The first sighting

Many guys fall in love. They fall in love all the time, many times and fall out too. In most cases, it starts with that moment. The moment when he sees her for the first time. Most relationships start with infatuation, a physical attraction. People confuse that with sexual desires, but the truth is it is not really sexual. It is sublime in that the world starts fading away when he sees her. She need not even notice him. In fact, rarely do they notice the guy, coz not all guys are obvious when they stare. They cannot help but stare.
There is a zoom-in effect on her while everything else zooms out. Music really does start playing in the mind. Somehow she captivates him without saying a word. This beats all possible scientific explanations. It reminds us that we do not question science enough for what is science if not questioning?
The air gets a smell unfelt before. Worldly ideas, possessions and goals matter little then. Time does not really freeze, but he doesn't care about it passing. All he can think of...well he is thinking little then...is her. There is nothing purer than a genuine appreciation of true beauty, probably purer than the beauty itself.
He does not expect her to talk to him. He probably does not even want it. Nothing material, sensory or even sensual should disturb this pristine moment. It is just him and his thoughts with the mere sighting, smelling, sounds and very rarely, touch of her. It is a homogeneous, clear feeling blanched by the very light skimming her skin or apparel. A description of this moment is an insult in itself. It needs an enormous ego to foolishly attempt to dimensionally crush it into words, gestures or sounds.
Someone has to do it.
To the unfortunate ones who have never felt this, let me attempt to give you a horrible black & white vga version of a 100Mpixel view. Well, you know what, that is what I have done so far.
This ends, as it must, with a sincere apology to those who have felt this emotion as I have wronged them almost fatally by brutalizing their beautiful moments into crass, crude words bereft of timely punctuation.
What can I say...we don't control what we write...

The Average

You feel bad because you are average
I say you are the most gifted, for
Life is built for you, o common man
And you are tailor-made for this world

Your ambitions are lower, ditto expectations
Your disappointments run lower
There is no fear of acceptance, as,
Society craves affiliation with its own

You fit in well, I don't, I am
Hated yet cannot change myself
Cynicism and loneliness are my
Crutches in this world of ostracism

The average have everything in the world
Ability to enjoy everyday humor
The enjoyment in laboring over a puzzle
The attention of women who need a person
Slower than them to make them secure

Their attention is never divided
Ability to focus on mundane tasks
Is one of their discerning qualities
What can I say, they have all
That life asks

Masks we wear

I wish for a day when
the masks will be shed
the faces we proudly own
Will truly be read

There is nothing that we
Must fear to say or do
But what we truly feel
Why must we skew

I can never get over
The fear of disagreement
Of rejection and rebuke
So I hesitate to declare
What I feel or think
But little do I know
Where you stand to look

I know in depths of my heart
That you fear the same
While you are brazenly aware
I share your affliction

Yet we pretend nothing is wrong
To maintain this outwardly calm
So we waste time and energy
In putting up a sham

Maybe we are not meant to agree
With each other nor with anyone else
So shed thy mask and I will shed mine
And we won't get along just fine

Writer's Captivity

When one pictures a writer writing, one thinks of a closed room. There is a small window which lets in sunlight, moonlight, cold breeze or rain as per nature's proclivities. A rickety chair...okay maybe a proper chair beside a simple table with sheafs of papers flying about obscuring the writer's face would adorn the room completed by a water jug and some food lying around.
The writer is imagined to be a recluse with questionable hygiene and poor social judgment. Clothes are assumed to be disheveled with hair to match. There is little sound in the room but for the chirping of birds or other sounds beyond our control. All in all, the scene is typical and the conjecture is probably right.
One wonders about the power that a writer wields. Not the kind that we are normally familiar with, but the one in their own world. This thought is, of course restricted to fiction writers. They create ideas, situations, characters and whole universes. One thinks of the story as a little bird in the hand of the writer; a bird he can nurture and pet, or squeeze to death at a mere whim. It seems pretty obvious that the writer is the creator and god for this world.
What we don't see is that the writer, someone who visibly creates worlds and stories is as much a captive to fate as anyone else. There are many stories with alternate endings proposed by the authors simply because they probably published the official ending motivated by the need for public acclaim and popularity. The alternate ending or the twist which goes unsung ends up in the files of the author until his widow discovers it while clearing his room after wiping her tears for the umpteenth time.
Maybe I am being too morbid in my account, but one sees the literal morbidity in the previous few lines but the all consuming morbidity of the writer's captivity escapes most non-writers.
To them I advise writing something. When you relax yourself and allow thoughts to flow, there is an omnipotent gravity or rather gradient which forces your thoughts to flow in a particular manner. There is no reversibility here. The weirdest part of it is that this gradient is different for each person and yet common to all. We cannot control thoughts...we just cannot.
They control us.
When an author of a popular book series kills a character much to the chagrin of the reader, the reader wonders whether this was done just to attract attention or raise collections. The truly deviant one even casts aspersions on the character of the writer. These accusations may hold water if one assumes that the author is controlling the story.
It rarely happens so.
The truth is that an author can be truly successful in creating stories that readers can relate to only when he or she allows the random...Let the chips fall where they may...kind of flow of ideas. So the story flows from the author who ends up nothing more than an insightful medium. The rest of it...the flowery imagery, the thrilling writing, the emotional connections etc are mortal gifts that make books readable.
The ultimate proof of the writer's captivity is something that someone who writes will readily recognize. The impulse to write...the sudden, irrational, all consuming impulse to write...ignoring hunger, fatigue and most easily academics!

Judge above judgment

The adversarial legal process is a time-tested one. The idea of a public prosecutor whose only job is to do everything within the bounds of the law to convict the accused is as good as that of a defense lawyer who must everything he can to prevent that very action. One may think this to be a waste of valuable time and resources pitting smart people against each other, but the truth eventually emerges. The idea is that the side that triumphs after such a stiff fight has to be the truthful one.
This is excellent in theory, but in reality what we often encounter is talented litigators forced to win at all costs due to competition within their offices.
So, does the law and ultimately, justice suffer?
The judge comes into play here. He presides over the events in the courtroom with an impartial eye. This is a person who must be above the game and one with the law. The law must win at all costs.
The judge cannot prejudge the case and assume the accused's guilt. Such a judge may end up steering himself and a probable jury towards a guilty verdict. As much as it might bite him, the judge has to rise above personal conflicts and adhere to the law. It is probably the hardest job of all. The sad part is that too many prosecutors become judges. It seems to be on a prosecutor's agenda to either run for office, or become a judge.
Expecting a former prosecutor-judge to be completely impartial is not fair. These people have spent all their lives putting people away. It must be near impossible for such a judge to spot and deride any encroachment upon an accused's civil rights. No matter what one is accused of,(be it a simple matter of theft or something heinous like a brutal rape and murder of a minor) he or she deserves a day in court. The accused deserves the chance to confront his accuser, to cross-examine his testimony and to put up a defense. If he cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to him. He has the right not to cooperate with any investigation which might result in his incrimination. These simple rights cannot be breached by any government official, and any evidence and following prosecution as a result of such a breach is void as a matter of law.
These are certain legal principles which are sacrosanct and the judge is employed to protect them from being raped by over-zealous prosecutors.
This is not a game in any way, but the judge must, in a cynical justification, treat it like one. The judge has to be a referee, an arbiter with no vested interest in the outcome. These judges have to be above judgment and refrain from judicial anarchy even if they are sure that an accused is guilty of the crime.
Such a beautiful legal system is based on the one premise common to all nations and free worlds: Let a hundred guilty escape, but not a single innocent one should slip through the cracks of the law.

A different Language

A different Language

Ever get the feeling

That everyone around you
Is speaking a tongue
That only you don't get

It haunts me these days
I feel seriously inept
When I hear all around me
Knowing so much about knowledge

If it was my IQ deficiency
I would have accepted it
But it is a deep cluelessness
That I can't swallow

I always thought I was
Capable and yet well above average
Feelings of cluelessness
Taunt me to no end

How come all of you
Were born with a purpose
And I was bereft of
Of that very gene
That tells me what
To think and to do

I am tired of being called
Lazy and impertinent
When all I need
Is merely a scent
Of a goal in life
In education
In work, in society
In family.

Times change people do too
There is something finite in me
That I must find and accept
So I can dream too

Raj...do you dare?

Do you really dare, Mr Raj Thakeray, to stand in front of the trains which come from North India?
Why are you so stupid as to create a feeling of national animosity towards Maharashtra? Aren't you afraid Maharashtra will be asked to leave India?
We can create another Mumbai anywhere else without your impeding self!
Economist S.D. Naik said that as of 2006, Maharashtra has a debt of Rs 1.15 lakh crore. Please count the zeroes in it. And then count again. And again...you might get it right eventually.First bother about returning it, then will address the issue of Maharashtra's autonomy. You being so proud of Mumbai and asking others to get a visa to come here shows your gross dereliction of a little book called the Indian constitution. Do you know who is making Mumbai the business centre? Take a look at Dalal street. You have a chance of learning Gujarati in one hour just by standing there....but then I forgot...you don't believe in observation, analysis and reason.
Mumbai is a geographical part of Maharashtra. It is just a bunch of people which includes but is not limited to Maharashtrians. It is portable, believe me. Remember when USA brought the IT industry to India and offered it to Mumbai, your stupid ass uncle Bal refused to take it and Chandrababu Naidu of Hyderabad lapped it up. Ergo, Hyderabad-Cyberabad.
You really are a dumbass.
So, go ahead. Stand in front of the trains coming from North India. To the rest of the nation, I advise playing Train Simulator. It will arm you with the necessary skills to put this idiot out of the way.
The deepest irony is this Raj, that I thought you were a shrewd politician, and you will eventually overthrow your cousin Uddhav. But believe me, while you are bumbling around being Sonny, Michael is at home with the Godfather learning his ways and who knows, Uddhav might improve. One thing is true, Bal Thakeray is a gunda too..but he is a smarter politician.
My final advice, collect some people of your party that you trust, go back to your uncle and plead forgiveness. Use the same expression we use to confront our dad after denting his car!

MNS has PMS!

The recent drubbing of Samajwadi party workers along with innocent taxi drivers and hawkers by gundas belonging to the Maharashtra Navanirman Sena led by the hero Raj Thakeray has reminded us just how far behind the rest of the world India really is.
The journalist from Times Now asked Shishir Shinde, the spokesperson of MNS as to why this was done etc etc...(Here I would like to add a word of praise for her for, as Dan Rather calls it Speaking Truth to Power). This man arrogantly replied that the taxi was destroyed as it carried SP members who had abused Raj Thakeray. Hellooo! We are allowed to abuse him. This happens to be a democracy. Here, I will show you...Raj Thakeray is nothing but an educated bandit who is raping the people of Maharashtra by preying on their frustration...just like his inept cousin Uddhav...just like his bandit uncle Bal. I have every right to say this as I am a citizen of India having the right to free speech.
This stupid pustule Shinde has the gall to say, (when the journo questioned him on innocent people harmed in this display of bullshittiness...there I said it again!) that these things sometimes happen. So here you go Mumbaikars, you are being partly represented by an ignorant piece of shit who treats harmless victims as collateral damage.
I think Raj simply has a case of PMS, which leads to PISS (Political Idleness & Stupidity Syndrome) which leads to CRAP (Cowardly Rape and Pillage). Sadly for you Raj, people were watching this on TV and they won't be swayed by fake Marathi chants unlike the public during your uncle's reign. There are reasons for this. First of all, your uncle had a semblance of a reasonable excuse: There was enough violence on both the Hindu and Muslim sides. Hindus needed some radical representation of their own. Secondly, people weren't as educated then and hence more given to radical thoughts.
I assume you collected a bunch of Gundas from people who had nothing better to do than do what you command coz they probably failed all their courses and could not get into good colleges even after you & your ancestors self-righteously halved the entrance cut-off for your brothers. And you are upset coz Amitabh wants to do something for UP? What crap! Don't we all celebrate when NRI's build nice temples in the Western world? Try to understand nationalism...you know what, go back to school and learn civics..you might learn some civic sense too.
If you are really upset with Uttar Bharatiyas coming to Mumbai and flourishing, (which by the way, smart Maharashtrians are doing too, as you prove by your 500 crore property, why don't you donate some of it as a true Maharashtrian, you hypocrite!)...again you are really upset with north indians flourishing, try and beat them at their game if you can...coz I love the samosas and chaat on the road...and I buy vegetables from bhaiyyas...do better in business than them and the gujjus...make your kids get better marks at school than UPites...oh wait...I forgot...your kids don't need good marks...you have rigged the system well enough to ensure that!
The person who loses in all this is the true Marathi who I know well. They form a bulk of my friend circle and they want nothing to do with you. Firstly because they are educated hard-working people who believe in getting what you deserve and deserving what you get and secondly because...well they are educated!
And lastly, another person who is most confused is someone who is not originally from Maharashtra but is as Maharashtrian as all of you. I belong to that category. Yes I have a native place in the south but I rarely go there and Mumbai is the only world I know. Who the fuck are you claiming proprietorship over our bhoomi!

Black letter on the Wall

I don't know if anyone else feels it or not. To me the Democratic Primaries are turning slowly from completely unpredictable to more and more one-sided. With the inevitable pull-out of Sen. John Edwards from the race, it is becoming more and more clear that Barack Obama is going to be the Democratic nominee to the most powerful office in the world.
Anyone who read Paul Krugman's article in the New York Times about the Edwards effect will appreciate the astute conclusions drawn by this man, which is just how important Sen. Edwards has been to this campaign. While he has thrown in the presidential towel, he might still be used to balance Obama's ticket. He will certainly add cream to Obama's coffee so to speak and help White America vote for the change that Obama represents.
With the combination of Edwards and Obama, and the support of a Democrat Congress, there is a good chance of seeing the dream of America's first non-white president.
When Obama became the first black president of the Harvard Law Review, he told people to refrain from thinking that black rights in America are now real and tangible. It was far from it then, and is far from it now too. Even today, your chances of being pulled over for almost nothing at all are more than double when you are non-white.
Who knows, Obama may actually help improve the condition of the people who make up America's true diversity.

Celebrations

Sameer looked around and smiled. It was a good turnout. This was one of the moments when one took stock of the people one has accumulated and treats it as a personal accomplishment. He looked at Ravi. Yes, Ravi's arrival was a surprise. Ravi was always his arch rival and his perhaps most accomplished critic. There was great mutual respect between them, but Sameer could not help feeling that there was something personal in Ravi's disagreements with his ideas. His calm demeanor somehow almost but only almost concealed some dislike which was far beyond reasonable discussion or explanation. Yet, Ravi was here and that had to count for something. His eye rolled towards Rita, who was beside Ravi. Figuratively speaking, she would never be an inch away from him in opinion, so much so, that Sameer often had a hard time comprehending who was doing the actual thinking. Today, literally their flesh touched as she stood beside Ravi, almost sycophantic in her constant approval of his every move. Well, there was no surprise there. Her presence and her behavior were totally predictable.
Sameer forced himself to look further and not obsess over them. This was after all, his special day. He could see Rekha almost clearly, there was a haze in his vision now. Distance did that to him. Myopia, the doctor called it; but Sameer knew this was merely his body telling him to focus on things, ideas and people close to him and avoid thinking of others, no matter how tempting they were. Rekha sure was tempting, in her off-shoulder gown. She always had such amazingly sharp features. Her eyes, blue and piercing, her hair well managed and peaceful were quite an indication of her personality. Somehow, in the haze, he could picture her clearer than he could have seen her. Her dress, sown to perfection, was showing the right amount of cleavage, sensuous without cheapness. Her legs were shown off in an inviting way which simply was not tawdry. There were few women who could manage that look. He knew his wife was not one of them. Yet, Sameer was glad that Rekha was there that day. Life is the most inexplicable thing, he thought. There were so many moments when Sameer knew his life made absolutely no sense at all, yet there were few moments when he could not have called himself happy. A few different turns in the road and who knows, Rekha may have been his wife today. Sameer could not help think that. Who knows, maybe Rekha was thinking the same. Maybe the fervency with which she kissed her husband Raj was just as hollow as the way Sameer touched his wife, Tina.
He looked at Tina. Well, he had to admit, she was in a sense prettier than any woman he knew. She did not have the oomph of Rekha but was the perfect trophy wife he had always wanted and he got her. To be completely honest, she cooked and cared for him, bore him beautiful healthy children and maintained an air of dignity that came with her upbringing and her education. All in all, he had to conclude that his marriage, although perhaps without passion, was definitely not loveless and was more satisfactory than most marriages he knew of. Samu, she called him affectionately. Somehow, the word which made him feel childish was giving the aura of closeness that he had never thought he would have. Today was clearly a special day. Every little thing he could observe gave him that very indication. She was a faithful, dutiful wife and he had to be thankful, especially today.

There was something in the air that night. He was generally a prosaic person not given to romantic excursions of the mind, but that night, he let his mind wander. Sometimes, our minds have minds of their own. He was still enjoying drifting aimlessly in thought, something people would never recommend to a person of his occupation, but he found rather engaging and rewarding. Yes, over these years he learned a lot of things and one of the them was that the more you rely on what people say, the more you befuddle yourself.

He stared at the high ceiling and the decorations on it. They were emblematic of his rise to fame, power and respect. His was not the kind of power that manipulated the stock market or forced favors from government servants, but was that of convincing people once he set out to convince them. He could not get a special table for himself at a restaurant but well...that was not what he valued in life anyway.

He always knew, from a very young age that he was different. He was never naive, never passe, always a step ahead. If he asked a question he knew whether the answer would be the truth or not. He could read people. Always. Somehow he could bore deep into them and find out their true thoughts. While he may have seemed hypnotically gifted in doing so, it was merely perceptiveness and very fast deduction. He was destined for greatness. This was not his belief but firm knowledge. It never betrayed him.

As he looked around his eyes searched desperately for his sons. He valued them the most and made that clear to anyone who knew him. He shamelessly professed that the only real wealth in the world was a child. He always knew he would be a model father. Someone who his children would look up to and emulate. This was one of the very few times he had been disastrously wrong. His overbearing and controlling nature had upset them at first, and then slowly driven them away. They were now busy with their own education and away from him. They rarely visited. Still, he expected them to be with him on this day.
He fantasized of a life with a perfect A grade on his parenting report card. That would be the highlight of his life. He would never achieve it now. This thought was so overwhelming and consuming that he almost did not hear his name being called out. Almost.

He looked up at the announcer, her Swedish accent unmistakable, smiled and walked up to the dais. He stood facing the thousand strong crowd that was present. He cleared his throat and said,"Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you for being with me on such a special day. It is not everyday that one wins the Nobel Prize and this day would have been nothing if you had not been there to celebrate with me."

Curry lynch maybe?

Yet another Indian student was found murdered in the US in what looks like another hate crime. This time it was Abhijit Mahato in Duke University, NC who was found shot in the head. Another free spirit was silenced and the Indian dream of making it in the US after doing getting a graduate degree was tainted with blood.
Cue to the incident where two Indian students at Louisiana State University were found shot in the head. One of them was bound with a computer cable. Nothing was taken from house of Mr Allam (one of the victims) where Mr Komma (the other victim) was visiting him. The idea of robbery being the motive is laughable simply because...well..they were graduate students! In all seriousness, they were bound and shot in the head once apiece. This looked like a hate crime.
There are more reports that criminal gangs are on the attack against Indian students in particular.
Back to Abhijit Mahato, this guy was an MTech from IIT Kanpur and worked with GE for a couple of years. This was a promising, qualified and happy-go-lucky researcher who was killed probably by some two-bit idiot who could not differentiate mechanical engineering with being a mechanic.
When you actually analyze this possibility of Indians being the target of hate crimes, you wonder whether you have been transported to the 80's when this was an actual problem. The level of education in America about interracial harmony is simply not good enough. It seems to be restricted to the coastal blue states but the rest of America still wants things lily-white.
With a Democratic congress and most-likely Democrat future President, one hopes that the tolerance level of this country will improve and that there will be more acceptance of Indians and other foreigners.
For the time being however, the Indian community in America, the ones who are well established with their US citizenships or on their way to US citizenships, should form some kind of organization to spread awareness of Indian culture and differentiate us from the people in the Middle east. Indians are a proud and culturally aware people or at least that's what we hope to be. We need to spread this message.
We need to recognize that education is the only long-term solution to hatred. Let us pray for the souls of Abhijit Mahato and other victims of hate crimes and hope for a better tomorrow in this country which truly is a beacon of hope for people everywhere in search of democracy and freedom.

Some Intellectual cripples

There are 6.5 billion people in this world. The world is run by the top 1%. That makes it about 65 million. That's a huge number. Mensa, the international high IQ site accepts people in it if their intelligence ranks in the top 2%. Not all these people are contributing to the success in this world.
There are some who are gifted with above-average intelligence but also cursed with complete lack of direction. This makes these people appear lazy, irreverent and incompetent. Do not confuse these people with those with learning disabilities. These are more normal than you realize. It is just their precociousness and their intellectual speed which makes them pretty good at whatever they try. This precludes easy choice of the path in life which is possible for those with lesser intelligence but more determination. These people are naturally motivated in one particular direction and appear a lot more focused than those who are the topic of this discussion.
Such people tend either to wander aimlessly in search of an ambition or implode with destructive thoughts leading frustrating idleness.
Such people are ill and need to be treated. They need some upper hand to show them the needed direction or at least some method by which they may arrive at it themselves. This topic may seem unimportant and these people may not even seem disadvantaged as they are incredibly gifted. No one denies that. The truth is, however that they need help. The even scarier truth is that there are many like these. The hope is there in the fact that these people, if given direction, will solve some of the biggest bottlenecks in the world. This is the most untapped resource for us. These are the people who will shape our future. We have had enough of average people running the world. We need exceptionally gifted and committed people on the job. Someday this untapped resource of brilliance will be harvested.

Ponting...yes we doubt you!

In a press conference, Ricky Ponting was asked about the catch which he told the umpire was clean. Firstly, conflict of interest is one of the most important and well-guarded issues today. Cricket used to be a gentleman's game. Now, with the amount of money and interest riding on whether that catch was clean or not, asking a person (who has a conflict of interest) as to the verity of the catch is unfair to the person, the others, the spectators and the game itself.
Putting Ponting on the spot was unfair and foolish. Yes, the Aussies walk when they think they are out. But that's because they usually play pressure-free. From time to time, some team puts them in great pressure and the instinct to win no matter what comes out. I don't blame them, that's why we have umpires; because players cannot be trusted.
To the question, Ricky took offense that "You are questioning my integrity". Now Mr Ponting, we, unlike you have the handicap of education, logic and clear thinking. Here is our take on it. The catch was shown by technology to be dirty. You said it was clean. So, you are wrong.
Either we are questioning your integrity or your eyesight. You pick. We chose the former because you thrash bowlers and pinch women with amazing hand-eye co-ordination. This leads us to your integrity. Here the women pinching thing helps our case!

From Monkeys to...Darwin

The Harbhajan Singh case is a classic case of "He said, she said." Maybe I'm way off, but ties go to the defendant in a civilized society which the ICC seems to be. There were three people involved in the situation: Bhajji, Symonds and Sachin. Symonds accused Bhajji of a racial slur against him, which Bhajji denies. (something he need not do; he can keep his mouth shut and ask that Symonds build a case. His vehement denial is his choice, not a compulsion)
Sachin, the only other witness, supports Bhajji.
Only a police state can convict a person on charges corroborated only by the alleged victim. One may as well conduct this trial under the gavel of Vladimir Putin.
I have to agree with Sunil Gavaskar on this issue. While his righteous indignation may occlude his correctness but he is right on the money here.
As to the Aussie media digging info on how the Indian players are the worst violators, this actually goes to prove our long time charge of racism in the cricket community.
The day the Aussies accuse someone of racism and unfair play is pot callin the kettle "african american."

I need some time

I need some time

I need some time,

That is all I ask for

Some time to breathe

Some time to relax

Some time without competition

Some time without interaction

Some time without embarrassment

Some time to fold

I need to enter my shell

For some part of my life

I need not to be bothered

I need not to be tethered

Some time without judgment

Some time without relent

To life’s continuous annoyances

Some time to contemplate

I don’t want to achieve

The way you think I should

This is my life, my only life

I want to live it my style

Can’t life stop for a second?

Let me take stock of things

I am slower than others, but do I

Deserve to be rushed?

I don’t want to co-operate

I don’t want to co-exist

I want no comparison

No relative grading in life

Who sets these standards?

Why is good good and bad bad?

Nothing is predictable in life

So why should we be?

Freeze this world for a second

Put a stopper in jobs and tasks

So I may exhale

That is all I ask