Tuesday, 15 November 2011


In a cage a single man
Soldered off from the rest
Sits in silence and, it may be said,
A peaceful acceptance
Of the unending
Solitude- his foe, his friend
Since the day he opened his unforgiving eyes .
And so the sights of war
Of play and of friendly spirit
Seem to him like trials
Of a foreign world far and beyond
His own, of iron wrought.

In the world live men together
Loving, laughing, speaking, fighting:
A team, a group, a family
A government, an army -
Tied by the silken threads of
Warm sentiments intangible.
And so this lonely man,
In his dark and cold prison cell:
Seems to them like they behold some
Strange and frightening manifestation:
Of the face of pain and of sorrow.

And as the world kills,
Screams, stabs:
Each man trying to make
The world his own:
The lonely man sits quiet
And still, living for himself:
No blood, no hate, no love
No gore.
The steel in his gaze, the stead of his stance-
Are virtues to the general brothers unknown.

I stand and watch these
Strange apparitions
In a silence that confounds me:
For I am a lonesome, caged soul
In a shared world born:
So I think of what I
Have been told.
Of what I see.
And finally facing my own soul,
I question the truth of the world in its whole:
What is the answer to my question,
The one we have always known:
Are the children of the universe
All for all, or one for one?

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Lost in Translation

A typical experiment involves a few very basic and essential components:
  • A Set of Variables:
For example, if your experiment is to verify that white light is made up of 7 visible colours, you will perform the experiment considering that: A prism will cause dispersion, that all the colours of light travel at different speeds in glass, and that you are aware of which colour is which based on your visual perception of them. These are things about your experiment that have already been discovered, or that you have observed. and will form the basis for your findings.
A social experiment is no different. You must consider the majorities, as opposed to the niches, and assume that for a homogeneous group- say college students, the general reactions will be the same. More importantly, it is essential to predict that subconscious involvement will be wholesome, regardless of the relevance of the experiment in question to the subjects.

  • Apparatus:
For the aforementioned experiment, what we shall need is a prism, a white-light torch, and a screen- keeping it to the bare essentials.
All you really need for the Social Hypothesis, is this country's most dispensable resource. People. People are the premise for every social experiment. And, preferably, a cyber forum. Facebook is most suitable, considering its universality, and general heat-of-action scenario.

  • A Stimulus to the Procedure:
For the dispersion to be set in action, the white light needs to be shone on the prism. Simple. One step. After that, the dispersion is passive, as is the colours appearing on the screen.
More psychologically speaking, the primary stimulus is the inclination to perform the experiment in the first place. Say interest in light, or curiosity about the results.
That said, these alternate, curious experiments require stimuli, too. Physical stimuli. Like, say, going with the Facebook analogy- a changed status. Or something equally earth-shattering in teenage and cyber terms.
What it also requires, is a mental push. A conversation that goes something like 'I bet you can't put this up on Facebook', followed by a mild argument, and ending with 'Ooh, I want to know what people will say'. And, if you're a little smarter than the crowds you walk with, a hypothesis about a proposed result.

  • The Result:
And then the wait. To see that screen, to read those comments. To see if people knew you would achieve it all along, or if they're surprised out of their wits by your unexpected prowess.
The reaction. Watching as they fawn over you, ask you questions, dwell on the intimate intricacies of your life, while you've already moved on.
You're already solving a new integral in your head.

But all this is lost in translation, isn't it?
I guess you could go ahead and call this an experiment, too.

Que sera sera.

Saturday, 29 October 2011


Revolution 2020.

Not a revolution by any gross stretch of imagination. Not even a substantial creation.
One would assume, that after churning out four mind-numbingly ridiculous excuses for novels, Chetan Bhagat would recover from his pitiable bent of mind that leads him to assume that he is capable of producing any work of literary- or even minorly distinctive- merit.
If not for the sake of saving some face with literary circles across the country who have, now, a newfound pastime in dissecting (I would add 'and condemning', but that, I would assume, is a default with those who've made their lives of studying, or even reading as an enjoyable hobby, the works of Shaw and Shakespeare. Or even Arundhati Roy.) his works: he might have some consideration for his (This is about the time I experience physical heartache) fans across the country. This is his fifth- for lack of more appropriate terminology- book, his fifth great milestone after he so famously (No, no, it wasn't famous when it happened. He wrote about it in 'Five Point Someone' remember? Right after he stole the keys from his Dean's...oh that's right. Everybody read the book.) discarded his Engineering career for a career as a writer.
If you think you've fulfilled your calling, I'm sorry, Mr. Bhagat, far from it.
Revolution 2020 sees, once again, the same character stereotypes- the same North-Indian, khaata-peeta naujawan, with family problems, education problems, that done-to-death mindless Engineering persuasion. The same aye-haye girl, with her airs and graces, and her chiffon dupatta. Boy screws her. And then screws her over. Many years later, when he's rich and successful, he moans about the true meaning of life. Once in a while, someone opens up a college. Or sees God. Or has a fight with his best friend. (Actually, scratch the "once in a while" for that last. That's not really a once-in-a-while thing for us anymore. Is it, C.B.?)
And then, of course, the Trump. Each book begins with a disclaimer. A personal anecdote, or an unashamed claim that the story up ahead is true- making that the only thing you think about as you read. Touche, Mr. Bhagat. Run away from the unidimensional insipidity of your writing by kicking sand in the reader's face.
Alright, I'll cave: Five Point Someone, was well-enjoyed, though the giddying praise for it was overrated beyond all sane limits. It was one of those intriguing Indie-student-type novels, where people say 'fucker' and 'chutya' removed from context or meaning, in purebred Punjabi accents (But hey, who am I to stereotype? Chetan's already doing that for me.), that I know I'll never enjoy. Still, kudos for taking the first step in that direction. It takes something, I'm assuming. Something more brave than sheer lack of ideas- which is, unfortunately, what I see it as.
But honestly, quit trying to fool us by printing the same novel over and over again with a different cover and different names. I know we seem to eat up your crap now, but we won't stand this for long.
How long do you think horny, hungry eighteen year-olds who're stoned out of their wits and made to study from textbooks (Which, by the way, are far less linear than your work) till they can understand nothing more than the 'Arrey yaar' English you use, will realize that all your books are- exempting, pardon me, the photograph of you on the back flap- the absolute same? I mean, at least try plagiarizing from someone else's work next time. Doing it from your own- especially when your raw material isn't spectacular- is unbearably narcissistic.
I'm not asking for something better next time. No, I know better. But maybe, maybe, just to mix things up for your poor, addicted readers- you could try making the musckul-man hero Tamilian instead.

Love, always.

Thursday, 27 October 2011

It is With the Deepest Regret.


Termination of Services.

The Pied Piper of Hamlin:
I find that your flute is an unnecessary waste of state economy, and a nuisance to local residents, no less. Besides, any instrument that does not get adults to follow you around, is played in vain.
PS: I have grown-ups at my feet all the time. Have you ever seen a flute in my hands?

And here they thought you were a good puppeteer. They were blinded by your absurdly sentimental story of transformation, weren't they? I have a better card to play. They call it a Foreign Passport. I don't need you anymore, because I can puppet far, far better. The trick, is to not let anyone know whose hands pull the strings. You know the rules. You're wooden puppet became a real boy? Well, I can swing it vice versa.
PS: Try not to get so attached to your damn puppet next time.

You are hereby banished to the ocean for the rest of your existence, for insulting the country's customs and sacred tradition by wearing clothes that I could only imagine you picked hastily off a beach. Also, you are not to get your voice back. I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't like people in my state having voices.
PS: While you're at it, I'd also like your Prince. I can scream louder than you, now.

Run for your life. No, no reason. You're just really small, and I can squish you. That makes me feel powerful. So get away before it's too late.

The Fairy GodMother:
No more magic for you. That's my turf. Hand over your wand.

Anybody whose surname doesn't start with a 'G' like mine does:
I don't like you. Boo-yah.

Your services have been greatly appreciated.

(Note: This letter has been sanctioned by the Prime Minister's office with no prior influence, and free of personal or miscellaneous bias.)

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Losing My Virginity

It's funny how different it feels to type out thoughts as you think of them, as opposed writing them on a piece of paper with an ancient ball pen like I'm used to doing.
And by different, I mean exasperating.
To people who assume that computers come easy to everybody that touches them- Hi.
You haven't met me yet. And you probably really shouldn't. What seems like a flutter-of-an-eyelid job to you, is more like an arduous, painful, mind-numbing task to me. (I'm still not entirely sure what to do after I'm done typing this.)
What do I plan to write about? God knows I have no plan.
Never fear, millions of nonexistent readers, we shall get through this. But then, do I want to be one of the gazillion ambiguous blogs on the internet? 'Course not. Do I want to be one of those nouveau-famous writers, whose blogs thrust them into all things glitzy and Hollywood? Why not. 
Either way, blogging seems to have been all the rage among computer and literary enthusiasts- sometimes just computer enthusiasts (if you've read some of the stuff out in the world, you'd know. Some poor bits even got accidentally- or serendipitously- published as books.), and it took me a long time to get around to it.
Blame my innate hatred for all things fashionable, or multiple writer's blocks, I find typing anything out exhausting. Even three-sentence e-mails.
Truth is, I'm stupid with technology- which leads me to believe that everybody who can operate Word is a whopping genius- and blogging is the Number One way to uncover that. Although, if you ask me, I'm wont to say, with a fashionable (albeit pretentious) swish of my hair, that I'll get around to it when it gets tired of being so cool that it's nearly frozen.
Which is not what I did, of course.
I just sat at the computer today, opened up this site and signed up. On an absurd whim. Like it is with most things I do.
And now, I'm typing what makes very limited sense and has passable entertainment value (Yes, computers crush my confidence quite supremely), and hoping that I haven't made any of the idiotic spelling errors I usually fall victim to when I confront a keyboard; and wondering about what in God's creation I'm going to keep writing about.
That is, of course, if anybody's reading.
I'll never know. (Oh wait, blogs have 'hits', don't they? Ah well.)
In the meanwhile, my ink is purple, and I'm enjoying it immensely.