watched all of Nolan's movies, including his short called Doodlebug, which you can watch here. All his movies are not just mind-blowing but they take you through an experience. If this isn't versatility, what is?  And why exactly is Nolan one of the greats? Imagine working on one of the most widely read/watched comic superheros of all time - Batman. Tim Burton started off the modern Batman series which was later ruined by Joel Schumacher but the franchise was given an entirely new life when Nolan decided to fly with the Batman. He put in Bale, a loyal albeit a voice-jarring Batman player, who gave Batman a new face behind the mask. Batman Begins and The Dark Knight are now amongst Nolan's finest works. Needless to say his Memento and others that followed redefined movies.




Inception.


[Spoiler free. Read it.]

It begins and ends in a dream, as a dream, for the reality; reality that a movie on this level of the mind can be made. Dreams are meant to be parts of a puzzle that cannot be solved. Dreams have no faces. Dream is a decoration. Dream is a consequence of what reality fails to show us


The movie begins, takes you to different levels of excitement as you get plunged in to a world architected to perfection; a world where gravity is gorgeous, destruction is awesome and where unbelievable is just a paradigm. All this chokes you until someone gives you a kick to come back from your dream. Every little detail in the movie such as performances, background score, cinematography, locations become a part of that dream. 

Wondering why everything is so? Try spinning your totem.



I wake up and I re-wakeup to find myself stuck in the dream. Richard Linklater taught me this loop of life and now Nolan has brought Ideas in to that dream.

Sleep with the Idea. Embrace the Limbo.

Have-to-Lose.

 Lost Possession

when you had it,
the look smiling upon you till no time;
when you had it,
like the soft bubble of a soap.

when it fades,
the haze blurring the smile;
when it fades,
like the vision of a tear-filled eye.

when it shows,
the intangible feeling flirting with you;
when it shows,
like that nonetheless inexpressible joy.

when it is gone,
there is only a peek at it;
when it is gone,
like there is no tomorrow;

and when it does,
the peek remains a memoir;
and when it does,
like the world collides.

Intertwiningly!

Biased

For him, Fate was a half-baked cookie and Destiny was its cheese dip. He grew up accepting his own theory of  cookie in cheese but denying the verity of the two. To him, every event is an uprising, every happening is a consequence and every feeling was a culmination of the two. He could not base his life on an event of the past or a happening of the present. Because he bore the brunt of the blow that came from people around him. To him, it was all about nothing; just the day that passes in the sanity of belief in the moment.

His reasoning was simple. It was based on logic that demanded no great mind. If everything happened for a reason, what does denying mean? Life is left with no choice if it were so. What is decision then? At one point, he had to make the biggest life-changing decision and now he is staring at the possibilities of the opposite. So based on this, now is Fate and Destiny, thus, is being modeled with catalysts, or pawns, called decisions and denials.

But then, he reasoned to live, even if it meant loving half-baked cookies and giving your taste-buds a sour ride. While his destiny waited, he took a piece of paper and enclosed it in a bottle that is now floating in the ocean.

What is that that awaits?  

Crossed

The Cross

You know, if I decide to cross the road now, I might just get a ticket to heaven. May be hell. Doesn't matter. The point is: I might get famous. People might start asking a question like 'Why did that man cross the road?'. Makes sense right? Think about it. I'm just a man holding a bag of groceries standing beside you, you know what I mean right?...Yet I decide to cross the road.

That was a man on his routine. He goes to the store, gets groceries, goes home and writes it in his diary. He tells me buying groceries for his family has become his emotional job. He was born in a place that currently does not exist and that he was raised by a slum-dweller. He never knew what a city is about. He was brought to the city by a person who is now dead but taught him the value of help. So all he knows it go to shop, buy groceries, feed himself and his owner's dog -  his dog, Matey. That was his family. But today happened to be the day of his life.


He held a bagful of dog food and medicines for his dog; his dog staring at the inevitability of death.

He owns the store. He spends time flipping pages of The History of your city to know where he came from. He has no memory of a slum. He describes the city. He spends time writing a character-sketch of his owner, the man who brought him to the city. He writes about his customers and friends at the store. Today he would write about the death of his dog; his only hope dying its death.

He crossed the road anyway. He turned back, his hope surprisingly renewed. He then waved good-bye to Death.

He wrote, Today, I talked to Death before crossing the road. He had no intention of taking Matey away. Matey's possible death triggered a fear of my own death. I thought I would get hit by a car, leaving Matey helpless during his final moments. But I got to feed Matey; he ate and looked alive. It is like Death lived.
This day is a cross. For I feared and won. Yet, I shouldn't have. For now, my family is alive.

Written learning

Untwinned Juxtapose

There isn't any conclusion, of mine, based on substantial evidence. It is just a carefully thought, sanely momentary and possibly deceptive judgment. For me, it is a process of having two hands full and weighing one against the other; the weighing comprising an evaluation of the good against the bad, or the evolution of the good from the bad or vice-versa. Because I sometimes think of how this process has an impact on my life, be it about a person or a life('s) commodity.

-----

There is no age that can call itself 'refined' when it comes to solving a dilemma-puzzle or cracking a confusion-code. Age is that point where all the previous age-chapters have already been read. So, most of the times it is just a matter of revisiting a page and flip it only when the current code of confusion is cracked. When it comes to think about a phase that would qualify as crucial for the future, move on to the next chapter; only there we have no clue what the chapter is going to teach us.

Now, at a point, I have this duel to deal with. I have two weights to be weighed; one which is very familiar and that had already been dealt with in the past and two, which undoubtedly seems like one's twin but is an untested situation yet. With a very clear situation-sketch of one, I begin to think and weigh two against one but there is this nagging fear that I might not be able to go through with two. I decided to give it a miss. It was a clear case of that momentary judgment.

Moments hence, I begin to realize that no matter how strikingly similar two things might appear, I hate one and I miss two. Though I stand to fight the falsification of this juxtapose, I still believe that there indeed was something I learnt; something I unearthed from the past to present it to the future.

Now is the time for me to write why and what happened, to finish another chapter in life.