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Mean Girl

28 Apr

She said I Mean everything I say

He laughed thinking she can’t Mean it and must be joking.

Then he realized she did Mean it.

And he thought what a fucking Mean Girl.

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Child is the father of man

20 Oct

Once upon a time, long long ago, there lived in Khayalland two siblings Gambhir and Bala. The siblings were aware of their destiny and knew soon they would be plucked by invisible, unseen hands and they would go to another world.

The siblings though close to each other had different dreams and were very different from each other. Gambhir was beautiful, striking like a Greek God, striding like a Roman General and elegant like a French wine. Bala on the other hand, was weak, not as pretty to look at. When they walked on the streets of Khayalland, Gambhir was the cynosure of everyone’s eyes, while Bala was not even noticed. And all this attention made Gambhir arrogant and ambitious; while Bala regardless of being neglected was a happy child, contend within herself.

But even with his elegance and conceit Gambhir deep within was insecure. His ambition made him feeble and frail. He feared the new world. Gambhir was aware to survive in the new world he would require the patronage of strong and influential, for that world was controlled by the few, a coterie that defined fates and fortunes. Every time someone new, unknown came searching for him he hid in the darkest corners, veiled himself from the searching eyes. If someone even got a glimpse of his beauty, he shrouded himself in a cloak of artifice.

One day, siblings were talking to each other, Bala asked Gambhir that what he wanted to be when he is born. Gambhir said that he wanted to be something, he wanted to change the world, he wanted to be recognized, be known, be popular, someone people respected, people spoke about, people remembered, I want to move and be in the best of circles, have powerful friends.

Then he asked Bala that what she wanted to be. She said that she just wants to be loved. She didn’t want to be with people who had everything; I want to be with those, who still had nothing. Ones who were yet to be find their voice, I want to be with the uneducated and the fresh. I want to be with those who are curious, full of life, those who see the world with fresh eyes, have a spirit of adventure.

As it was to be both of them were plucked by different hands from the Khayalland and they came into being in the Kitaabworld and were separated from each other soon after that . Ghambhir was an immediate sensation, he achieved his desire, the world noticed this precocious child, and he achieved fame, money and everything he aspired for in this world.

Bala on the other hand was relegated to one corner, but she was also happy, she also lived a life of her dreams. She would now and then hear stories about Gambhir, he was winning awards, getting felicitated, his recognition made her proud of him. While Gambhir never ever thought of her, he was immersed in his glory and everything was hidden in the shadows of his towering personality.

Both lived their circle of life.

After years and years, when Gambhir was old and still spoken about but rarely met by the old acquaintances, without any new friends found himself next to Bala. Bala was delighted to see her brother, and greeted him with affection and love. Suddenly both of them heard a commotion around themselves, Einstein, the world’s greatest physicist had come to Kitaabghar. The world was around him, trying to get a glimpse of the great man. Einstein walked the world of Kitaabs, when he came where the brother and sister sat, and he noticed them, sitting there quietly away from the prying eyes, unknown, forgotten by the world. He stopped and turned to everyone and said that is the idea that changed everything for me, made me what I am, opened my mind to the world of knowledge, gave me happiness, opened up the window of curiosity through which I saw the world, differently, with new eyes. Whatever I am today is because of the one who sits there.

Gambhir, looked at Bala, smiled at her with the same old condescension.

Einstein walked towards them, smiled at Bala picked up his childhood friend and hugged her.

Signs of time

24 May

It was the peak hour, the cars were crawling bumper to bumper. The non-moving cars then came to a halt at the red signal.

Suddenly door of one car opened and this youngish looking man in a pathani suit ran out leaving the car behind, he ran between the cars and was soon out of sight amidst that sea of cars.

Drivers and passengers in the cars nearby saw the man run, they all froze for a second, paralyzed by fear, one of them woke up from the stupor, shook himself and opened the door and ran. He screamed as he ran, asking everyone to abandon the cars and save their lives.

Within seconds it was mayhem as everyone left their cars and scrambled whereever they could see space, most not knowing why they were running, yet knowing why they had to rush.

It was maybe less than a minute from the beginning till the end, when the boy in the Pathani suit came back to his car still adjusting his pajama knot to find a sea of empty cars.

Show me the money

24 May

He stood outside the ATM, trying to make up his mind. It was a hot sweltering day, yet he was sweating more out of his discomfort, unable to make the choice. He wasn’t sure he should be doing this; he could feel the grip of fear in his heart. He knew it could all go wrong.

Yet he had no choice, he needed the money.

He looked again at the cash van standing outside the ATM, he knew they were filling in the money. From the corner he eyed the guard standing nonchalantly with the useless double barrel gun.

He walked towards the guard to ask, hesitated and came back. He turned around and looked at the road. It was early morning, there was sparse traffic, and he was the only one at the ATM at that hour. He knew he didn’t have much time; he had to make the decision and make that decision now before it was too late.

He could feel the sweat forming on his forehead and slowly trickling down.

He saw the man walking out of the ATM, he knew the money had been pushed into the machines, before the man could react or even come out he rushed in, guard tried to stop him he pushed him aside and went in, and within seconds he rushed out clenching the cash in his hands.

He could see the car parked across the road.  He didn’t pay any heed to the coming traffic and sprinted across the road, he heard a screech of tires and someone abusing him.

He reached the car, stopped, he could suddenly feel energy draining from his body, he shoulders drooped, he felt his heart sinking, he stopped, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and reached out to take the no-parking ticket stuck under the screen wiper.

Random Post

19 Mar

I’m right now bored out of my wits. So rather than completely waste away my time, I have opened my blog and clicked on new post and here I’m, without any idea what I plan to write, except furiously type why I am here to begin with. Now that is behind me, I would now start my struggle with what should follow this.

Since we are on the topic of Time, best irony would be to write about it.

Yesterday I started reading Mahabharta and in the first few pages found three beautiful lines about Time…

1. Existence and non-existence, pleasure and pain; have Time as their root

2. Time is only thing that  doesn’t slows down for anything

3. Time is awake even when everything sleeps

But my favorite description of Time is defined as a naked runner, oil rubbed all over his body, running very fast towards, bald except for a small tuft of hair in front ofhis head. So if Time has to caught it only can be from the front.

Short Story

Ah, I haven’t written about my daughter for some time. Yesterday she was talking to my wife and she says Mama do you know where Moon goes in the day. Wifey asked,where. She says, I gobble it up in the morning. So wifey goes, how come we see it every evening. She said, simple, I spit it out every evening and then gobble again in the morning. So wifey says, is that why you don’t eat your food properly because your tummy is filled with Moon.She goes,ya.

Conversation

Drunk (almost) man standing, when a  drunk (definitely)  woman staggers up to him

She: Did you steal my drink?

He: If  I had to steal something I would steal you,why your drink.

She: What will you do after you steal me?

He: That you will find out after I steal you

She: Do you have the balls to steal me?

He: if I had the balls, would have stolen you by now.

She: I wait

She staggers away, he goes back to drinking.   

Question

If immorality is not abiding by what is defined, which obviously are morals, then when an immoral person does (immoralfrom the point of view of defined moral) does not abide by what is defined as immoral is he being moral or imimmoral? Partner in crime, cheats the partner.

Books I recommend

have read nothing for a long time, which is worth recommending, why don’t you recommend me one. But I read these, atleast I didn’t enjoy them much-

1. Girl who played with fire

2. Dork

3. Two states

4. SuperFreakonomics 

But the books I plan to read and have it by my bedside-

1. Mahabharta – Adi Parva (vol 1)

2. Girl who kicked the hornet’s nest

3. Blood Meridian

 4. The Road

5. The Hindus – An alternative history

6. Ka

7. Short History of nearly everything

8. Cartoon History of the world(Vol 1-7 & Vol 8-13)

9. Brief & wondrous life of Oscar Wao (half read, need to finish)

10. Fables

 

Oh my Gowd(a)

12 Mar

Note: No offense meant, if you are sensitive kind and a Gowda, kindly don’t read any further. And the article is inspired by a specific individual and is no reflection on the community. My apologies in advance if you find it distasteful or inaccurate in facts, though it is a work of fiction.

Eureka Eureka

I just had a conversation whose ramifications are so far reaching that it would shake the basic fabric of the society, it would change the way we live & think today. Nothing and I mean nothing would ever be the same again. The world we see today would cease to exist and in its place a new order would take shape.

Even now as I write, my hands are shaking with what I have found, the Lost Ark, the Holy Grail.

I can’t believe how inanely the conversation started, it was a peaceful quite day, sun was shining hard enough to make soul sweat, birds were resting in the trees  there were no thunders, no rain, no blowing winds, no signals at all from the higher powers, which normally accompany such moments of epiphany.

Let me narrate the conversation, before I bring you in the circle of enlightenment. As you would see, there is nothing in it before you have that eureka moment.

I: “So what are you?”

She: “I’m a Gowda”

I: “So you are related to ____ Gowda?”

She: “He is not a Gowda”

I: “Hah? But his name says he a Gowda”

She: “But he is not because he is Lingayath, so though his name says Gowda but he is not”

I: “So why is his name Gowda?”

She: “Blah, Blah, Blah…..” (read some impossible to understand and even harder to remember explanation, which in some manner was meant to explain that though he is Gowda, Gowda as in in the name but in reality it is just the wool, he was not or something like that. For purpose of our understanding, dear readers it is inconsequential except that he is called Gowda but he is not)  

I: “But you are a Gowda?”

She: “Yes”

I: “But your name does not have Gowda”

She: “But I am”

I: “So if you are Gowda, you don’t have in your name Gowda but if you are not a Gowda, you can have a Gowda in your name?”

She: “Nothing like that, you can have Gowda in your name, like my cousin V____ Gowda”

I: “So how does one decide, whether you should be named Gowda or not?”

She: “It is up to the parents to decide”

I: “So who all in your family have the surname Gowda?”

She: “Blah, Blah, Blah……..” (As she was narrating an insightful discovery was made, only boys had Gowda as a surname)

I: “So only boys can get this surname?”

She: “No, girls can also be named Gowda” (yet despite very in-depth questioning, with inquisition of every possibility no girl child with the name Gowda came to her mind. This data could be little skewed as we could go back only till 6 generations, had we probed a little more, maybe a different truth would have come forth. As per this little tainted and corrupt, yet available data, we discovered, though parents make a choice whether to name a child Gowda or not and even with equal probability and opportunity that a girl can be a Gowda and with no bias or any ulterior motive, no girl child had been named Gowda, at least in the previous 6 generations, including current generation. Dear Readers, don’t get biased, there is no malice here, no hidden agenda, it is mere coincidence that no parent has thought any girl, to repeat beaten to death fact, in the last 6 generations, should have Gowda in surname. Mere coincidence.)

I: “……” (Dumbfounded look)

 She: “You don’t get it, like my uncle is not called a Gowda, his son is.” 

I: “……” (Dumbfounded look continues)

She: “Blah, Blah, Blah…..” (Dear reader, don’t mistake this blah, blah; it is there to protect your own sanity, just that I have reached that enlightenment that could bear, as our friend Russell Peters would say, the fantastic and mind-blasting concept, which if heard in its raw shape would cause blasting in the mind . So in the blah we found, though any male can be named Gowda, as earlier established, it is based on quirks or generosity, of the parent, every alternate generation male was named a Gowda. What could not be established, was parent who names the son; could have been daughter too but is never is, to gently remind you again of that mere coincidence; was it an act of generosity or revenge. Because if it was an act of generosity, then the son who was named Gowda would name his son Gowda too but he does not, it always is one who is named does not and the one who is not does. Maybe it is an alternate reality concept like the cycle of life or maybe it has a proof of the fickle nature of norms and also maybe fashion, what goes out of fashion, comes back to fashion or maybe proof of order in a universe which exists in chaos. Who knows? Dear reader, a brief interlude again, this is so written in a manner so convoluted one because this is how data was fired at me, second to teach you a moral lesson that discovery of knowledge is a path which confuses more, clarifies less)

I: (waking up from my dumb-founded stupor) “So if you who is a Gowda, marry the Gowda who actually is not a Gowda, and you have a son, could have been daughter too, and you name him Gowda, is he a Gowda or not?”

She: “No. He is not”

I: “And if your male cousin, the one named Gowda, who is also a Gowda, was to marry a girl named Gowda, who in reality is not a Gowda and they too by mere coincidence have a son and though he cannot be named Gowda as father is already named Gowda, but since it is on quirk of the father or  by sheer reorientation of the universe, is named Gowda, will  he be one?”

She: “Yes”

I: (by now I was reeling under the overload of data and at the end of this conversation, and like previous mentioned mere coincidence I was also at the last spoonful of my tasteless meal, I asked the last question to end it) “So how do people know you are a Gowda?”

She: “Because I say so”

I: “……” (Dumbfounded look returns with a vengeance)

She: “I am, as long as I say it”

The spoon which was moving towards my agape in its dumb-foundedness mouth stopped mid-air, world was suddenly silent and quiet, I could feel the serenity of Buddha seeping in my bones, I looked outside to see some signs to say this was the moment for which humanity was waiting for, but except for a bird who I sitting on the window when we started the conversation, now lying on its back, dead or sleeping I could not gauge, there was no other sign. But I knew I was hearing a revelation with no parallel in the history.

So ignoring my spoon waiting to be relieved of the tasteless weight I asked, I wanted to confirm, I had heard right

I: “You just have to say it and you are”

She: “Yes”

Dear reader, I hope you realize what it means. The world which is strife with unrest due to cultural, economic and biggest of them religious differences now has means of redemption. A single reality can unite us all, bind us by a common thread, three magic words (for those still wallowing in idiocy, it’s not I love you) will unite the whole world, maybe even the still undiscovered life in the universe, all we have to say is “I’m a Gowda”. No proof required, you just have to say it and you become one. Ah the world where everyone is a Gowda, the infinite possibilities, joy and happiness, fun and frolic, universal brotherhood. It was always there, just that no one knew.

I can see myself walking towards the podium in Stockholm to accept my Nobel Prize for peace; I have already started writing my acceptance speech (I would give 10% of prize money to her and also a note of thanks in my speech).

“All izz well” is passé, real redemption lies in “I’m a Gowda.”

P.S: There is one small catch, if you are someone with blue eyes and blonde hair, you cannot be a Gowda. Sorry dude. Coloring your hair and contact lenses might help. Ladies with blue eyes and blonde hair can always marry a boy named Gowda or otherwise (now that we all Indian looking males are Gowdas. Some boy whose name starts with V is jumping with joy)

P.S 2: Only one question stays unanswered, if Gowda boy marries a blonde with blue eyes and their son is also with blue eyes and blonde hair but does not have Gowda in surname, how will he prove he is a Gowda?

Conversations About Books – 2: Writers

25 Feb

“Life is a story. Some lived. Some heard” he said as they sat at the café over-looking the street below. “People normally expect something in return when they make an effort towards anything new, books, people; conversations anything but stories are expected to offer a little more.”

“What do you mean by that” She asked

“Let’s look at stories; it can be read to offer entertainment, new thoughts or arguments, imagination, a majority of people seek linear structures with conclusive ends, culmination of not just a story but also their effort.” He explained as he looked around to order some more beer “Some more for you” He asked

“Sure”

“Authors eventually get slotted into effort, half the world that reads Salman Rushdie doesn’t even understand what he is writing yet it is not an effort towards snobbery, “I read Rushdie” kind of a statement, from him even before you start you expect certain profoundness and complexity in his writing, it’s the thrill of unraveling his structure that attracts some readers, with certain authors you expect effort but therein lies their appeal, be it Marquez or Pamuk or Mahfouz or Kafka, these authors never make it easy for you. There are layers, depth, subtleness which require you to be attentive, they are constantly assessing and testing your involvement, they want to pull you in the story and show you the minor details, you should be able to hear the dripping tap in the kitchen as you hear the characters argue in the drawing room, the background is as important as the foreground. But then there are authors who are about the story, not that they are any less skilled but their art is of different kind” He stopped suddenly mid-sentence, running out of steam and for a second lost his assuredness as he looked at her.

He looked at her; she seemed to be listening to whatever he seemed to be saying, which he wasn’t sure, was making sense even to him. But he let the Lord Bacchus take control of the situation and despite the protests from the reluctant tongue, it was whipped back into action “James Headley Chase or Chandler, even our own Chetan Bhagat are like leisure travel, covering the distance, seeing not soaking, it’s the narrative that takes precedence over language, the closest parallel to that form is popular cinema, your senses get heightened, next takes precedence over now, what is going to happen, a state of anxiousness, as an author they are able to build tension and stress, such structures are normally far more linear than writing of authors we discussed earlier. Whereas their form is to internalize the experience for the reader, for lack of better word, the entertaining writers offer a voyeuristic experience, there is a perverse joy, peeping-tom kind of experience, and reading naturally is more hurried. What next? How would it end? If you have a disappointing experience with such a book natural comment is pace is not there while with a Rushdie or a Marquez one might say depth was missing. Even as a reader your expectations are different.”

She turned the cold glass in her hand for some time, looked up and asked “So you are saying you can divide writers in these two broad classes, ideas and entertainment writers?”

He stopped, thought for a second and said “This is not a treatise on writing, this is purely my relationship with the books and I am no expert. I am a reader, an individual who has his own perspective on books. Let me explain another of my quirks on books, you have purely idea or imagination books, wherein a new world is created, Orhan Pamuk spoke about it in his Nobel Prize speech, entering a new world, and there are also books which pick up known or unknown fact and either place a fictional character there or fictionalize that fact to an extent. I consider purely imagination books as real effort, a superior writing, and books that take cue from reality as lazy books, understand lazy, it’s not about their entertainment value or depth of knowledge or depth of ideas, just those books maybe are far easier to write, a major part of those books is rewriting history not in a textbook manner but in a story manner but all those facts already have been written by someone else, a writer has picked that, researched as someone would say and rewritten it without creating anything new. I don’t confuse physical effort of research with the mental effort, stories are leaps of imagination”

“Now wait a minute” She said “There is a basic flaw in your logic, doesn’t everything come from history, you are assuming there is one kind of history, the known history but there is an unknown history or history that resides with the individual. Ideas come from somewhere, largely from experience, if I were to write a story, and I take cues from my life, my emotions, and my knowledge, to others it might look like a leap of imagination but I have used a part of my history that already existed to give an impression of something new. Eventually any which way you look a writer has to pick up as a starting point something that already exists to create new. Asimov’s science fiction about parallel universes or time travel has foundations in research which though theoretical have been given manifestations as a future that exists but the basis still is an existing imagination or history whatever you might like to call it. So there is nothing that comes from nothing, there is always something to something, algorithms; definite starting points leading to a definite end, even if the middle and the end is imagined but the starting is grounded in reality.”

Next sip she took was of pure satisfaction, a sip of a victor who had just annihilated the enemy territory, slaughtering what existed before to stamp her authority.  

“Agreed. But you have missed the argument to an extent. Of course nothing comes from isolation. But the book that you would write does not exist beyond your mind. There is no reference you can use except the neuro-chemical linkages that reside in your mind, those are metaphysical, assumed to exist but only in your mind, in reality it has no basis, no manifestation.” He argued “If written it would be a new story. I agree with you that starting comes from somewhere, only from the existing non-existing future can be created and that’s the point I am trying to convey, for me act of creation is more important and re-organizing the existing differently”

“But, my dear friend, when you reorganize the pieces on an on-going chess game you have created a new game.” She said slyly

“I understand your point; I think I’m unable to put my thoughts across cohesively. It would be interesting to read if you assume Hitler was a good person and Churchill the evil one and view the war of ideology of WWII from the opposite end, flip the logic. It would be an interesting perspective to consider, as they say history is always from the victor’s version. But that’s where it stays, a version of non-existing reality, assumed reality, it does nothing in the larger picture, it does not impact the world around us, while even the simplest tale of fiction which takes a leap into non-realm impacts the fabric of reality better. It opens a possibility, which is not about what could have been like version of history if Axis had won but what can be. And I find what can be more engaging.”

“Give an example”

“Take Sherlock Holmes, imaginary character, imaginary case studies yet even with technological advances in solving crime as a story readers still find it engaging read for a very simple reason, it is about human mind and it’s about deduction, a way of looking at things. Logical and scientific approach towards solving the mysteries, any mystery. The thought can change people, can change the future, can you imagine the impact of a fictional character changing the basic human thought process and their actions, which would change everything that will come.” He said, now animated and excited with his own flow.

She laughed and said “You must be kidding me, I was thinking you will give me examples of Plato or Descartes or some other heavy weight, you pick up murder mystery sleuth to support your argument. Tell me where does, say Mahabharata from the view of Duryodhana or Draupadi or Bheema fit into your logic, that also is recreation of existing history”      

He stayed quiet for some time, mulling over what she said, then he answered “You think it’s a trick question but really it is not. You need to view Mahabharata not as history but an argument and what we read is an argument from a perspective, and we learn a part of the perspective, while in reality the book can offer various views, various arguments and disparate motivations. The book is about way of life, it truly is about human frailty, human imperfections yet at the same time uniqueness of each individual life. It is as much a study of character as it is about way of life. That’s a reason the book can mean different things to different people. So when someone presents the story from other character’s view you really are reading a different story and it is a new story. Yet it is different from Hitler example, because Hitler story is more about what if, and that what if will never happen, while in Mahabharata case it is about why and how. Draupadi’s motivations were different from that of Arjun or any other character, and in each of these whys we will find interesting answers, which can challenge, rebut or strengthen, even teach the reader something new.”

“Hmmm…. I still think there is a flaw in your argument but can’t pin-point it.”

“Let’s leave it for some other day”