Poetry and a lack of motion

I've spent a good part of the last five months complaining about how much I dislike Calcutta. While I've tried to channel some of that into a little comic routine about how the Bengali language probably originated, bitterness for the city of mishti shines through more than the creativity in another joke based on the Bengalis-are-lazy stereotype.

Dissatisfied with the present, I've had two choices - invest in an incrementally better future, or fall back on a cosier past. It's getting chilly here for a city this close to the coast, so I've shamelessly snuggled into the latter.

I've happened to have crossed paths with many poets over the past seven years in Roorkee and Ahmedabad. A loyal reader might remember the brooding Perusing Poet I haven't mentioned in a while (I don't harbour any illusions of a loyal readership, by the way - I'm just glad you're reading this). There's Kondy who's written his second novel now but will always be a poet to me. And back at A, cursing himself for wasting almost an entire weekend chatting with me about me must be young Minnu. Three that come first to my mind.

They're all very different people - the first probably a strong believer in Sylvia Plath's "no poetry without suffering" school of thought. The second argues over troubling questions about being and believing, but whose real themes are probably closer to love and longing. The third, easily the most prolific of the lot, is a painter of portraits so vast and intricate, that I fear my mind is too small for their size and depth.

But why I call them poets is not because they write verse - as a matter of fact, none of them writes in rhymes, the one form I find easiest to go through because I just sing it - but because of the sheer density they bring to each sentence. Each word is carefully chosen, and each line is like a twist in a complex-looking knot, which opens up with a little swoosh as you put them all together. In the world of words, they aren't so much architects or artists, as they are sailors - roaming the seas, picking up rare oysters, drinking to good health, brooding and suffering in storms, and making perfect knots.

In their world, I'm the dilettante. The architect who's tried a hand at building domes, and given up in the foundation pits. The painter who's bought the canvas and colours, but frets over the clothes he'll spill those colours on. The curious kid, who collects educational degrees on a coat hanger, sells some food for buying clothes to put on more hangers, but shivers in the cold room of missed opportunities. Their world is my world - words are the rope they anchor their thoughts with, and I'm still finding the words to tell my story to myself.

Another drip in the wall?

There were damsels in distress,
There were bright shining knights
There was garbage in excess
And heroes in tights

In the middle of the night
And the blinding sunny day
Under the shimmering moonlight
Were sold shady tales

Of eyewear worn by superstars
And belts by their dads
Weary of hefty men with bars
Collecting cash in wads

There were starry-eyed girls
And single-minded guys
With their hands roaming in twirls
Remembering failed tries

There was a rich man on a bike
There was a pauper with pink paper
One another they didn’t like
On the flip sides of a taper

Not beaten by trick or treat
Our subject has a ball
As he cracks open that zipper
And pees on the wall

(You can sing this quite like those Irish drinking songs.)

365 days in 8 slices

Numbers are wonderful ornaments for speech. For instance, if I were to encapsulate most of the events of the past few days, I could do it all with just one jewel.

Four and a half months of painstaking care, and in four and a half minutes, the mane was off. A four and a half hour flight to the capital, four and a half hours in the train, and from Visakhapatnam’s coldest winter in four and a half decades at 18 degrees, I was to be rattled by the four and a half degrees in R, made even more deadly by the early morning drizzle I got caught in. Not to forget, there was last night’s four and a half thousand rupee bill, and the resulting four and a half hundred rupees a glutton.

***

Ever since I read supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, I knew that of the many heavy responsibilities bestowed upon me to better this world, one was to enrich dictionaries. Sadly, like many of the aforementioned responsibilities, I couldn’t pay enough attention to fully fulfill this one. Yet, I continue to take small steps towards making the reading world a better, more convenient place. Here’s last year’s creation.

relaze (v)- To relax lazily, and in the delightful process, expedite the dawning of crucial realisations.

Origin: From the proximity of the Z and X keys on the standard QWERTY keyboard.

More: Relazing, Relazer, Relazisation, among others.

Red Herrings: One of the common misconceptions regarding one of the noun forms of the word, relazisation, is that it is the American spelling for ‘relasisation’. That, as the origin and definition of the verb form clearly demonstrate, is a stupid accusation. Also, the word or any of its derivatives has no connection etymologically with the word ‘relaxative’ or its derivatives, apart from the fact that they share the same creator.

***

To recall one of the few enjoyable moments from last semester’s lectures, “Phoetry is not eejy... One of the hallmarks of a great phoet is suffering. If you have not suffered, you can never be a high-class poet.” Laughing it off like most other things in those classes, I couldn’t ever imagine how true those words would turn out to be. Staying true to my late learner qualifications, I only got an eight on ten in Creative Writing in English, and with thorough honesty, I aver I deserved it.

***

Finally, the fog has lifted off the grass outside my room to reveal bright yellow flowers blooming right on top of that little mound a little off the centre of the garden. It’s still the darkest, foggiest quarter to three in the afternoon I’ve seen for quite a while. If at all it requires any mention, the temperature is hovering around the ten-degree mark. My room’s tube light is still out of service, and the fan gathering more dust, leaving a musty damp smell beautifully hanging in the air. Without intending to demean the sheer beauty of the prevailing weather, I’d say this probably is an Orwellian dream. Tucked up on the edge of my bed in a neck-hugging sweater that makes me cringe even more for home, I look back at the year gone by- in pictures, phone calls, text messages, e-mails, and top of all, crystal-clear scenes from my eidetic memory. And what better song to give company, than one of the very few songs I loved from the school assemblies- Turn, Turn, Turn.

A new year, and the double-digit decade lies ahead, and for now, it is ­definitely a time to gather stones together.

***

P.S. - 18 = 4.5 + 4.5 + 4.5 + 4.5. I’m getting the feeling at least a couple of people will have noticed this. Oh, and don’t bother about the title.

P.P.S. - Years may come and decades may go, but I remain frugal with phone calls. Happy New Year!

P.P.P.S. - As cold as it is, and as lazy as I am, I'm sure I'll be forgiven for labelling this my second bloggiversary post.

Animals make strange sounds
As do a machine gun's 500 rounds
Coo-coo-coo, cock-a-doodle-doo
Ho ho ho, me blog has turned two!

Long time, no see...

Alright. It's been a while since I last managed to bug you with my whining, grumbling or my brilliant sense of humour. 25 days, to be precise. But, this has been a period of change for your truly. 10 days after the last post, I happened to receive my personal computer, or, if I am to indulge in some shameless bragging, my ultra-fast, uber-cool and supremely brilliant (configuration and performance-wise) personal computer. And, it's only a matter of time, before I start getting accused of lack of social activity since its arrival, which might as well be a reason for the inactivity of this very page.

Now, I wouldn't delve into a SriPri or Dela-esque post wondering why I haven't posted in a while, or a Lefty-ish post listing all the wonderful things to have occurred during this hiatus. Not that I dislike doing that; I'm just too lazy. And forgetful.

My sheer joblessness has reduced me to sitting on Chehra ka Kitaab (which always reminds me of that song from Baazigar) with no one else online, sifting between the 'Home' and 'Profile' tabs when not gawking. This, more often than not, results in either me posting, or publicising the blog. As indolent as I've been to type anything longer than a few four-line verses, I chose to do the latter. And, it has actually resulted in something positive, after all. Apart from praise, friends getting nostalgic, and a few cases of nausea, people have actually started taking interest in the blog, even recommending topics for posts. Now, here comes one which I had thought of right at the beginning of this semester before I became too involved in it to remember.

Age of Empires (AoE) had, by the end of the second semester, become quite a fad in our year, so much so that it actually became a significant parameter for the choice of hostels. But, as luck would have it, the branch-wise allotment system led to all Electrical guys being forced to set up base in Azad. But, also as luck would have it, some of the more addicted gamers in the year above ours also happened to move into Azad, resulting in the creation of a huge following and addiction for the game. When I say 'addiction', I mean it.

No meal of the day would have a non-AoE conversation. Strategies, analysis of the previous game, predictions for the next, discussions and a myriad other related things were the order of the day. Chats, even spoken conversations, would be generously littered with spatterings of GG (good game), 11 (AOE chat lingo for laughter), 8 ("All hail, King of the Losers") and other numbers and abbreviations, making normal people (like thou, for a certain period of time) rack their brains.

Now, though, with half the wing playing the game, and the other half too used to it to bother, the aura surrounding the topic has slowly dulled, the LAN installation, removal, and reinstallation being flashes in the pan.

Meanwhile, I also happened to discover that concentrating isn't a tough job. 'Spirit walks', the name stolen from a popular TV series, the idea from Paddy, is this brilliant thing I've discovered which actually lets me think about pin-point issues- an ability whose absence has been felt severely, and mostly reflects clearly in my writing, me being such a scatter-brain.

The other day, a spirit walk went a little astray, with me wandering off to the corner of Azad Bhawan, barely able to hear the chatter at Ravindra Canteen, with Bhupi's voice clearly audible in the now-chilly night air. I went up to the wall and ran my hands over the shreds of broken glass embedded in cement. The instinctive urge to touch those sharp edges surprised me. I started to think of heights, and how I feel it completely natural to imagine falling- not the part where I hit the ground, it's too gory for my fraidie-cat self- it's the idea of falling, going down with gravity, that, well, fascinates me. But, then, the crazy mind of mine began to evaluate the source of the broken glass- light bulbs, broken windows, used tumblers, and whiskey bottles! Yeah, at least all that boozing comes to some use!

Just for the record, a busy Thomso passed by in the weeks gone by, and so did an uneventful Diwali, apart from the night being lighted up by the electrifying guitar scene in one of the most legendary movies of all-time, Karzzzz (It's four Zs, according to the initial publicity promos of the movie).

P.S.- (As promised) Special acknowledgement for the Electrical kholu, for giving an idea for the first half of the post.

You know it's spring...

It's March now and the cold, foggy, dark mornings have given way to pleasant, sunny and less groggy ones- the kind which don't let your conscience acquit you to leave for classes without a bath (although the exercise is still ignored with contempt)! Spring is here and with it has brought back the joys of life. The dried leaves (a la Mohabbatein) and withered flowers give way to colourful blooms. Those student society (surprisingly, a not-so-sociable-animal like yours truly happens to be in one too!) meetings which were either confined to the comfort of warm rooms or rescheduled to the afternoon slot, are now back refreshed in the pleasant evening near the beautiful gardens of the Senate building.

The onset of spring has also (somewhat) managed to bring back the poetic side of the author, who had almost lost this facet of his (ahem...) literary personality (excuse me?) in the cold winter gloom (Despite all the complaining, I iterate the fact that winter continues to be my second most-favourite season, after the rainy season)...

You know it's spring
when you don't crawl more into your quilt when the alarm rings,
but jump out of it to enjoy the beautiful morning,
as the koel joyously sings.

You know it's spring
when your mind is at its creative peak,
listening to the grass' chatter
and hear the trees speak.

They love it with their leaves back
to their bright green selves,
the dried brown leaves remembered
as they're put into history's dusty shelves.

The virus of optimism
strikes again, people infected at large;
they don't cry out in pain nor writhe in discomfort,
but smile and into the breeze they barge!

Out into the open, where the wind dances
in joy and welcomes back
its long-lost companion and bids goodbye
to the lazy winter slack.

You know it's spring
when your author's back with yet another stupid rhyme
intoxicated he is with the wine of delight,
and now, he's succeded in wasting 187 seconds of your time!