-A window ajar is a prelude in building to the joy of being limitless! That uneasiness of being familiar somehow, sometime, somewhere.......

Thursday, December 15, 2005


To A, for all the love and for being able to laugh like poetry.

Perceptions are arbitrary
linens, beneath
gazing we lay
at the distant stars
of life’s night and day

Buried hatchets within we carry
an ache, is not necessarily of a fissure
To stranger smiles we marry
a laugh, does not always belong to pleasure

we are not just men of love
we are
not just men of hate

Somewhere we are, also
those unspoken handshakes
of our hearts and minds

Sometime we are, also
those incomplete deeds
we give in to, agreed and unagreed

On those summer nights ahead
when stars drop low by the open window
And we lay many a linens apart

Think of us; if you do
not just by the dark shadows
we hung by the selfish door
but as well by the colourful smiles
we spilled on the spotless floor.

Think of us; when you do
not just of what we held onto dearly so
but also of what we painfully let go....

Friday, December 09, 2005

Swan Lake

Caressed by the westward wind that blew from beyond the junipers, the waters sparkled bistre. And then I gazed back at them- Just like how after it has rained the tangerine light of the noon cuts past the thinning clouds- So gracefully; They came, one after the other, glowing in their own tiny reverie. From the deep corners they came, one after the other and took me far far away……

~Serpentine, Hyde Park
London, 8/12/2005.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Tired Turner Talk...

When S told me it was Simon Starling, I couldn’t find any feeling within my reaction. May be that bland detachment is typical after one is forced to go through countless turner conversations of no significance in the past few weeks. I tried remembering what I felt when I stood before the shed (or the boat?); it barely evoked anything, and looking back now, perhaps the only reason It didn’t make me terminally sick was because it lay within the sanctum of Tate. And both Adrian Searle and Tom Lubbock, ages ago, had subtly pointed that the installation wasnt impressive, the story including.

But art is not about perceptions, so individual impressions, unless it is something overwhelming, don’t account much. But what is that idea?(or is it a joke?) about the installation being a form of conceptual art? As a fan of conceptual art, I can say with conviction it’s hardly that. When I think of conceptual art, I think of arrogance, I think of being grabbed ruthlessly and made to take stock. But Simon’s frail installation has barely any perspective in terms of concept.The only concept, if it is considered one, would be the emphasis on the worth of space and time, a subtle counter voice on its own -but that again is meaningless without the benefit of context.To me, It is no better than a personal statement and the content of the statement itself is debatable.

That naturally leads to the question would it then qualify as art? Frankly, in this postmodern age, it’s very hard to answer that without disregarding a perceptive disagreement . And with the knowledge of Simon’s heroic stories it becomes more of a way of life. May be, in that sorts, it is art. Or may be not.

In art, even the worst rubbish can be forgiven if it makes up for the worth. But is the best young British art a piece of dull uninspiring lumberjack’s DIY, anomic protest against the frenzy? The answer, naturally, doesn’t have to be spelt out. Anyone who has walked the sidewalks and the corridors of even the obscure galleries of this country would know. Besides, even amongst the other contestants, except the kitschy, in your face works of Jim Lambie, the other two were far ahead both in terms of beauty and meaning. Gillian Carnegie, the traditional of the lot, was perhaps singularly linear in her imagination but her works were undoubtedly enchanting. Darren Almond, my personal favourite- was more anecdotal and evocative in dealing the same subject he shared with Simon: time , but he flirted dangerously close to being sentimental.

The jury, which picked Simon’s over others, is noted to have stated

‘for his unique ability to create poetic narratives which draw together a wide range of cultural, political and historical reference’.
I’m not sure what that means in the context of the award or the work. And I’m also sure nobody, including the judges themselves have a clue what it actually means. And then of course Simon himself quite humbly has admitted that he himself isn’t sure about the aesthetic and intellectual engagement of his installation. So to be fair on all its reasonable to conclude that in the end what this turner lacked in controversy, it has made up in confusion.

Of course awards are never the measure of art, but the opposite. If at all, this result has achieved anything, it is to ensure that the dying debate stays alive through all the Christmas dos. For those reasons alone, the jury must be righfully blamed for the lack of imagination than Simon who so naively describes his art as a 'Physical manifestation of thought process'.

Its time that someone actually told him, that art or not, the manifestation of the middle finger is not quite far from his artistic essence. The process, if you ponder a bit, remains the same. The missive would point out the romance in the story as a process, but it is meaningless if it is a story of just only a process. The value of both adventure and romance duly noted.

When I asked R, what he thought of it, He replied '' loaada crap'' He enjoys being forthright. Obviously it wasnt his crap that was worth twenty five grand.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Shadow of the sea.....

[Cropped from the prelogue of an old essay]

What is all that is yours?
All your laughs, tears, goods, bads, truths, untruths, thises and thats?

The sum of all your emotionally coloured lessons admixed with your prison-house cogitations of such post-mortems and such fantasies; all that gets so carefully wrapped, and so incessantly stored in the vaults of your memory as experience. Yes your own special experience! A medium that you so devoutly authorize to sketch the delicate curves of your identity. So priceless, so treasured that little word: I, is but nothing more than a value, of which the only accessible measure is your life (that flows through it) and the only available measurer is that little word again: I.(the you that navigates it)
Thus we begin. In bias! In beauty! In bliss!

Monday, November 28, 2005

Some of newer winter colours...

The Tower Bridge

The Big Ben

Embankment Skyline

Transport exhibition

Thursday, November 24, 2005

On being booked and winter reading....

This Gaurdian article with the subsequent blog and discussion flooded me with memories.
I must admit I have a huge thing for schools and classifications , more so when it comes to books. Though its kinda settled a bit now it still is an obsession at times. Sometimes I take a day off to collect all my scribbles inside various books in one place. If you thought that was weird , hang on, I used to read all the newspaper editorials of 6 months together on some holidays! Once my sister's friend happened to visit on one of them days and on learning about my special hobby, gaped and fainted! For full three minutes. That made me realise how healthy it was!
Guess, Im making up for it now by reading newspapers only when needed.

Since I have my collection scattered over many cities, Ive managed to keep the current classification quite simple,
1. Fiction
2. Non fiction
3. Favourites
4. Miscellaneous
The borrowed books are rafted in a separate shelf.
And since the favourite section occupies the front, people still get freaked out to see an entire collection of Joyce and Nietzsche! Yet all their commentaries lie beneath the bed.

And as the winter seeps, the streets are fogged and smudged dark so early and with the gales happily roaring one can only fancy to spend these evening sipping printed words with some fine scotch .
So the winter schedule is drawn-

Baroque architecture
Life a user manual George Perec
Salman rushdie Essays and columns
Umberto Eco on Joyce and semiotics

Researching incl online
7th Panzer division and many other Nazi elite units
Revolt of Boudica against romans
C Rajagopalachari (Tell me Everything and anything you know about him)
White as an art form , starting from Lowry here .
Diane Arbus (One article in the Independent made me yearn for her)

- Arguments for/against NGO and charity structurization in India.
- Childhood sexual abuse in India

Anyone interested in the same or related feel free to chip in.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Question: For the postmodern hamlet ...

                B  lu  e          P  i l l 
                         R  e d     P i ll

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Ode to breakfast....

No hope, regrets not many
you run
and round
in circles that
become history
of your life.

A history so precious
that even you wouldn’t

just like
a breakfast on a monday

morning that
you can’t recall on
a Thursday. Yes,
that invaluable
bread you toiled for


after weekdays..
only to lose its
taste in the
of life. And

then to blame it
on a

busy workschedule...Ah!

truly what a weak and
idle theme
this seemingly

shameless dream?

~Liverpool 15/11/2005

* of course the last stanza was appropriated from his highness -The Bard

Saturday, November 12, 2005


Busy preparing for yet another presentation and thought Ill share here few segments from the passages that I usually exploit as references to get across complex points on human consciousness.

The first is from Principles of New Evaluation- Fredrich Nietzsche, what my friend referred to as the incisive gem of human zenith.


''Knowledge is judgment!" But judgment is a belief that something is thus and thus! And not knowledge! "All knowledge consists of synthetic judgments" of universal validity (the case is thus and not otherwise in every case), of necessary validity (the opposite of the assertion can never occur).

The legitimacy of belief in knowledge is always presupposed: just as the legitimacy of the feelings of conscience judgments is presupposed. Here moral ontology is the dominant prejudice.

The conclusion is therefore:
1. There are assertions that we consider universally valid and necessary;
2. Necessity and universal validity cannot be derived from experience;
3. Consequently they must be founded, not upon experience, but upon something else, and derive from another source of knowledge!

(Kant infers (1) there are assertions which are valid only under a certain condition; (2) this condition is that they derive, not from experience, but from pure reason.)

Therefore: the question is, whence do we derive our reasons for believing in the truth of such assertions?
No, how our belief is caused!

But the origin of a belief, of a strong conviction, is a psychological problem: and a very narrow and limited experience often produces such a belief! It already presupposes that there is not "data a posteriori" but also data a priori, "preceding experience."
Necessity and universal validity could never be given to us by experience: why does that mean that they are present without any experience at all?

There are no isolated judgments!

An isolated judgment is never "true," never knowledge; only in the connection and relation of many judgments is there any surety.

What distinguishes the true from the false belief? What is knowledge? He "knows" it, that is heavenly!
Necessity and universality can never be given by experience! Thus they are independent of experience, prior to all experience! That insight that occurs a priori, therefore independently of all experience, out of sheer reason, is "a pure form of knowledge"!

"The basic laws of logic, the law of identity and the law of contradiction,are forms of pure knowledge because they precede all experience.''--But these are not forms of knowledge at all!they are regulative articles of belief.

To establish the a priori character (the pure rationality) of the judgments of mathematics, space must be conceived as a form of pure reason.

Hume had declared: "There are no synthetic a priori judgments." Kant says: But there are! Those of mathematics! And if there are such judgments, perhaps there is also metaphysics, a knowledge of things by pure reason!

Mathematics is possible under conditions under which metaphysics is never possible. All human knowlege is either experience or mathematics.

A judgment is synthetic; i.e., it connects different ideas.
It is a priori; i.e., every connection is a universally valid and necessary one, which can never be given by sense perception but only through pure reason.

If there are to be synthetic a priori judgments, then reason must be in a position to make connections: connection is a form. Reason must possess the capacity of giving form.

(Cant help but worship)


The second is Calvino's lovely ride through prose poetry and metaphysics.


POLO:… Perhaps the terraces of this garden overlook only the lake of our mind. . .

KUBLAI: . . . and however far our troubled enterprises as warriors and merchants may take us, we both harbor within ourselves this silent shade, this conversation of pauses, this evening that is always the same.

POLO: Unless the opposite hypothesis is correct: that those who strive in camps and ports exist only because we two think of them, here, enclosed among these bamboo hedges, motionless since time began.

KUBLAI: Unless toil, shouts, sores, stink do not exist; and only this azalea bush.

POLO: Unless porters, stonecutters, rubbish collectors, cooks cleaning the lights of chicken, washerwoman bent over stones, mothers stirring rice as they nurse their infants, exist only because we think of them.

KUBLAI: To tell the truth, I never think them.

POLO: Then they do not exist.

KUBLAI: To me this conjecture does not seem to suit our purposes. Without them we could never remain here swaying, cocooned in our hammocks.

POLO: Then the hypothesis must be rejected. So the other hypothesis is true: they exist and we do not.

KUBLAI: We have proved that if we were here, we would not be.

POLO: And here, in fact, we are.

And there are those genius of passages from the one and only Doestoevesky. Notes from the Underground especially.

As I typed out the second am just pondering how it reflects so much on the Internet.
Blogging in particular.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

City mapping...

It is said that for a person, a name of the city invokes one dominant image.

Be it a café, monument, railway platform, a conversation, or even the flashy smile of the girl at the take-away joint; but it is almost always moulded by the circumstances of the image.

A farewell, a smile, a special love, aroma of the certain variety of tea or splattering of the rain that drenched you in your favourite shirt, in all - there you are to stand, enshrined in the religious sanctity of your own memories.

Adding colours, smiles and meaning.

A few dozens of these images become planks to navigate through the innumerable other less easily remembered images and then soon you find you have navigated across a significant segment of certain river they call life.


For now lets just be content with brick and mortar. Shall we?


West London.



London- her camera but I shot it. So Its mine. Technically!

Friday, October 28, 2005

Car n Love....

                    L--o- V... e ?

Ro mA.A.A.A.n?tic lovE

PlaToniC)( love ??
                                        filial *l[ov]e?

l-O-v- E?

S-t-i-l-l a love?


Big car ?

s........l......oooo..w ca..r



B /r\k O e n \ car

s--t--i--l--l a car ?


PS: From Minghella's English patient.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Twilight song of the autumn.....

whispers of silhouettes
fade into
darkness of
dead papyrus leaves

an ancient
while waiting
for the last bus

someone's wearing
the same perfume
she used to ....

we could be still friends, you know

we consoled each other

an embrace

deep soulful sigh
a momentary funeral
for the two,

the bus advances
to the future
through the
lingering aromas
of the past....

Monday, October 10, 2005

The Story of Thirteen benches.....

More of the benchtime stories.....

One of the absolutely ethereal haunts on the planet: Hyde Park opposite Serpentine.

The halogen washed 'quarter-backs' in Stratford .

The odd rectangular opposite Tower of London.

The red draped hematites in a train station- somewhere abouts Yorkshire.

For the just about minimalists : Piccadilly gardens , Manchester.

The famous Lord's balcony-Marylebone, London.

The Lancashire statement!

More of Hyde Park Fever.

The gorgeous entrail of a snugly arc : Colchester, Essex.

The cream curve covering the Windsor castle, Windsor. Had to wait like seventeen minutes to catch it vacant.

The irresistible circle in the shades: near Tower Bridge.

Perhaps the oldest in my collection(dating BC): Overlooking The roman bath, Bath, North east Somerset.

The royal property at the Windsor Gardens, Windsor and Maidenhead.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Play it again Sam?

The childhood of the azure morning grows into the adolescence of the perfect noon like a lady in her ballroom dress, embroidered in the cotton of the white clouds. The bright capacious light, that dances, wagging all through the distance of the baggies of green woods and over the sparkling waters and cascades through the valleys they call parking-spaces and plunges into the crevices of the routines.
Shadows formed on the warm pavement are darker and distinct, the dry air lies motionless with the mutual smiles of faces glistening heavily in the weight of the consolidate warmth.
Once a while a rare breeze gathered conveys the sweet of the lillies that it had gently stroked on the way. The women lovely in their cuts of bright pinks and parrot greens walk their voluptuous sways silently enjoying the admiring eyes of the bare-chested young men. Hordes of children engage in their own pleasant reverie unmindful of the grime, howling and laughing . Sweet invisible chirps are heard more than often from beyond the rickety yawning street.

As if this be just a fine tuning it rains from nowhere a few tiny droplets for a very brief moment and then the masterly rendition is repeated with the rainbow as the violin.

In such afternoons, what else could one taste but the bitter froths of the pint: many a pints and many a barrels.
Play it again Sam?

Will ya? This is as near as we could get to the sun.

PS: On the absolutely lovely day of 21 June, 2005 : The longest day of the calendar.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Fifty Five Fiction....

Extempore of the evestigio has passed me on one other of those virtual batons. I gather this is about writing anything fictional in fifty five words while indulging in the sentiments of instantaneous word gratification against the backdrop of diminishing attention span.

Whoever behind this idea should be rewarded by forced to read all the volumes of Remembrance of Things Past without any break!

Anyways here goes my flash effort written in the songtime of that lovely- The lonely shepherd by Georghe Zamfir from the Kill Bill OST:

Through the hustle she scrambled into the eastbound Piccadilly train. Finding herself a seat, she opened Brothers Karamazov and started midway through a long passage. The tall guy opposite was snatching a quarter-smile. It was then she noticed an old Brothers Karamazov tucked between his hands.

She smiled back.

That is how Lizzie met Charlie.


On the way back home, Gods accorded a spark of muse. So here is another version:

No, ! ‘Not sea shells seeshells by the seashore’, he repeated again,
‘It’s She sells seashells by the seashore’.

Okay, I’ll try again ‘See shells seecells by the sheeshore’.

No dear, ‘S-h-e s-e-l-l-s s-e-a-s-h-e-l-l-s by the s-e-a-s-h-o-r-e’.

Right, 'See shells sheesells by the seashore'.

Come-on now, ... 'Its See shells seasells by the sheesore'.

She laughed wildy!


And, in here, the baton lies buried .
Dig if you wish.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005



Friday, September 16, 2005

Transit Thoughts...

College is like a summer holiday that haunts the later winters of the life.

So with the autumn term lectures on, you could see again those eager unsure eyes focussed on you, trying to religiously devour everything that you hurl.Strange feeling.
Just by looking at them, you could say who had spent time looking for meaning in the lyrics of rock anthems, who's gonna become the environmentalist, who would go on into politics and who would be the reputed art critic. The enthusiasm in the air brought back memories from my life, when I was doing my forensics.

I had gobbled up a whole manual of homicide n ballistics- the calibre, the spin of the bullet the type entry wounds, etc, with the intent to vomit out in the viva which, I nevertheless did, in the sadistic spectacle of that cruel questioning until that last question by the stout professor who asked,
‘Could you tell us what is the cause of death in the decapitation’? Being sure it wasn’t in the book, first I panicked and later tried holding hands of lady luck, ‘Bleeding secondary to severing of main vessels’, I pushed with a smile. So you mean ‘All the blood would flow out...’?

I shamelessly mumbled something about cardiac shock, very well aware that I was the focus of the Kodak moment. Then the bugger made me think for one whole embarrassing silent minute, right there in front of all, until I could think for myself and answer vagal hyperstimulation.

‘Good’ he retorted, and finally consoling ‘Don’t worry its not the junior-term question, actually you did well’.

That was some frigging learning. And now you see it from the other side, you realise how originality and spontaneity is so precious.

Speaking of original unprejudiced view on life, this gentleman- in the picture here on a hardback that I received today, stands like a pillar; precise and content, he ought to be recognised at least by one particular reader here.

Between Uni and such expectant pastime, the winter should be interesting to say the least.

Life, unclassified!

For now friday alcohol beckons !

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Troika Reviews

One of the age old norms in the college was-When bestowed the luxury of being in the bed; ill and convalescing, one must indulge in as many books, movies and music as possible to review them later for the greater health and prosperity of the brethren.

And as old habits die hard (why else you think they are called old habits?), here go a obscure few....


Portrait of an artist, as an old man: a novel

Joseph Heller 2000
Scribner fiction in UK £12.99

Joseph Heller needs no introduction. Though the title carries a rare emphasis of being a novel, it becomes clear as we sail past impeccable narration of the initial few chapters, that the book is a far from being a novel. It is put together as a clever collage of autobiographical insights that finds its way as fictionalised accounts glued by inimitable wit with his twisted semi efforts to write one final reputable novel.

In this last book published after his death, Heller speaks through his alter-ego protagonist Eugene Pota (Portrait Of The Artist), a previously successful novelist walking into the sunset of his literary winter, with too much idyllic time at hands and pride to wear, with a faithful publisher by his side trying to put forth one final piece before his farewell.

At the crux, the book deals with writer’s block and his jovial struggles to come up with an idea worthy of a marketable novel and through such pursuits he half heartedly tries to explore, Greek mythology, biblical themes and also several of his favourite fictions/lines twisting them into parodies that are often shuffled about before being abandoned. The result is a combination chronicle of his brilliant false starts interspersed with his personal takes on several things in life.

Personally he traces the uninspired writer’s world, reclusive and dull often trying to find muses in inanely imaginative things from his wife’s possible sexual biography to reflections of women in his life, The idea of Gods wife, to a consultation with his doctor and often at times tries his hand at weaving some fiction out of them. Needless to add there is a distinct sexual undertone in many such chapters.

As we move on, it is obvious his false starts are bound to loose steam ending up as paragraphs, chapters and at times just headings. However some of themes like Hera speaking of Zeus’ wives and the chapter on Isaac have brilliant sparks that bring back memories of what a gut twistingly hilarious talent he is.

But the more insightful segments of the book are when he tries on some of his favourite lines from fiction like - A beautiful woman has trouble living up to her looks for very long: Kurt Vonnegut, Last night my lord returned from the wars and pleasured me twice/thrice? with his boots on: Duchess of Marlborough or at times manages to exploit in satire some familiar chapters(or parts at least) from Tom sawyer, Metamorphosis and Moby Dick to get across his point of what a great torture writing can be?

The best theme is undoubtedly in the chapter Tom sawyer, The novelist which deals with, what Heller calls the literature of despair where Tom sawyer is re-fictionalised as a keen young american novelist trying to trace the final days of various eminent writers all over America (Mark Twain, Jack London, Flaubert, Melville, Poe, Fitzgerald etc) and across the pond (James, Dickens, Conrad, et al) only to learn about the various states of their pathological melancholia , breakdown and hopeless end. This manages to convince Sawyer to abandon his ambition of writing and to wish to become a railroad engineer instead.

Further, in the following chapter he goes on to examine the illnesses and idiosyncrasies of many writers as part of his talk to young college students only to conclude in a subtle warning veiled in humour:It is almost enough to chill the heart of the parent whose child declares the wish to seek a career as an author.

The narration when discreetly autobiographical is learnt and graceful and while experimenting with his numerous ideas is clever with flashes of his reputedly dangerous satire. This is indeed a unique book in a special genre. And for people who seek plots, mystery, meaning or perhaps even laughter, it should hold little interest for it is just a pastiche account about writing or the lack of it.

In the end, one gets a feeling that beneath all there is a unmistakable wry and the sardonic laugh at the evolution of meaninglessness into life, though perhaps not as satirical (twenty two teethed laugh) at the absurdity of war, a laugh definitely wise and subtle enough to escape a post modern conscience, a laugh perhaps enriched only by the meaning of life.

Flaky or otherwise, he has succeeded in hiding whatever he intended to hide!



Girl With a Pearl Earring
Beauty inspires obsession

Production: Lionsgate films, Pathé distribution 2003
Director: Peter Webber
Runtime: 100 mins
Cast: Scarlett Johansson, Colin Firth, Tom Wilkinson, Essie Davis, Cillian Murphy, Judy Parfitt.
DVD: £ 5.97
Country: United Kingdom/Luxembourg

Based on a novel by Tracy Chevalier this movie is a story of Griet a beautiful peasant who starts to work as a maid in the wealthy home of the Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer and how she with her innocence and curiosity inspires the talented Vermeer, initially by assisting him and eventually by modelling one of his natural masterpieces. On an abstract plane there is a parallel and subtle exploration of the meaning and the boundaries of love {?} within and out of society in the uncertain backdrop of art.

The story is just a lovely fiction by Tracy Chevalier adding imagination to the making of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. Young Griet begins to work as a maid in the patrician family of Vermeer to support her financially struggling parents. Although illiterate she exhibits an innate understanding of subtleties of colour and light often unnoticed by Vermeer’s own lavish family mainly made of wife and mother in law. As she spends more time amongst the paintings, the studio turns into an imaginative respite and she finds herself slowly drawn into his world which in turn, offers him a natural way out from the bauble of his kitschy family before ultimately inspiring him to paint her as the model. And all through this, Vermeer finds himself torn between a dull family and his love for true art, while she conscious of the futility of their intrigue and the class distinctions finds herself in the affections of a native butcher boy. That a wealthy patron of Vermeer’s art also starts to develop more than a wild interest in Griet doesn’t help the quagmire any bit. Sailing through such testing waters, the story moves along to capture how, held by their conviction and bound by love for art they manage to be immortalised in one of the most genuinely captivating paintings ever. Beauty as it is aptly said inspires obsession.

Scarlett Johansson as griet is refined and breathtakingly luminous at times, Colin Firth(Vermeer) although just about manages to convince himself off the lover boy image, one tends to get a feeling that a more gifted actor would have justified the silent and intriguing chemistry between them better. The familial characters manage to fulfil the demands of their role quite unremarkably. Essie Davis as Vermeer's wife is just about tailor- made for the role. For veterans Tom Wilkinson(MasterVan Ruijven), Judy Parfitt( Maria Thins/Mother in law)and Joanna Scanlan(Tanneke) it is just another day in the office. Cillian Murphy(Pieter), as the love interest of griet shows promise.

It is the art direction that is quite outstanding to recreate the feel of 17th century Netherlands, in fact I can’t remember of any better reconstructed renaissance films amongst that I’ve seen. Since Olivia Hetreed has done a decent job in screenwriting, director Peter Webber’s role is reduced to unimaginative supervision with very little room to improvise.

The music, crowned by an alluring soundtrack aptly compliments the ambience of the movie. Eduardo Serra’s exquisite cinematography is a treat that justifies the motif of the movie as the different scenes are brilliantly captured in the artistic interplay of shadows and light.

To conclude, the story line is no where near exciting neither is anything sensational in the movie; this film is about and in images, and that is exactly what makes it a memorable viewing more than anything else, especially for viewers like me who think in images.So if you are the types who cherish computer aided imagistic memories, you are advised to give yourself an easier choice.



Push Barman to Open Old Wounds--CD compilation
Artist: Belle and Sebastian

Jeepster Recordings May 2005
UK price: £ 10.97

Convalescing from an arduous delirium is hardly a state preferred to write about the melody of Belle and Sebastian, so let me just keep the background brief.

Belle and Sebastian formed in 1997, is an enigmatic Glasgow based indie band named after French television show from the sixties.
I accidentally discovered them via a friend a while back and since then have been a huge admirer of the type of modern pop-chamber music they are renowned to craft. First for the sheer genius of their expansive experimentation and two for the subtle melancholic narrative in their lyrics which personally, I find so easy to identify with.
In a sense, they have come to mean what music means to me, - unique, evocative and evolving. Their core music is best described as a version of a cross between Simon Garfunkel and Dylan, and if you like either of them, I suggest you should give Belle and Sebastian a try, if you haven’t already.

As you listen, It’s not hard to see why you can’t recall of any active bands that sound as versatile as they sound. The unique feature, which lends identity (hence value) to the band is undoubtedly the wistful lyrics, written by front man Stuart Murdoch (mostly on Glasgow buses). It is backed by softish easy to fall in love with vocals, and a wide range of innovative music; the combination of all often reflecting a dreamy state of purposeless anomie in the suburban life.

And when I speak of lyrics, how many bands can come up with such words in their songs like this-?
ou are in two minds tossing a coin to decide whether you should tell your folks
about a dose of thrush you got while you were licking railings
and more importantly gotten away with them in perfect harmony?

The two CD compilation of twenty five songs , is a must have collector’s item, as it not only forms a decent introduction for a newbie but also has a good package of their more obscure tracks to an avowed fan.
The first CD is an assort of alluringly precious tracks of their folksy earlier songs, epitomised by their pensive lyrics. The variety of musical instruments complement the words and vocals to perfection.
It kicks off with the clever and whimsical dog on wheels that grows on you the more you listen, the second number, the state I am in is genius of a song-story told in clever fragmented tune followed by the gorgeously written simonseque string bean jean.
As you are still recovering from those haunting melodies, you are offered to savour Belle and Sebastian, a summery, suave number.
The next song is the crux of the CD, Lazy Line Painter Jane, a duet with guest vocalist Monica Queen the best of the compilation is flirtatiously evocative and undeniable of its brilliance in concept and execution. The experimental a century of Elvis sounds bit of Mike Skinneresque. le pastie de la bourgeoisie is an amazingly written and sung retro-treat A few other songs like Photo Jenny, Put the book back on shelf are in the magical league of their own making the CD as delicious as any CD can ever become. To say that this CD carries some of the most impressive music of our times is an understatement and an injustice.

The second CD formed mostly of their later songs, is patchy. It begins with the lengthy and ethereal this is just a modern rock song and goes on further to build up into other crisp melodies like I know where the summer goes and slow graffiti. The legal man, an amorphous tappy piece by Isobel is the undoubted star of the second CD .The later songs become extremely ordinary and characterless like in the instrumental Judy is a dick slap where you wonder whether you are just listening to any other chart pop band. The rest of the songs are unabashedly conscious only evoking at times the memory of the wistful charm so rich in the first CD but they fairly manage to carve their own pop identities as in Jonathan David, and The loneliness of a middle distance runner.

All in all it’s definitely a worthy compilation both on the pocket and ears, however my favourite Dear catastrophe waitress (Isn’t that friggin worthy to kill title?) is in another album of the same title!
If you haven’t listened to Belle and Sebastian you have definitely missed out on some sincere and soulful music of our generation, irrespective of whether you end up liking them or not.

So long,

Monday, September 05, 2005

Snowball da macao


ps: a random oulipo spark ends a long blue monday !

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Enroute and atop Aguada....

Although the uphill distance between the Resort de Aguada and the Aguada fort is said to be not more than a couple of miles, if you look around as you drive along the zigzagged road, it is bound to extend into one eventful voyage.

As you begin to climb, first you find a narrow channel of rivulet beside to your left; a type of makeshift quay enveloped in the lush of the greens cradling a few colourful ferries. Romeo, Meena, Dono Paula, Samrat, Miramar – these are some of the names anchored home for the time being. And even as you wish to savour it a bit more, the rivulet graduates into a fading estuary and vanishes deep into a mist of grey and eventually into a marine memory.

Drive further up and the air turns lighter and the alongside trees sparser, gently ushering you out in the open, naked to the burning sun overhead.

Along with your mumbles about the heat you slowly ascend the steeping road to be accosted by the growing horizon all around. You are due to struggle here with a feel of vaulting somewhere in the hollow provinces of this mid air handshake between the spotless chromed sky above and the scorched earth beneath.

Higher up, as the road levels; an odd moocow grazing lazily, a couple of electric poles, a remnant of a signpost and your moving shadow are all that you can expect to keep your company until you reach the fort atop the hill.

The fort, as you discover is but a segment of oddly shaped serpentine sepia wall groping out from within, mute in its mighty abandon. The main passage stoops down south only to rise again to the right arching initially into a tarmac and then into the ruins of erstwhile ramparts.

It is here you might find of interest to engage with a grey bearded elder squatting in the shade of a lonely bramble; who would, subject to his mood obviously, recount how the aging bricks of the fort are witness to the stories of birth, grandeur and bereavement. And true to his words you notice how like a grand old lady she ceaselessly swallows a retreating past overlooking an arabesque future of the liquid, solid and sky.

As the view claims a pinch of belief to register, you spare an odd thought to the fortune of all those sentries of the past who would have stood guard here everyday laying a vigilant gaze over the horizons, for even the last one of them would have died a poet for sure.

Perched atop on the far end of this summit, the distant face of the sea, dressed in shades of emerald, turquoise, indigo, taupe, grey, and at places smudged by the shadows of slow moving clouds and at places bristling in silver, stroked by the long hands of the sun is exceptionally serene in its silence and expanse. The floating freckles of petite islands in between are best described as sporadic, and so are the multi-ethnic vessels that float about in so painful a torpid that you are forced to give up on their activity after a while of close anticipation.

Your left horizon is taken by the strip of the city, mainly put together by the varied colours of concrete kiosks, draped by the berets and baggies of greens and quite often but not always- interrupted, protected and invaded by both the silent and foamy white arms of the ocean. A few metal spires intended for wireless communications stand atall here and there in the distant haze. You could surely imagine how in the night, the wind would haul ripples along the black waters distorting the pockets of orange reflects in the mist of city lights.

Unbiased, the sky hovers lazily over both the city and the ocean alike as if just in an eager wait to slide behind the veil that the murk of the night draws.

Once you have absorbed an eyeful of the all these , it is here, in the surrounds of this sentinel, you wish to come during those winter evenings when the breeze is just about pleasant to study some Neruda and perhaps Brodsky too[?], reminiscing over life among other such things.

For that, is unbearably beautiful, even to imagine.

~Aguada, Goa, India.

June 2005 draft very edited later.

PS: For FSB, thanks for the interruption

Thursday, September 01, 2005

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

One moment you saunter tirelessly wading through the labyrinths of rows and columns in the library looking for your book only to give up finally in a sigh of grand futility but then you find the book being returned at the desk by a stranger wearing a smile.

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

And the next moment you find yourself discussing heartily with the same stranger (wearing the smile) everything under, within and beyond the sun in the nearest restaurant calling each other by the first names.

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Then past such a lovely time, you both insist vehemently to pay for the memories and the pride ; only to realize that both of you have forgotten your wallets. (One of course invariably, suspects theft)

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Then it hurts to realize that your mobile is out of charge and the other doesn’t carry one.

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Then, as you pause , picturing your cheeks painted in the shades of embarrassed scarlet wondering how best to explain , you see your old mate walk in with his typical heavy strides and a charming smile!!

It's freaking strange isn’t it?

Now t-h-a-t is freaking strange !

she utters without taking the eye off her muffin.

Monday, August 29, 2005

The Memory....

This, for a change is not my entry. This is a guest post from Prat .
We have been toying with this for a while. The idea to guest blog, where you exchange posts with another blogger. After mutually agreeing in favour of it, we thought the best way to get over our goddamn writer’s blocks was to suggest each other some loose themes to work around. The results are here.

It’s an honour to have her here. You can find my post over there
in her place.

Im leaving you to her-

A memory is a slow walk through the halls of oneself clutching to the hands of time.Its just such an intimate moment. Between you and a melancholic part of you.

''Can you sing?'', he asked, looking right at her. Almond brown eyes. That curve in his lips. Wind flirting with her hair. Him with her. Soft old number from the eighties or so. Rocks below their carelessly dangling feet. Waves crashing against them. The notes of the Indian Ocean playing along softly. Different scales melting seemlessly into a music that sometimes still plays in her ears.

Time does what it knows to do best.
Go by.

You are ready. Bag slung over your shoulder, daily folded to an agreeable shape, fingers reach out to grab for support. One leg almost touches the train. Almost.
And then.
You look.
At the gap.
Between the train and the platform.
And wonder.
What if.
You see with absolute lucidity all that you are losing.
I loved you so much.You are the sum of all that my life has been.
Of happiness, tears, blankness, abruptness, blushes, warmth, euphoria and everything in between.
Step in.
Choose not to slip.
Between the platform and the train.
And you choose instead to work for another day's bread, to smile at friends over cups of tea, mumble incoherently about the airconditioner being cranked up too high, and how 'necessarily' should be easier to spell, and to take time off. To hold a hand.
His hand.
And thus your thoughts talk you through another night, and before it lulls you to sleep, you know something for sure.
An alteration.
To my routine tomorrow.
A crumpled sheet of paper.
Will find its place.
A love letter.Between the platform and the train....

Topic- Letting go and Restart.
Line suggested-A memory is a slow walk through the halls of oneself clutching to the hands of time.

Do let us know if anyone else try out the same or anything similar.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Fling vs state of love...

Yes, it has become an India in a way.
People are hunched all over cafes, pubs, lounges, restrooms and even the work place. Even M, the self-confessed football fanatic dropped by the telly at the commonroom the other day and asked ''Is England winning''? Text messages and phone calls are about the latest score. Football is being covered after cricket in the media.
Yes the Ashes have come to smell of life.

The lunch was all about me and K explaining the concept of follow-on to M. After nodding ardently for twenty long minutes he gaped like he had been booked.

Football, said K, finally giving up, is a fling, an one-night stand while cricket is like falling in love!
Of course not all can fall in love.
1-0 mate.

PS:That Ashes tele-adverts are quite something.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Green apple and Honeysuckle / M40

All through the drive
from London to Oxford,
on that busy M40;

We never spoke

even once ....

singing along to Dylan and Cohen;


sat beside
buried in my Sudoku and eraser-dust,

All because ----

had wanted green apple and honeysuckle


me lavender.

PS- Green apple honeysuckle and lavender: fragnances in air freshners.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Left of writing...?

[Cropped from an e-mail to a friend]

I might have come to believe in this –If one finds something important in life held in the beauty of words, the easiest and the foremost of the responses after being marvelled by their splendour is to perhaps repeatedly review in silence what has been written there.

Somewhere as these excursions of going over it again and again diminishes, starts a journey to examine how it has been written.

That usually would be followed by a desire, aided by some conviction and a bit of time to pursue who has written that or how consistently he can find many more such words to justify much more beauty such as of that(It is definitely not without a subliminal expectation to fulfill that?)

The last , but the most important of the questions would be to understand why it has been/was written like that?

Rest affirmed, probably somewhere in his faithful journey in answering that vital question, the reader would have unknowingly turned a writer himself!

The question however,just like life, shall continue unanswered...

At the most a writer more.

May be because, it is life herself.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Es muss sein.......

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's gonna be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it. Say good-bye.

~Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

It is something like this , isn’t it?
To fall in love- is to be invisible, to be able to vanish with one person while around everyone.

She smiles.

The breeze beckons a memory. A curl of air floats with it happily.
You know I used to love you for that; like when you turn abruptly and smile.
And those hazel eyes.

I know. She smiles.

A smile is just a number,
another count of rainbow
against the horizon of love.

He gently places the strand behind the curve that forms her ear.
Why do you do that?
I like it that way.

I like myself when I do that.

She smiles.

One of these days I must tell her that brown doesn’t look good on her, He promises himself. He knows he cant tell.He could tell what she wore only while he was driving back.

Do you remember when we met?
He thinks of so many things he could have said. Yes so many. He remembers only her smile. And a yellow windcheater, that held the bone of the conversation.

You don’t have to say it aloud.When you know, you know.And that is all there is to it, He tells himself.

And waits, in anticipation.

Isn’t it strange, this light and the moon? She wonders.

No!! She cannot convince herself outside of it . She wants to let it go and still she holds onto it so hard.
Silence grows within the heart.Slowly into a smile that aches.

Why does she do that? She asks herself until she falls asleep.
She dreams in her sleep.

Obviously there is no such thing as a favourite. How would you define favourite ?
Its what you like most?

I like different things at different times.
What do you like most?

Right now, The piano over there.

Her music floats in laughter.

Within his dreams, he could hear her. I must hold onto it , he tells himself. It slips and wafts away into a distant fragrance.But it haunts on some evenings. It still does!And there is nothing in the world he can do about it.
There is a pleasure in futility.
She smiles.

Almost everynight she fights inside herself.
I want him away from everything. From myself. It is very important.

But he would come back, at different places , in rainy crowds as someone in an yellow windcheater, in wilting roses and old favourites.

A piano sings, somewhere, very close.
She looks for it in desparation.She cant find it.

Suddenly it becomes bright, only she feels it.She must be still in love.

She can’t escape, He knows her every curve, every space.

Do you miss me?? That is all she wants to ask him.

There is a terrible ache, that flows through them, between them.
But neither of them want to leave.

What are you thinking?

She still smiles.....

20 minute writing exercise, on break-ups.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Corpuscle consciousness

Have started again the evening walks during these orange sunsets,but cant say for how long I would be able to continue; Today was reminded of this while thinking of the absolute indispensability of isolated consciousness.

~ Manchester

In all the world, one man has been born, one man has died.

To insist otherwise is nothing more than statistics, an impossible extension.

No less impossible than bracketing the smell of rain with your dream of two nights ago.

That man is Ulysses, Abel, Cain, the first to make constellations of the stars, to build the first pyramid, the man who contrived the hexagrams of the Book of changes, the smith who engraved runes on the sword of Hengist, Einar Tamberskelver the archer,Luis de Leon, the bookseller who fathered Samuel Johnson,Voltaire's gardner,Darwin aboard the Beagle, a Jew in a death chamber,and,in time,you and I.

One man alone has died at Troy,at Metaurus,at Hastings,at Austerlitz, at Trafalgar, at Gettysburg.

One man alone has died in hospitals, in boats, in painful solitude, in the rooms of habit and of love .

One man alone has looked on the enormity of dawn.

One man alone has felt on his tongue the fresh quenching of water,the flavour of fruit and of flesh.

I speak of the unique, the single man, he who is always, Alone.

~Jorge Luis Borges

Goa ,India.

PS:Yes I collect memories of public benches from all over.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Notes n Nietzsche....

The travelogue from India with my favourite pen and Nietzsche mug.The photographed page carries the previous blog entry.Pardonez moi cameraphone.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Salt Symphony...

Listen to what great a silence they behold: Sun in the clear blue sky, the vagrant breeze warm and dry.

The prelude draws its overtures from the reprise.
Slow and steady the tune is built.With the flats and sharps as they gather tempo together with the minors and majors.
Into an experience of this astounding resonance. The voice of orbital orgasm! Whither the moon? Whither the waters? The roar!
As the scale descends, the roar drowns into a death. Only to pass the dying refrain as the theme to the next.
The roar speaks in a million accents: of triumphs , of disappointments , of convictions, of negotiations , of a variety emotions and naked reasons.
In this brutal might there is beauty-- austere or magnifique; but nothing is permitted to last more than the lifetime of a wave.
This is no ordinary orchestra.
This is life, the concert writ against the horizon of constancy .

Agauda, Goa , India
June 2005

Sunday, July 24, 2005


Memes. Such mind masturbations. Disconcerting to collect pieces and divulge, yet pleasurable to indulge.But books are such cherished continents.Was tagged almost a month back. Had saved it for a rainy day! It’s raining and think it’s about time. So let’s do it.

Mr Dewey immortalised in a local library?

Total number of books I own: Well this question is meaningless. It’s like asking someone how many hairs you've got on your head? The answer wouldn’t reflect anything of the responder but only the prejudices of the asker. Besides, given the topic what difference would a number make? You obviously can’t judge someone by the number of books he owns. Anyway just to tick the box, I’ve never counted but I reckon, including my academic ones should definitely make a handsome figure.
Last Book I Bought:Oh! Complicated this.I usually buy about four to six books a month. And that too only after I’ve read them elsewhere and find them worth buying. This time however, my faith in my boys was well rewarded, so have been quite indulgent with books. Should have bought somewhere around 40-60 books mostly in bulks and bushels. To type them out here would be like molesting my keyboard. However if you insist on a few names, I would say Chomsky’s On language, Calvino’s If On A Winter's Night To A Traveller and Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of things past, Concept of man-S Radhakrishnan.
The last book I read:
The British empire - Stewart Binns
My brother’s keeper, James Joyce early years-Stanislaus Joyce

Books I am currently reading:
Architecture, a concise history- Christopher Hocher
Bitter chocolate - Pinki Virani
Essays bookmark now writing in unreaderly times- Kevin smokler.
An introduction to the language in Psychology- Peter Herriot.

Love in a blue time- Hanif Kureishi
Some kind of black- Diran Adebayo

First memory of a book: A dozen of Russian books for my third or fourth birthday. Still have them up the attic! Dont know how, but never quite took up to the comics.Just a bit of Calvin and Tintin in the early teens.So always had to face a huge anxiety in the fictional leg of dumb charades at college, that inspite of a friend's generosity of enlisting and quick profiling all the cartoon charecters like e.g.Weatherby-headmaster, not weatherman! Such shame.

Five books that mean a lot to me:
John Grisham’s The Firm.
Hell !! Kidding !
Five doesn’t even serve symbolism forget justifying any taste. Anyway shall try my best,

Signboard 1:Anti-joyceans take diversion here.

Ulysses- James Joyce
Call me obsessed, but this really means more than a lot. To me, there are books and there is this bible. Was quite young the first time I tried it, coudnt drag beyond page 34. Then after two summers, lots of waters had passed under the bridge and many more truths collected when I picked it up casually at a professor’s place and finished in three days flat.Each word made perfect sense. Rare harmony:that experience of consciousness.
The world became divided into BJ and AJ. Before Joyce and After Joyce. Of the truths if you are bothered, let me tell you this,I wasn’t born a joycean but will die one.That is the truth. Wish to have met him just once. But as I’ve come to learn that is quite a common yearning amongst Joyceans.

It is definitely not your regular novel; it is a sort of chronicle of human civilization. Joyce started this book as a response to his mother’s letter to write 'how the heart feels' and he has successfully done that. What is so impressive is how Joyce has integrated, his judgement of almost everything so effortlessly into his writing here. There are no heroes. Just commonplace life of a day in chapters. Each chapter is based on a theme and motifs run abundant.And within it lies woven the History of humanity.

I know abuses are hurled at it about being a difficult read and overrated et al But I think it’s just a feeling: either you are in or you are out. My later reads of the book were smooth and uniquely feverish. A celebration of simple life!
Let me quote this paragraph from the chapter Scylla and Charybdis
---Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.
---Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his commonwealth?

Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse.Streams of tendency and eons they worship.God : noise in the street: very peripatetic.Space: what you damn well have to see.Through spaces smaller than red globules of man’s blood they creepycrawl after Blake’ s buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow.Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
This is from a conversation in the library; notice how the lines carry so many tangents. If you haven’t read Plato it becomes demanding to pick up and appreciate such references like horse, stream, space, God and then how and why Blake comes in and the ideas of future and past. All put in such sublime parody as Joyce speaks through Stephen.
The book is full of such styles and references.Just to mention this one other chapter called sirens- is a wonderful take on musicians. An understanding of classical music is required to enjoy the chapter as words and sylabbles are placed in chords and such musical themes. Since I have quite a discountable idea of classical music, am still figuring out the intricacies involved.

For its ambition, style and universality, Ulysses is unique and shall stay unparalleled for eternity.

Signboard 2:Welcome back Anti-joyceans

The Great Gatsby- Scott Fitzgerald
What is it of? Some 200 pages? And with every page, every word Scott poisons you with his overpowering madness. Undoubtedly one of the greatest fictions ever to find words, this book belongs to the class which commands you to stop reading midway, to pace up and down and finally crush you with a powerful urge to discontinue reading because you do not wish the book to end! Wistful ache and all maddening beauty, this is the best of the refined wine of words. Amazing how a crazy drunkard can overwhelm anyone with such simple sentiments.

The brilliance obviously lies in how the characters are developed - through the eyes of other characters and by the constant past references, so at the end you realise the characters are just a mosaic of impressions left only to be judged by the reader.
The famous last lines are haunting……
He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past

When I read this book first, went incorrigibly mad for a good three days! That apart, it means much more because this was the book that carried my first letter of love to my first love.

Beyond good and evil-Frederich Nietzsche
Freud described Nietzsche as the only man who knew his mind. Although both were quite mad there is no doubt about the veracity of the statement and this book just proves it. Written by an old, less passionate Nietzsche it dissects the human understanding and life with incredible precision. Mostly assorted in metaphysical aphorisms, it’s a summary of his pitiless quasi-objective observations. The question simply is.. Are you up to it..?
Daring in attack and assertive in defense this book’s only misgiving lies in the demand to be acquainted with the ideology of his earlier works. Although that makes it a lot skewed it’s nevertheless a charming read.
The following excerpts must define what laconism is.
From apophthegms and interludes:
*The belly is the reason why man does not so readily take himself for a god.
* Dreadful experiences raise the question whether he who also experiences them is not something dreadful also.
*A nation is a detour of nature to arrive at six or seven great men.-yes, and then to get round them.(Hegel in one line)
*We are most dishonourable towards our god he is not permitted to sin.

From what is noble:
Every deep thinker is more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood .The latter perhaps wounds his vanity; but the former wounds his heart, his sympathy, which always says: Ah why would you also have as hard a time of it as I have?

As I type this, I’m filled with memories where friends at college debated these passages all through night. For the treasure of insight it beholds it’s definitely worth it, that, if you look- beyond the Nazi interpretation and a few later passages on feminism with comical indignation. If you have lived your prides, prejudices, convictions, defeats, victories, sit and read Beyond good and evil in one piece.

The English patient - Michael Ondaatje
Michael mesmerizes by feeding lyrical overtures into building the hearts and souls of the characters of his novel. What is striking is the sense of delicate balance in the plot set in the background of the Second World War in its terminal stages. And I cannot recall of any other contemporary novel, portraying such an incisive understanding of a variety of consciences affected by any tragedy.The anger and the confusion swallowed up by the countenance of immunity, drives the novel as a hidden keel all along.Weave to that one of the haunting love stories, captured in the poignancy of Ondaatje’s zephyrical prose and the result can only be a heavy heart!
And of course the suprasternal notch is by now a legend.

She picks up a cushion and places it onto her lap as a shield against him.
“If you make love to me I won’t lie about it. If I make love to you I won’t lie about it”.
She moves the cushion against her heart, as if she would suffocate that part of herself which has broken free.
“What do you hate most?” he asks.
“A lie. And you?”
“Ownership,” he says. “When you leave me, forget me.”
Her fist swings towards him and hits hard into the bone just below his eye. She dresses and leaves.

What is captivating is how amazingly one of my favorite themes- adultery, is treated. I have been always fascinated by women seduced into adultery.Ive come to regard that it must be a powerful all-pervading force that pulls a woman into adultery and caught in the cause and consequences of such a force, the throes of a female conscience is an interestingly wild subject to say the least.
One other melodious example that deserves a mention is Vikram Seth’s the equal music.
English patient is definitely more than a novel. Its a lovely gospel.

The Republic- Plato
Guess it was Socrates who once famously asked..Any man sooner or later has to face the challenge of asking himself how best his life has to be led? It would be only fair to say Republic has answered that in a large sense. Structured in the conversational form Republic is equally humorous as it is remarkable in the analysis of political and social facet of the working truth rather than metaphysical abstractions. So most of the debate here concerns itself with balance of understanding and its application to the practical way of life instead of chasing an elusive concept of truth.
From the popular and exaggerated metaphor of the cave to the astute formulation of the role of philosopher-king’s construct it delicately spells out the need to identify one’s own role in the scheme of things and to act accordingly.
If syntaxes of ancient English are not a barrier, this book is worthy of a detailed read. And several rereads. Also it makes a wonderful reference to understand the dynamics of a meaningful debate. Some ridiculous portions with its myopic visions and a few redundant ideas are pardonable and solely to be blamed on the ancient Greek thought and perhaps wine too!

Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this
world have the spirit and power of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, and those commoner natures who pursue either to the exclusion of the other are compelled to stand aside, cities will never have rest from their evils, --nor the human race, as I believe, --and then only will this our State have a possibility of life and behold the light of day. Such was the thought, my dear Glaucon, which I would fain have uttered if it had not seemed too extravagant; for to be convinced that in no other State can there be happiness private or public is indeed a hard thing.

I always thought this book was a compromise until I read Nietzsche's aphorisms.On the skin it may come across as social rant but savour it slowly and it shall grow on you.

Books looking forward to be consumed:
(For the benefit of those who wish to show their love)
Soul Mountain- Gao Xingjian
The Argumentative Indian -Amartya Sen

Books that are underrated: I think most of the books authored by Russians are unfairly underrated. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Nobokov are second to none in their efforts to explore the prison house of human consciousness. That they churn out tomes is lame even for an excuse.
Some of the autobiographies are worth more than their money.

E.g. My experiments with truth by MK Gandhi, such a wonderful chronicle of the growth of consciousness, is the world’s cheapest autobiography!

Books that you think are overrated:Books usually tend to find their places in the scheme of things. However some books are exaggerated into something they are quite not. Glaring examples are the works of Ayn Rand and Robert Pirsig. Ayn Rand’s characters are mindless cartoons who talk for lengthy pages. Burning down buildings and hiding in caves? You call that philosophy?
Pirsig has no idea of what he himself is talking forget conveying it to others. He is so popular that I had to reconsider him before gathering a good deal of imagination to declare him a huge waste of time. Agreed that some passages are insightful but passages don’t make philosophy, Hell! not even an engine manual.
A more sophisticated version is Sartre. He is a decent playwright. And that is the end. Existentialism was lived and articulated by Kierkegaard.Perhaps with the exception of Kafka*, The bunch that followed is absolute humbug. Amen.

It took me exactly 83 minutes to type and post this blog and It carried me to memories, friends, disagreements, bargains and the smell of yellowing pages. Books! Such moral suicides!

But count me not as a Samaritan. I shall surely share my syphilis. Thus the Azazel moves…to Sashi,Fuego,Prat,Rajesh and :a: or anyone else who wants to write about books.


PS: *Try the Diaries of Franz Kakfa if you like, you woudnt know who is depressed him or you?

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Why do poetry?

Why do poetry?

So you did live?

and since you did

you did smile?
and of course
wept too…??

Wept with your heart?

the same heart that loved
one time or other…

a love of laughs?

tears too?

To fill a pen
Over a paper?

Monday, July 18, 2005

For Martin, more London in pixels....

Dug up a few colours from the old box...

Canary wharf...

It was friggin cold and windy and just about to rain with the dreaded workforce streaming past all across in full might at the end of the day.Was feeling like a real daftie, with a stupid camera. Obviously this is nowhere near virgo's, forget yours. Should have been more closer.

City hall...

City hall ; Was so munted that I had to go back and check the next day it was the same building!

Canary wharf...from west india avenue.

This one was a surprise because I had clicked this crossing a signal with my arm stretched up!Just about perfect, save for the focus!

Since the docklands and the wharf offer wonderful subjects , guess a bank holiday weekend would be the best bet!If you are into capturing people and more of life I would also suggest Camden , Cutty sark and the sidewalks of the tower bridge.
so long...

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