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

Wednesday, August 30, 2006


Once someone told me
It was beyond his imagination how
such a thing as free verse
came to be called Poetry.
For poetry was a lofted thought;
a sublime articulation
of a supremely gifted heart,
to be put in exquisite rhyme and meter.

Once he finished, I just said
In case of an untoward
event, Do not panic.
Stay calm.
And proceed to the nearest exit.
Press 2 if you want to
hear the message again.

Monday, August 21, 2006


Streets, where they have no names...

[1] Camden Market, London. The young bloke was idling with a can and on sighting the camera, snatched a placard and obliged with a pose.

[2] Traffic signals, New Delhi. I was too ashamed of myself to ask for the picture upfront, so snapped sleathily. Desparately needed the snap to remind me of so many things.

As I was showing her these assorts, L quoted this Hardy poem. Makes sense in more than many ways.

'Peace upon earth!' was said. We sing it,
And pay a million priests to bring it.
After two thousand years of mass
We've got as far as poison gas.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Michael Corleone as Ubermensch?

Another one overdue, settling all old scores--

An entire century was a single seed of thought for Nietzsche. Sigmund Freud , Karl Jaspers, Martin Heidegger, Oswald Spengler, Thomas Mann, Hermann Hesse, Rainer Maria Rilke, André Gide, Jean Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, George Bernhard Shaw, WB Yeats, one cursory glance through the streets of 20th century intellect and the influence of Nietzsche is undeniable. Some men indeed are born posthumously.

With all due respect for his gifted ability for original and innate insights, it would be unjust to credit Nietzsche alone for such remarkably widespread influence. For, he had the privilege and the premise to take his aim standing on the shoulders of giants: From Plato to Dostoevsky, he had systematically drawn from and dissected all schools and thoughts before him. What he came up with the confluence of such a comprehension was an abstract and fragmented ideology that would go on to define the direction of the 20th century starting from Freud in the early part to the deconstructive post-modern movement during its later quarter.
Anyone who is acquainted with the works of Nietzsche would know that there is no single defining principle in his thought unlike most of the schools that preceded him. In Nietzsche, one encounters abstract planks which are hard to be understood and thereby are only open to interpretations. Yet they are recognised as a salient signposts in the journey of human thought. One such major plank is that of Ubermensch.

Nietzsche alludes to the Ubermensch in the opening segment of Thus spake zarathustra and only vaguely without much elaboration . This unfortunately has lead to the often misconceived notion that Ubermensch is an ideal man superior to any other average human. A mistake even balanced thinkers like Santayana couldn’t escape. I think an easier, although agreeably a tedious attempt to understand Nietzsche’s Ubermensch is to follow his thought process through his complete works beginning from The birth of Tragedy to Ecce Homo as one single entity. But alas! Even then, just like life, all one gets is to make only an interpretation. I have, since being introduced to Ubermensch tried to peel layer after abstract layer to understand this concept at different times and from different perspectives. I saw that such efforts led me to form a core of a concept often wrapped by other changing satellite-ideas. Naturally the next step was to find the match for the concept amongst famous people known. I found weirder and obscure matches but a popular and a compelling one would come from a fiction. And the more I ponder I about him(character) and his life the more I’m convinced he has come to be the valueless nihilistic icon that Nietzsche had written nearly hundred years back. He is Michael Corleone , conceived by Mario Puzo but imprinted in our memories by the genius of Coppola in the form of the talented Al Pacino. Yes, very few men in the history of humanity for what it is now and what is to be written, would supersede Michael Corleone as an example for Ubermensch.

I initially had thought of writing this post by alternatively comparing Nietzsche’s writings with the character of Michael corleone and sketch out the similarities/differences. But it made me realise that it is too intricate and also perhaps quite demanding on the reader if s/he is not well acquainted with either or both. Hence to avoid the risk of that free floatingness I have decided in favour of just presenting a summary of Michael Corleone’s character. Hopefully this would encourage the readers to find out more on Nietzsche ‘s idea of Ubermensch and make their own judgement.I have restricted only to film and not the charecter in the book on which it was based. Again, such a task being a product of individual taste and perception naturally it precludes any logical consistency and objectivity. Therefore dear reader, proceed with utmost prejudice.

Michael is almost like any man, brought up in a protected culture, loving and loved by his family, starry eyed at the ideals , proud of his nation and privileged to make his conscientious choices. He aspires to lead himself and his wife to be into a civil domestic life. One, that promises respect and comfort that any man seeks. Yet Michael appears like a man who hasn’t made his peace. Underneath all , there is a mild air of chastened sadness around him that is presumably imagined to have come from an underlying conflict. On one hand, as an intelligent being he feels strongly for his values that define him, on the other he understands that the family he loves so much and is a part of is not legitimate and is contrary to the very values he cherishes. In this sense of understanding he departs from any average hero. He is not a Christ, Gandhi or Spartacus who symbolise a moral struggle in a value conflict with the extant inimical premises. On the contrary, Michael, born into a paradox, is in conflict with himself. He starts out as the militant attacking himself under peaceful conditions. His yearning to pull himself away from the family shall always be overcome by the fact that he is born into it. As perhaps you would expect Michael to have done all his growing years- the more he reflects about himself and the family, the more he is wants to pull away. Yet is convinced that a respite eludes him , a sad realisation which perhaps renders him so cold, mean and calculative. Unlike a few other protagonists known, it must be noted that Michael chooses to be dedicated to the family out of his own volition. He is not prodded into it. Or there is no personal identification with the pathos that he chooses to lead. Nothing he does is impetuous or precedent. Doesn’t a man hurt worst when punished for his virtues?

Soon, this split devotion to his family is moulded and given form leading him to make desperate choices and share the repercussions of the sins he isn’t personally responsible for but the ones he fully understands and vows his allegiance to. He lets go of his cherished values just like how Ulysses departed from Nausicaa, blessing it rather than loving it. As he says, it is all business. Nothing personal!! So all of this is done with disturbing ease. Thereby, he ensures the personal suffering ensuing from the change in his value system is smooth and well concealed. From his individual aspirations to his family and love, he renews himself in newer values every time he fails himself. And since each of the value is further apart from his real wish he copes by making himself emotionally inaccessible to others and more harrowingly to himself. His anger is the smoke arising off the cold ice. He never grieves in spite of one bereavement after another befalling upon him. As a being, he erases himself. One can only speculate what were his own thoughts about deserting his girl friend and marrying another woman elsewhere, losing her and then after return resuming the old relationship blithely. And in this whole process of alienation that is coupled with personal expectation to fulfil his responsibilities, he departs further away. And away.[1] From everything. Slowly he loses personal desire, value, identity. He will because he ought to. His life is slowly ushered into decadence.

But it must be noted this is only in principle but not in phenomenon. He successfully manages to evade any affective identification towards him and also he is totally in control of his acts and hence is prepared to be accountable for the consequences.

An illustration would help- in the last scene, when Kay questions Michael if he really killed Carlo (Brother in law)? He lividly raises his voice warning her not to question him about his business. This scene evokes two type of principal responses from the audience-- 1.To worship Michael as a symbol of power(and dominance) 2. To sympathise with Kay. But, mostly it is forgotten that he was the same young man dressed in an Marines? uniform who had sat and conversed softly with her at the marriage in the first scene.
Far more importantly, no one would hate him or feel for him. Although it is known that he himself who has consciously willed his destiny (or decadence) he successfully evades hatred and sympathy. That is the elegance of the whole mechanism. Within Michael, a man dies and other is born every time. With this being sustained as a means of preserving himself , his worth as a value(self) ceases and a process begins[1].

If the first part was alienation and initiation of the process, second would be the inevitable direction it had to take. Of power, will and its callousness. He has now learnt very well that the greatest juncture of life is when we gain courage to rebaptise our badness as the best in us. There is no such thing as a moral phenomenon. There is only desire and will. And the rest lies in the great ocean of contempt to be concealed in the heart. In this duties that he has reached out for himself, we see that his fears are validated again - that even a slightest carelessness on his part would mean doom to his successful efforts so far. Similar to the making of Plato’s philosopher king, he battles against everything in the world. Against unidentified enemies, against the state, against his wife (who seems be growing distant), disloyal friends, family, and most notably against himself.

This is symbolised in what I regard as one of the greatest scenes ever captured for the motion picture[2]. I think it runs for about a full minute and a half or two at the beginning of the second DVD. Michael in the heart of the senate enquiry with a failed attempt on his life behind him returns in a car to his Brooklyn mansion. It is winter in New York and one can notice the sullen skies and the overnight snow trodden all around. His car is let in and a solemn looking Michael dressed in a dark suit, a long overcoat and a bowler hat carrying a briefcase gets down and walks slowly towards the door dragging himself in heavy steps. He pauses to look at a small toy car of his child. He comes into the house moving about the study and the dining room, glancing intently at the belongings before he rests his suitcase and takes off the hat. Finally he stands before one of the rooms and finds Kay absorbed in tailoring. The background music is aptly kept minimal. Not a single word is uttered.

It is the pain and the possibilities that adds depth to the character of this scene. Bound to his family, he realises the ultimate of all the truths that in spite of everything, he is alone and doomed to be prepossessed in fundamental doubts. The ones he cant share with others or make peace within himself. At this juncture, he supersedes his desires as responsibility/duty into an abstract attribute, beyond good and evil that takes control and care of him passively into the future. It all comes naturally now, with no emotion or thought underneath. There is no family now, it is him and a world that wants to be without him. And the consequences.
Not everyone, I just want to wipe off my enemies, that is all. Even if the enemy is supposedly his own brother he is pushed aside, mercilessly. A demonstration of exercise of will naked without any form of draped morality. Or even pretension of. He survives. His family survives. But in his efforts to survive he has created a world of its own new values, successful and productive to many lives but built on personal losses, including his own -- his children and family as his wife separates from him. Now,expectedly, The apollonian is slowly parted with to make way of growing Dionysian.

The criminally underrated third part is completion of the harmony[3] . With age and failing health Michael has grown soft. The powers are distributed and fragmented throughout in return for much sought legitamacy. He is shown to be socially humorous, something he wasn’t before( I was listening to Tony Bennett songs). It is all about reminiscing and a Dionysian accounting himself for the past within. He understands his acts- the inevitability and responsibility of it all. (remember the Pope’s words it is only just for him to suffer) But still he is neck deep in the consequences of his own making. He continues in another conflict to complete the promise he made to his father and also unable to restrain his own need for security and power. As he remorses (not repent) for his deeds, he tries to-- cut off his children from his business , mend his relationship with his wife and for the last time he takes one final half hearted plunge at more power -all small steps to pave way for his descent as he himself understands very well.(The more I want to get out, the more they pull me in) And consequently, he ends up paying a heavy ransom for his life, the one he never owned in a full sense anytime. He fails to protect his daughter and his son does not share the lineage of his dreams.

Understandably, for Michael life has come full circle. It is here one might start identifying with his futility and take him for a version of a tragic hero.I think casting him into the mould of tragic hero would be imposing a self presumptous role on his life, a life that has not been open to us in the first place.Although his life has been tragic in a sense there are huge issues that separates him from a conventional tragic hero.
One could easily as well imagine Michael to be taking his son to a baseball game on a Saturday noon or retiring as a senator too dignified to use a walking stick in public. But then, knowing Michael, he would have known well at the bottom that he had more to offer and effect world better. And still, the irony of it all is that if given the choice he still would have been compelled himself to choose the life he did.
Again and again. Eternally. because that is what makes his pain, glory, legacy, himself.

The concluding shot is a deserving tribute-a frail, dust-beaten image of the old Michael Corleone stooped in a chair, open to the sun, slowly falls unto the earth lifeless; him a moral idealist, son, brother, lover, father, and above all Don corleone, breathes his last - lonely and alone, resigned and trodden like a common man. He has lost his father, brothers, wives, friends, mother , daughter and the grand empire he constructed, in fact everything that he ever valued. He has no more to offer, accept, refuse or bargain. His entire life has amounted to neither individual glory nor personal love that could be cherished. He is not a successful hero , not even a failed martyr. Yet he has changed the world around him irrevocably as such and given every possible chance he would continue to do the same. And In that-- he has transcended himself, history, and humanity thus transforming himself into an idea, into an abstraction , into Ubermensch.

At the end, despite everything , what he represents beside a caution is hope and power of will and a constant attempt to be better eternally against everything, however futile that such a venture is in itself, that being the nature and the inclination of us all as humans , in different shades of desires and varying resources at disposal he becomes the essence and embodiment of humanity.

That is the tragedy and the beauty of it all.

Where you see ideal things, I see what is --
human, alas, all-too-human. I know man better.
~Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo

[1] It is this process that Coppola has beautifully captured on the film. Notice the lack of subtitles in the restaurant shooting scene for Italian but when Michael is in Italy subtitles are used while he speaks to Apollonia’s father . It is this smooth flow in transformation in values that Nietzsche alluded to so abstractly.

[2]That scene is unbearably haunting. The first time I watched it I was too occupied with the story and missed it under my nose, but the second time around I was almost choked. Every drop of ink spilled from Freud , Mann, Sartre, to Camus, et al has been so gracefully captured in one cinematic moment. Beside its conceptual bearings it not only shows how coppola has understood the character of Michael but also is a stamp on Al Pacino’s talent. In my view only two actors could have pulled it off as convincingly Al Pacino did- Herr Humphrey Bogart and that cute Cossack named Sean Penn. The latter perhaps would have needed a tighter director. The scene also is an excellent reference for film techniques, for e.g. lighting and sound , music. Et al. Pure mad genius.
Trivia -Coppola suffers from Bipolar affective disorder which my friend considers as a role of living a playful god and pained human in one life.

[3] Although not widely agreed, I’ve never felt the series would have been complete without part 3. The scenes in the third part are in a unique way mirrored with the first-The function, hospital scene, the conversations(with Kay, Mancini, his son Anthony with his own in part1 ) the assassinations. Etc.

PS- Having not said all and with the length of the post, I am not quite happy but the Glasgow London train doesn’t run indefinitely.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Fly and Flow...

For N, sweet cousin, who turns a tender 20

Night‘s dream is
day uncoloured,
For a
world lies undiscovered?

Green be the
wings of the heart,
be the dye of the dreams.

lose no hope, flow to
be brave
flirt no regret, Fly to
be just.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006


How to cook a blog about writing pasta just when you are tired from a long day and have 30 minutes to eat something and get to the squash court. Yes how? Lets see.
Start boiling the pasta (preferably either fusilli or spirali) in a mildly salted water. While it boils, you refresh yourself, a quick shower would be handy. Also, sort out the work stuff n other routinities like- listening to answering machines, checking mails but remember no replying , no calling back etc so make sure whatever you do finish it all by 6-8 minutes. Then quick-chop a shallot and few pieces of garlic and shallow fry them in a pan in either butter or PUFA oil based on taste(or weight rather).Note: Start melting the butter as you chop the shallot; saves time. Add the cheese (preferably either parmesan or mascarpone) salt and pepper as you stir along. If you really want it more tastier you might want to add crushed thyme and finely chopped lettuce.
Drain the pasta and mix it thoroughly with the sauce (Bolognese would be better) and the fried mixture.

Mamma mia!! There you are . Shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes even if you are a snail. Go on now, eat it.An apple juice or banana smoothie would help in pushing it down splendidly. Now,go squash it all boy.

PS- If you are really in the mood, you can try a sprinkle of white wine on.

Fusilli tricolore before mixing with the sauce. Grated cheddar used for cheese.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Charm and Curse...

As Promised,

Mostly, rain carries no meaning . But spend sometime about a rain and you realise how it can evoke a montage of memories.

It is raining outside now, not your typical rain but a type of light intermittent drizzle that just lets the land dry up before gently wetting it again. Sort of unfathomable mind game. The wide tarmac is variably patchy and the planes are wetted by the intermittent showers, the staff who appear as random bright spots in their water-resistant fluorescent jackets continue to work ceaselessly. A distant stretch of young trees take up the furthest horizon as they seem almost touching the heavy grey sky. Through the soundproof windowpane, the whole view looks as a snapshot of a farther heavenly world. Of all the rains, it is this type, which often reminds me of P.

I’m lazily tossing about the couch and watching P washing the dishes, her back facing me. She moves nimbly handling the dishes and checking the cooking in between, and of course she is humming all along. She is wearing an old green top and a faded baggie jeans. The back of her top reads in bright white, ‘Hi, I’m back.’ Strangely for reasons that I cant immediately identify the whole frame - The familiar kitchen with its gas stove and side basins, well arranged rows of pots and the dishes,with P amidst all with her back facing me, unsettles me a bit. May be It is because we are meeting for the last time and I’m never going to see that charmingly witty top again. We are at crossroads, we have made choices that are unlike. We are waiting to utter our farewells. A Dylan sings on the tape as if he was in the room with us

‘You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last.

But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast.’

Some of the planes have took off and the lounge is bit less populated now. Drizzles have eased off for the moment but the weather continues to be overcast. It’s a funny thing, the weather in this part of the world. I often wonder how such a inconsequential trivia elsewhere plays such an important role in our lives here. It’s the weather which controls everything; weekdays, weekends, going out, staying in, even our mood and emotions. We are at its total mercy. Aren’t we?
A few more flights are announced by what is a familiar female voice by now; My flight is not announced yet. I think I could do with one more drink.

Between her busy chores, She catches me looking at her and smilingly asks the eternal feminine question 'What'? And I reply almost instantly, the eternal masculine answer, ‘Nothing’. We get back to our acts reflecting to ourselves the meaningfulness of the meaningless conversation. We are young, we can afford clichés; in talk, in thoughts.I suppose.

I’m at loss of words whenever I want to describe what exactly we shared between us. We shared a lot of interests and obviously spent quite a bit of time together. Needless to say , we were mutually attracted. Yet, for some unbeknownst reasons to both of us we never took it further. I think it is a late teenage trait to hold on to something special in any form than nothing at all thus unwanting to disturb the balance of the whole context and its consequence . Besides, we had met when we both were in the varying stages of other relationships. She had left behind a guy who was crazy about her and wasn’t sure what to do with him and I had started going out with S. So in many ways, somehow it was best to be passive and let things just be. Looking back now, I think the passion could have been love and deep down perhaps we knew it but just didn’t realise the meaning of it all, we simply didn’t know where to lead it? And how?

The clouds have thinned out a bit and have begun to spread. The day consequently, has become brighter. I hear my flight announced and gather to check in. Something inside me feels a bit better and before I can actually lay my finger on what it is, it has vanished. In the queue, I run into the couple who had accommodated me in their table at the busy bar. He reminds me of his offer to take me flying over the lakes in his double seater aircraft, the photo of which he carries fondly in his wallet. I thank him again and assure him that once I’m less busier I shall definitely visit him. Have a pleasant journey. Thank you. Seated in my window seat I notice the showers have started again.

There are few moments in all of our lives that we anticipate with so much anxiety, split in two minds, unsure if we really want to go through it or not but eventually we realise we were a part of it only after it has gone past.And we cant do anything about it. I think I can definitely count our farewell as one such moment.

Throughout the lunch and the tea we both are sensible , enforced of course carefully avoiding important questions about future and relationships etc. And as we near our farewell, we both display an artificial air of pleasantry that all the good education prepares oneself for. I am feeling heavy in the head and hot in the neck, I cannot think straight yet I am saying the right things with a plain face. I can sense that she is going through something similar if not the same. As we hug and are about to leave I do something so uncharacteristic of me yet something which I’m not ashamed of .Or will be. In one impulsive motion, I draw her close and hold her tightly against me and kiss her as hard as I can. She kisses me back furiously, breathing into my breaths. It all ends faster than it started. We quickly pull back. I have almost lost my voice while she sighs a red beetroot 'take care'. We bid adieu. Outside, as I walk towards the gate trying to collect my thoughts, I notice my bike showered in a gentle drizzle. The one that I don’t pay any special attention but later would be haunted by tantalisingly forever.

After so many more rains that have become waters and flowed under the bridge, the whole thing still fills me with a sense of unbearable heaviness that often ends in a deep sigh whenever I think about it. Mulling over it now, I think we had to part in the midst of something special developing which we both could only sense but had no time and space to identify and articulate into a feeling. Or speculating contrarily, we would have lost the charm with more time and ended up being ordinary. Or perhaps it was just the mindlessness that is so often blamed upon the notorious vagaries of the youth. Regardless of all that, What made it so special is that we never found out and obviously never will. Coming to the kiss, I think there was profound anger in that kiss and a fair bit of helplessness . So dangerous is any kiss in itself, I’m glad that this particular one did not progress further to anything that would have been fairly easy to comprehend and classify. What the whole episode taught me was to play the game at any cost, because if we don’t, we may ensure that we dont lose but we also thereby ensure that we don’t win either. I hope she had found it equally enriching and has made the best of her promising life.

After an hour or so, in a different country the rough screech declares the landing. The sun is shining cheerfully and the air is full of enthusiasm. The passenger next to me makes the inevitable remark, ‘Isn’t it a lovely day’ ?
That’s the tragic part of such lovely days. The feeling of being such a lovely special day would be repeatedly remarked throughout till sundown that it ends up as quite meaningless and banal. In that sense, although it is very refreshingly lovely now, sooner the day would be not as lovely.
So , I usually do what I do with the first such comment; I take one more look at the day slowly: the bright sun burning in the azure sky between the milky white stratocumuli, the shining air planes taxiing about and the bright light ricocheting off the car hoods in the valleys of nearby parking spaces. Then, having digested it all, I slowly reply turning to the gentleman, 'Its marvellous'.

His face lights up as if a million stars have exploded inside him.

PS~ I suppose this is the corniest Ive been on here.Drafted sometime last month in transit, edited later.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Berets wearing blue collar..

Atop one of the peaks, Lake district.

Monday, August 07, 2006


I usually don't do such posts but the following interesting bobs were a part of one of those lengthy e-mails written today, just thought Ill share them here as well.

[1] The hemingway's sixwords- Learnt about it from
Sashi's blog and spent a few minutes thinking about it while biking. Came up with this one-

Epitaph- Wanted all : Cake, Icing, sex.

The brevity exercise reminded me of a particular series of crisp and no-nonsense telegram from Nehru to his father. Just a bit background : Both Jawaharlal Nehru and his father Motilal were well known for writing lengthy letters to each other. But when Nehru was having a frolicky time in Cambridge he made sure most of his communications to his father was a sweet n snappy telegram/s-


Now surely you cant beat that? How many high street stories you can find in the word is left upto your imagination.

Nexty is today's
Gaurdian Blog ( they can hit it grand once in a while in between most other nonsensical attempts).So the tuesday tea time question was....
Turn on books? and Put off books?, kindly read the blog to get the whole idea.

[a]For my conscience, I would be attracted to anyone reading a Finnegan's Wake. And I mean anyone, Man, Woman, God, Ghost.
[b] No put offs, Whatever may be the weight and the wisdom of the book, after all a book is still two dimensional.
So help me God.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

Love and Lies..

Last Tuesday near
into an ex; Same
smile, same hair
Same old pair of jeans.
I’m sure
She thought the same
about my shirt. My shoes.
Even my deodorant.

After exchanging smiles,
surprises and pleasant
remarks about appearances,
We set out for a
drink in a nearby pub.

She is married now, to a banker;
She works part time designing
and attends Spanish and salsa.
She went on a skiing
holiday to France recently.

Is she happy?
She is she is!
But she doesn’t
look in the eye.

And Yes I still set the alarm
for thirteen past six, and yes I still

have only carte noire for coffee. Yes yes I still
don’t wash my socks and just
throw them away after

Did I find anyone special?
Well yes, Now
and then.
She curves a
hesitant, all knowing

After some such talk
and a shared bill
We part
with goodbyes, another type of

smiles, promises; all
suitable noises.

We have moved on, two
old lovers, we are linked
by a distant love and a
thread of lies that
only we know
about each other.

Search Blog