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The Summer of Conversations

I’ve seen grass and I can see that it’s the summer of conversations.

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I’ve been there recently. The grass is gold, reflecting the sun. Shining in rich colours though it is, it betrays the lack of nourishment. Water surrounds in abundance, but where the grass wants it, there is none. People who have once spoken with gay abandon have taken to the protective shade. Under the wide circular trees that are still green – God knows where they get their water from – but under their shade they all rest.

But they are quiet.

It is still the summer of conversations.

In that cool shade they just want to be one with their thoughts. Or perhaps their fears. Some of them aren’t bothered. About anything. They are happy just to be there. You would imagine if they were happy and relaxed they would speak a bit. BUt that doesn’t happen. They stare down the valley that I carpet.

And they are quiet.

It is still the summer of conversations.

I’ll wait for the monsoons.

Interview: Blogadda

Many thanks to Blogadaa for publishing my interview today.

blogadda-logo.jpgI must admit, the questions were not easy to answer. But in the end, I was glad about the questions. I was quite impressed with the amount of research they had done on an eight-year-old blog. Couldn’t have been easy – to go through so many posts, identifying one and asking relevant questions. On a more selfish note, I am more happy for the interview because I can now point people to it, when they want to know about me and this blog (and other blogs).

It is my first ever interview that has focused on this blog and other personal aspects. I think you’ll enjoy reading it (even if you know me well)

Meta-curiosity

I don’t want to forget this.

We are in Kashedi Ghat. Climbing. It’s the afternoon of 18th April in 2012. A few trucks pass us by, carrying various types of loads. Some are empty. My niece who is keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings and taking the beautiful drive in Konkan, has a question for me.

“You know these trucks, they carry stuff from here to there?”
“Yes,” I say, “what about them?”
“These truck drivers, who drive them?”
“Yes?”
“Do they ever get curious to know what’s inside? Do they ever stop and look at what they are carrying?”

I laughed.

I don’t think I ever asked this question, but I know that this question had occurred to me, many years ago. I explain to her, how it works. They are already aware what they carry. The person who asks them to carry the cargo usually tells them what’s inside.

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This is curiosity at two levels. First, her own curiosity about whether the drivers are curious, and then about the drivers’ curiosity itself. This curiosity possibly spans another level – the third – her own curiosity about what’s inside the trucks.

It’s meta-curiosity.

Remains of the Day: 013

With every such post – I keep thinking I must change it to “Remains of the Month”, because that is what these posts are about. But I remind myself that Remains of the Day is a metaphor, of sorts and let it be.

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IMG_8915.jpg“Planning a holiday” is the most ironic thing ever. Where’s the time to enjoy? The plan sets expectations and when things don’t go according to the plan – you end up ruining the holiday. All through the holiday, you are a slave to the plan – because you have planned it – you want things to happen just the way you imagined it. And you are sure to imagine it all wrong – because you can never plan to relax.

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Overtaking has a life lesson inherent in it. Reaching a place in time is important and advantageous. If you are reckless in your ambitions however, there is a good chance you will wreck yourself. You will see many examples of impatience along the way. How and possibly why they will never reach their goal. Some of the vehicles that you will need to overtake are long. You will have to wait for a good opportunity before you can overtake them. You will find good drivers in your life, who will ask you to wait and provide cover till the road is clear – when it is they will give you the signal to go ahead. Not every one will be good and helpful though. Some will not be bothered that you want to get ahead. Starting early is always the good option. The ride is easier – you have lesser reasons to make mistakes. You will also have to learn to be flexible and decide whether getting there at a particular instant is important – or – getting there is important.

You will see it reflected in your driving.

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I watched an anchor dropping. There is something so trustworthy about an anchor; its shape, its form. It just exudes confidence and a sense of security.

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Rituals are funny, that way. Often, they are pompous and cloud the intention. We pay so much attention to the ritual and the mechanics of it all, we forget the intention behind the ritual. The ritual then, becomes the intention. The drama becomes the reality.

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My relationship with water took a new turn. I went in. Well, almost. Snorkelling was a good experience. I think I was watching myself from the boat, wondering what had got into me that made me be so adventurous. It was a nice first step and a wonderful experience.

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It is indeed sad and unfortunate that MTDC has some of the best tourism properties that are under a state of rapid decay.

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Beer. I thought about beer this month and the problem of beer in India. The problem is called Kingfisher. I tweeted this problem in eight tweets:

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Middle of Nowhere

I am in the middle of nowhere.

Such a place, we all know, doesn’t exist as far as geography is concerned. You are always in the middle of somewhere or at the edge of some place. But it always sounds better to say that you are in the middle of nowhere. That phrase has certain expanse; some more width than your exact location. It creates that mystery and sprinkles a sense of romanticism to whatever description may follow the phrase.

So, I am in the middle of nowhere.

The boat I am on, is anchored here, in the middle of the water, the late afternoon sun sparkles diamonds all over the water and coconut trees lean over, as if to peek and see what I write in this post.

Rest of the family has had a wonderful lunch and are now lulled into sleep by the slow rocking of the boat. I am out on the deck, looking at the sneaky trees and listening to the silence that surrounds our boat.

Far away, in the fishing village that I can barely see, a few colourful boats are anchored, devoid of any activity. Perhaps someone else is describing this feeling in his or her own way.

Nothingness is a difficult state to be in. Even such thick and opaque calmness outside does little to calm the ruckus in your head. Earlier today, as I walked through the market street in this town, I imagined the townsfolk looking at me and being able to recognise that ruckus in my ahead – ah, city folk – they must have said. I have been here for a few hours now, and the calmness is taking over.

Nothing matters now, though it won’t be like this for long.

But, for now, I am in the middle of nowhere.

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E&OE; Moblogged
Malvan Backwaters, April 22, 1625hrs

Of Two Storytellers

Harish Krishnan, recently posted The Story of ‘He’ and ‘She’. It’s a story composed of tweets on a Saturday evening. It is new-art, this form of story-telling; I enjoyed it! However, while he says that the story was written, “when the world around me was sleeping,” it’s not entirely true. I was reading this story while it was being told: live.

When you read his post, you will know what the story-teller was saying. Do you wonder, what was going on in the head of the listener? Here it is, the restless mind of one of the listener who thought of himself as a storyteller too:

It is fortuitous, that just after I read this most wondrous book about storytelling, this saga of storytelling happens to me.

Goodbye!

Who were those people? What were they made of; what made then real? How did they get love in return? Love for love. They must have found out the secret to simplify this transaction.

Lost! The roads have parted and all of them chose a separate path. For a while they walked with me; and in those moments we lived in heaven. Who would ever have the time to bear the idiosyncrasies of me for while longer than is possible. And who am I to complain if my shadow, even, often, has seemed distant.

But, there is no one long road that we can walk together. If we are to be our selves, it is a truism. But we are to cherish that companionship that we experienced for a few miles, or less. For that has made our journey worthwhile. That is what added colour. And we shall meet the others, the new ones, who will in a peculiar way remind us of our friends. In turn, they will become friends.

But that is all friends will do, they will walk with us for a while, only. If they walk with us forever they are slaves.

Do not despise them because of the length of the journey. Love them for the content of the journey.

PS: Thanks is due to Sahir Ludhianvi, for all that happened in italics in this post.

Come, Come Home

Come home.

Here’s the address; it’s simple and straightforward:

It’s open from all four sides. You do not need to knock, nor do you need to call out. There is no door I have to ever, open. The walls have lost themselves to time and the ceiling is does not exist. There’s sunlight however. Lot’s of it. It’s harsh and it is in abundance. I wish you were here. We could share the shade that you carry. I’d almost steal it from you.

Come home.

Look for the house that has Love written all over it. You do not need to knock, nor do you need to call out. I’ll know it is you.

Whether you are inviting life or you are inviting friends, it is the same thing. We just need to give the address and the location. My battered home, crumpled by sheer existence and time should not be a factor.

And this abode of friends has been empty. For a while now. Dust settles in layers – each layer, a question of where has he gone; why is she not here? Each layer of dust; an unanswered question of an empty space.

Lost, the King cries! Yet, there may be hope that this garden will exhibit a life that it had, once experienced.

PS: Thanks is due to Sudarshan Fakir, for all that happened in italics in this post.

Remains of the Day: 012

The breeze comes in from all sides. It plays in loops and curves and straight lines. You feel a chill and you wonder why, suddenly you feel the wind in your face. There is also so much that you can see – that you could never see before. There are no encumbrances and you are able to see afar. You wonder, again – how you have never seen that far, before. You are exposed to the elements when you are not surrounded by anyone. It would be poetically apt to say that your mind is clear, but alas! It continues to carry the tangled wire-mesh of confusion, but you now have a better chance of spreading it and more space to untangle it. It is a new feeling – this sense of being alone – wrapped in the double-helix of fear and excitement. It is a new experience – this effort of de-stagnation – from the prison of known misery.

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Erich Fromm’s philosophy of freedom has almost completely been hovering like a permanent cloud. I see a sliver of the blue sky from the corner of my eye. There was too much leaning on freedom from… and hardly any thought to freedom to…. It is akin to escaping from prison, but not having anywhere to go. The clouds are moving east now.

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Creativity is best applied in solving problems. Unfortunately all creative energy is directed towards making excuses. Intent fuels creativity. We’re pushing it on an empty tank.

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There are some mistakes – blunders even – you will have to commit. As wise as you may think you are – no learning is as forceful as experience itself. Books can’t teach you everything.

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There will always be a rescue at hand. Usually we are busy drowning, paying attention to how high the water has reached and the speed at which we are downing. We miss the hand that is held out for us. Usually, it’s Paul Simon’s songs.

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I believe in second chances. In the rare instance perhaps; a third. After that, it is time to let go. A wise man once told me about the nature of bad financial transactions. If someone isn’t giving you money that’s due, there are only two reasons: either he doesn’t have it or he doesn’t want to give it to you. Either of the reasons will not work for you. Let go. The wise man left it to me to know that the axiom works in different contexts.

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The longest and the fiercest war is fought within; it wages incessantly. Our resources are directed without, while we lose battles within. It’s a call for redeployment.

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In the end, we remain. That is the only remainder of time and events. We’ll have to take care of that.

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PS: This post carried with it, the possibility of a very long post – for this remainder would apply to a year too. It ran the risk of TL;DR, but thankfully it was salvaged.

How to Train an Ink Pen

A letter is due.

It has been for a long while now. It has been promised for a while. And it lives, with its honest intentions and desire to be alive. Yet, it does not “be-come.” The recipient of the letter is special. The letter, therefore deserves to be special. In this need of mapping, it lives a ghostly life. It exists, but it does not. It is true in spirit but it is unable to manifest itself on paper.

And paper it shall be. For this one letter is supposed to be tangible. The rough-smooth texture of paper, the blot of ink on it. When I write it, it has to drag at the tissue of the paper, as I pull ink through it – with curved lines that form the words.

The words that form the sentences.

The sentences that form the paragraphs.

The paragraphs that form the body.

The body that holds in itself the world of the emotions that I experience at this moment – that only you are privy to, my friend. How, shall I do that? How shall I make the dance happen? Because it is not just any letter that I want to write – it is a letter that I want to write to you.

My feelings have dried more than the ink in my pen. They are flakes I dare not touch for they will crumble. In their marginal existence – they carry a semblance of expression. Yet, today, I worked with the dried ink. The basin, water, and some help from me – and I have my Camlin screw-top working. I cleaned it well, water, cloth rags and all. I got out my letter-writing pad and I started writing.

Today is not the day – was the first thought that came to my mind. I was to pre-occupied with my ink-pen. Will it stay true like the other times I had written a letter to my friend? Will it participate in the symphony of my thoughts and the ink on paper? Will it move as effortlessly as my thoughts, once I get started? Does the pen remember how we used to write? Will it allow our usual flourish of the strokes and the tails of the letters? Strong stems and sharp corners? Sharp apices and beautiful bowls?

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After the training I realise that it is not just my pen that needs training.