Ashes has at last been won, Ponting at last (with a sigh) is down in the dumps. So a victory much needed at last arrived at the shores of Thames. Again a sigh……too many though ,but this month has been a month of sighs. Sighs of many types, like the one that came in the hope of having an internet connection in our room, that which came when all the grievances of the project were satisfied, or that golden one which came when I answered nine back to back word meanings asked by a batchmate (who like others made 2 mistakes- considering me Norman Lewis of English and asking from Norman Lewis’ Word power made easy). But amongst all these sighs the one that was penchant, ticklish, exorbitant, exuberant and having all such multisyllabic emotions of the same kind, was when I returned that book in the library, that book, that ‘great’ book, which made me the ‘Mahatma’ for seven days of its issue.
Barely a month have passed when I have started discovering Bareilly city as one of my hide outs, as I have left the hostel. Still that hostel building calls me, to relive all those magic moments of the past three years, for one more year, one last year…and I bewildered and amused, take refuge in that grand citadel of ours , the library. That building dipped in limestone has always been the same , like an introvert ‘n’ obscure father, who has been there to listen to the wishes of his son, in the same manner, both the times, when he was a hosteller and now ,as a day-scholar. ‘ In that heaven of my college’ I found a book.
Great people, even not so great ones have talked about intuitions, about premonitions, where in before doing a thing you are able to perceive with a crustal clear vision the consequences of that deed(generally grave), but still you commit it. That book looked at me..err.. it winked at me, there was something unusual in our meeting, I could calculate the ‘raised eyebrows’, ‘wide opened mouths’ that I had to face through this book, but still I was induced to it. I looked here and there, opened some pages, shuffled it with my hands , knew something wrong was happening but my relation with that book was turning to an enigmatic love affair. At last I decided , I issued it, I made it my guest , my mate, my partner for the next 7 days. The book was “MANUSMRITI”, , it was in “HINDI”,was an ancient indian “SHASTRA” and I HAD ISSUED IT.
AT THE ISSUE COUNTER : That robotic librarian,stopped like an old hanged XP machine, saw my reg. no. and branch twice, assured that I was a B. Tech. student , and murmuring a few words, gave it to me.
DAY 2: I carried that book with me to the lab, all the compilations and interpretations of an old C program of crypto were being done, suddenly a girl saw that book in my hand , all the compilations stopped, programs stopped giving results, lab was, as if , in a complete chaos , what happened? She had seen that book in my hands.
DAY 3 : Till now I had understood all my premonitions of the library, I was reading the book, and more than that I was reading people who were reading me at that time. So I took a day off and started analyzing that book, had study session
DAY 4: My roomies saw it. That’s what happened , nothing, they watched me, I peeped more into the book, they tried to savor me with their touch, I tried to find the meaning of its Sanskrit shloka. One of then , I saw it, didn’t blink for about a minute, and then suddenly burst into a laughter that made his eyes watery for at least an hour, nowhere to go I slept and that laughter continued.
DAY 5,6 : I locked myself,didn’t do anything , just tried to find the answers, of that non stop laughter of last day, that unrun program, of last to last and that librarian’s weird looks. Now I was just looking at that book, I was not giving attention to the book, but , I was asking that book. And that book, it seemed, on hearing my question was jumping with laughter, those hindi words , that pure Sanskrit script, danced before me, and told me the reason for that librarians’ weird looks. That classic title, MANUSMRITI , came forward, hugged me and whisphered to me all the logics of that hallucinated lab. And at last the title , the honour of being a dharmashastra, came forward and uttered the answer for that laughter night. Later I knew the concept of those premonitions, those premonitions were the visual definition of a modern youth where a young gut esp. an engineer was not supposed to read hindi, let alone shastra. We were in an age where we were moving towards tomorrow and as if paying homage to the roots of our yesterday was not in vogue. That book, by winking and laughing was telling that falsified reality.
DAY 7 : I read the last part of it, enjoyed it, went to the counter to return it,to my surprise the new librarian didn’t show any emotions. And now came out with Khushwant Singh’s “In the company of women”……next day I gained some respect, perhaps that of an engineer, thus having the greatest sigh of relief.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
63rd......
So Nescafe is still like that tomb which despite all its affluence and glamour, still signifies hopelessness. But here it is again, as I call it, as Shakespeare might have called it, the ‘ides of aug.’ the day when we came to know the meaning of that Spiderman dialogue “with responsibility comes power”, the day when Raisina Hills, seemed to be ours, the day when Mall Road seemed more Indian, the day , frankly speaking , when we got independent.
It’s a different kind of festival, celebrated more by law, than by heart. That’s why , we the descendents of Aryans like to treat it as holiday, nothing else. A holiday which is more or less cloudy, a holiday when the most powerful man (the P.M.) comes at the most powerful looking place (the Red Fort) to utter the most powerful words of his life with perhaps the weakest will, the weakest intention. If that is the irony, or pure logic(of power politics) I cannot say, for me its been a tradition, repeated 40th time when I was born, and this time ....62nd time, when I am, perhaps at the most crucial point of my life.
Traditions , yes , they are something good old mathematicians, called axioms, great rulers called rules and the flamboyant bureaucrats call them sections, points, “which come under IPC so and so”. So we have been following traditions,right. Traditions of hoisting flag at sharp 8, tradition of watching an odd movie as a matinee show, and then sleep/make love according to ones requirements for a brighter tomorrow.
Everything above is logical , it happens, it does execute on that rainy August 15 , we wake up, we hoist the flag we watch movie, sleep ,make love, except for that last few words, ‘brighter tomorrow’. Now that is a bit miraculous, a bit illogical, as those mystics might have said, beyond language, beyond words.
Because , for all the other things the mission was one the target was one, me, I, our ego. Simple logic. For that last thing we have to be a bit altruistic, a bit generous, we have to be miraculous. Miracles, as the great Yogis say, let yourself become infinite, let yourself feel that ever so constant light, that ever so constant divinity, and materialize or dematerialize, a child’s play.
But are we, in that situation, or lets put it like this, what if we are in that situation. When we are able to be above all ego, when we are weightless ,when we are able to feel what Kashmir feels when each hour its childen are attacked ruthlessly, what those martyrs feel when they see that those who planned an attack at our parliament are still roaming around freely, when we are able to see the thousands of swords that have risen in revenge against “god knows what” in the North East. Then we will be able see that solution that way, of breaking the rules, cracking the tradition, modernizing the orient, making a way for the 200+ year old IPC to go to the gallows so that peace may be born the next day.
Then it will all become mathematics, having , in Tagore’s words a clear stream of reason, reason for everything, a secure Mumbai, a beautiful Kashmir, and a prosperous North East.
It’s a different kind of festival, celebrated more by law, than by heart. That’s why , we the descendents of Aryans like to treat it as holiday, nothing else. A holiday which is more or less cloudy, a holiday when the most powerful man (the P.M.) comes at the most powerful looking place (the Red Fort) to utter the most powerful words of his life with perhaps the weakest will, the weakest intention. If that is the irony, or pure logic(of power politics) I cannot say, for me its been a tradition, repeated 40th time when I was born, and this time ....62nd time, when I am, perhaps at the most crucial point of my life.
Traditions , yes , they are something good old mathematicians, called axioms, great rulers called rules and the flamboyant bureaucrats call them sections, points, “which come under IPC so and so”. So we have been following traditions,right. Traditions of hoisting flag at sharp 8, tradition of watching an odd movie as a matinee show, and then sleep/make love according to ones requirements for a brighter tomorrow.
Everything above is logical , it happens, it does execute on that rainy August 15 , we wake up, we hoist the flag we watch movie, sleep ,make love, except for that last few words, ‘brighter tomorrow’. Now that is a bit miraculous, a bit illogical, as those mystics might have said, beyond language, beyond words.
Because , for all the other things the mission was one the target was one, me, I, our ego. Simple logic. For that last thing we have to be a bit altruistic, a bit generous, we have to be miraculous. Miracles, as the great Yogis say, let yourself become infinite, let yourself feel that ever so constant light, that ever so constant divinity, and materialize or dematerialize, a child’s play.
But are we, in that situation, or lets put it like this, what if we are in that situation. When we are able to be above all ego, when we are weightless ,when we are able to feel what Kashmir feels when each hour its childen are attacked ruthlessly, what those martyrs feel when they see that those who planned an attack at our parliament are still roaming around freely, when we are able to see the thousands of swords that have risen in revenge against “god knows what” in the North East. Then we will be able see that solution that way, of breaking the rules, cracking the tradition, modernizing the orient, making a way for the 200+ year old IPC to go to the gallows so that peace may be born the next day.
Then it will all become mathematics, having , in Tagore’s words a clear stream of reason, reason for everything, a secure Mumbai, a beautiful Kashmir, and a prosperous North East.
LIFE AFTER DEATH
DAY 1 : There was a big lock outside. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, a total , abysmal atmosphere. I was missing her throughout the 2 months. No doubt I was disappointed, but waited for another , brighter tomorrow.
DAY 2 : Again a lock, now everything, in and out was becoming jittery. Omens were being produced and reproduced before me. Something unusual was to happen, I knew that.
DAY 3: Nothing was normal around that place. Everything , it seemed ,as if, was implying to a mis-hap. That place where I used to find her, was not normal. Some guys stormed in, something stormed out. I tried to drift my attention away,only to find it pinpointed there . My thoughts conjured up this time, something unusual was happening.
DAY 4: It finally happened, the doom’s day finally came , and judgment ,at last arrived, all the penultimate restlessness resulted in an ultimate assault. It was gone, that reddish grace was no more , that bombastic atmosphere was killed by some abstruse enemy of mine. My love, my Nescafe , finally was gone ,don’t know why, don’t know where, but……gone.
They say, I don’t know why, “TIME HEALS IT ALL”. Does it? Or time itself is like that old grandpa whose camaraderie with tensions, socio-political wounds, is an obscure yet profound truth. Or even it is not a truth globally, for me, it has been locally, a mantra. If I recall the 3 years of my college , right from those ragging season, to this year of penance at Shastri Nagar, I have been drowned in tension. Tension, sometimes, it seemed act as a soother for me.
It was all a matter of questions, arising baselessly in me, until I found a tacit answer. ADDA LAAL BAADSHAAHON KAA”. A place, where I tended to forget all the syntax and semantics of life. That cup of coffee, bina pani , was as pure as those last wine drops of Jesus. That red bricked border of hers, where I tested many dreams, most of them finally rested in peace. Those sips, which used to take us to soaring heights of magnanimity, just to relinquish, for a split second those awful tensions.
DAY 5: That white blank space is still visible to me. That coffee is doing a razzmatazz in my mind as I, newly formed day scholar, is having a bout with my tiffin. And at last as I gulp down my last bite, I see a structure being carried in front of me, to the other side of the canteen. That bright red Nescafe was being shifted to the other side. “In a better style”, somebody said,”in a better way”.
A sudden feeling arose, what type of, I can’t tell, old days were laid to death last day, only to be buried today, so as to give birth to a small set of memories. There was a ticklish, feeling, a perfect combo of excitement, nervousness, pain, and joy. Perhaps now, I was understanding my inner turbulence after becoming a Day Scholar. My love , the Classic Coffee of the Nescafe, had , by taking a reincarnation, taught me the ethics of time. Time , I understood,was healing in form of wounds. It was giving answers, in form of more complex questions.
DAY 6: The new Nescafe is being constructed, and I as a Day Scholar am eating my Tiffin ,calmly.
DAY 2 : Again a lock, now everything, in and out was becoming jittery. Omens were being produced and reproduced before me. Something unusual was to happen, I knew that.
DAY 3: Nothing was normal around that place. Everything , it seemed ,as if, was implying to a mis-hap. That place where I used to find her, was not normal. Some guys stormed in, something stormed out. I tried to drift my attention away,only to find it pinpointed there . My thoughts conjured up this time, something unusual was happening.
DAY 4: It finally happened, the doom’s day finally came , and judgment ,at last arrived, all the penultimate restlessness resulted in an ultimate assault. It was gone, that reddish grace was no more , that bombastic atmosphere was killed by some abstruse enemy of mine. My love, my Nescafe , finally was gone ,don’t know why, don’t know where, but……gone.
They say, I don’t know why, “TIME HEALS IT ALL”. Does it? Or time itself is like that old grandpa whose camaraderie with tensions, socio-political wounds, is an obscure yet profound truth. Or even it is not a truth globally, for me, it has been locally, a mantra. If I recall the 3 years of my college , right from those ragging season, to this year of penance at Shastri Nagar, I have been drowned in tension. Tension, sometimes, it seemed act as a soother for me.
It was all a matter of questions, arising baselessly in me, until I found a tacit answer. ADDA LAAL BAADSHAAHON KAA”. A place, where I tended to forget all the syntax and semantics of life. That cup of coffee, bina pani , was as pure as those last wine drops of Jesus. That red bricked border of hers, where I tested many dreams, most of them finally rested in peace. Those sips, which used to take us to soaring heights of magnanimity, just to relinquish, for a split second those awful tensions.
DAY 5: That white blank space is still visible to me. That coffee is doing a razzmatazz in my mind as I, newly formed day scholar, is having a bout with my tiffin. And at last as I gulp down my last bite, I see a structure being carried in front of me, to the other side of the canteen. That bright red Nescafe was being shifted to the other side. “In a better style”, somebody said,”in a better way”.
A sudden feeling arose, what type of, I can’t tell, old days were laid to death last day, only to be buried today, so as to give birth to a small set of memories. There was a ticklish, feeling, a perfect combo of excitement, nervousness, pain, and joy. Perhaps now, I was understanding my inner turbulence after becoming a Day Scholar. My love , the Classic Coffee of the Nescafe, had , by taking a reincarnation, taught me the ethics of time. Time , I understood,was healing in form of wounds. It was giving answers, in form of more complex questions.
DAY 6: The new Nescafe is being constructed, and I as a Day Scholar am eating my Tiffin ,calmly.
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