Post dated glory

"I used to be a women killer back then, my body was a work of art with fat under ten percent."
 "People used to mistake my biceps for basketball, not too long ago. Just a year and a half back."

These are some of the usual things I hear from my friends who were into body building once, seeking solace in the warmth of "used-to-be" and "back then" to cover the tepidity of the fact that they've subconsciously resigned to their inability in the present.

Only places that eulogise the past are history books, museums and graveyards.
For we live to make another day count, else we're pronounced dead. Life exists in the present continuous realm. with everyone elbowing their spot under the Sun, making us a creature of the present, competitively or greedily to remain relevant. The mind is attuned to desire, dream, aspire and hope; all of which are accruals set to fructify in a time to be born, generically called the future.

The mind acclimatizes an individual to the blueprint of the ecosystem he could expect to come across in his future, thus assisting him in making the choices with concurrent consequences attached while making a smooth transition.

It is a weak human tendency to relentlessly etch indelible trophies in the mind of once relevant relations and achievements  A reminder of what we were capable of once, than what we are capable of  now; like the stuffed heads of  hunted animals decorating the walls of a once feared hunter.

Some go about their ex-lovers of the past euphorically, deluding themselves to believe that they were the last of the patrons of the Creator's limited edition line. When in reality, not only did the limited edition move on to other patrons; but also created a few more limited editions to adorn the face of earth, with maybe one of them named after the loser in posthumous recognition.

Not only do these people close the doors on a sea of opportunities ; but subconsciously go on to convince themselves of the inability to find a better person with dandruff hit facial hair and alchohol affected liver serving as collateral monuments to their once divine love.

Same with our gratitude to a person from a past action of benevolence or consideration. It is fine to be grateful, its a wonderful virtue that makes the world a thankful place. But it shouldn't blur our judgement to a present act of his indiscretion that jeopardizes our self-respect or dignity; requiring us to put our feet down firmly.
Respect is a continuous concept, a reciprocating one at that. So when a once respectful person, becomes disrespectful off late and isn't prone to reason or consideration; tolerance to him for old time sake would just mean submissive gasoline supply to a rampant fire.
For once an adorable mutt as lovely as it was, rabied when it becomes, has to be put to rest.

While it is healthy to derive to inspiration from one's past to rekindle a non-materialistic ideal,like vegetarianism or rationality; it is counterproductive to yardstick one's past for evaluating the fruitfulness of a present endeavor, For one it's not modest, the result would be skewed and the perspective would be narrow.
To look into one's self and not looking beyond that, is a good place to peaceful and content. However self improvement is an extra mural process with need for drawing inspiration from source beyond the self.
For instance take a flimsy concept like self assessment  about the way one dresses up. If the comparison is with the former self set up a few years back at a time when we still weren't a paragon of fashion ,the inference would be misleadingly heartening. However if we draw parallels with an icon or much better ,a friend  regarded for their sense of fashion; it would not only be humbling; but a far more realistic assessment.

We could muse about lost love or find new love in the mean time, we could bask in erstwhile glory or relentlessly work towards an impracticable goal.To decay in familiar nostalgia or stumble to competence in an enigmatic present, the choice is ours.

We would at anytime be at crossroads between two paths in our lives- one that we came from and the one which we ought to take. Choice that we make,former or latter, takes us behind or ahead.

Ma-The overlooked guardian angel

The maternity ward sequence marking the child's birth is always one of the most memorable moments in a woman's life; notwithstanding the conspicuous bunch of gynecologists in surgical robes and morbid operation theater set up that witness the proceedings. This process is the cornerstone of womanhood; for it introduces her to this two kilo whining meatball-a personification of her love to her soul mate while planting a new fulcrum for her life to go around.With every umbilical cord disconnected, a mother is born out of a woman.

Coming to my story, on the wee hours of a humid sixteenth day of yet another May of 1988; my dad's wife turned a mother with my birth into a Rajiv Gandhi run nation. It wasn't the rosiest of deliveries, for I almost ended up killing her in the process; giving her a hint of the things future had in store.

My mom is the sort of person, one would accurately remember as the pleasant looking congenial woman from a run-in years ago. She was the first of three children of my grandparents, raised in a joint family set-up that outnumbered neighbouring colonies on headcount basis. She grew up having few hobbies and a lot of cousins. She sung like a dream and could've go on to sign autographs to patrons of mainstream music if destiny didn't play spoilsport with domestic duress. Another unmistakable facet of her is the way she hates maths till date like measles; thanks to my grandpa's motivational ways with the cane.

Some life altering events are geography altering ones too; such was my grandpa's accident which made the Delhi-Nagpur girl my mother was settle down in Chennai for eternity. There are phases of life that test your tenacity while sieving phonies from genuine people; grandpa's bed-bound period of recovery made a stronger person out of her who's maturity was a decade elder to her actual age.

It was in this period, dad came in to her life; thanks to a friendship born out of harmless banters between aunts from respective families who thought gossiping was a cardio-vascular activity. Those were the times politicians, film scripts and matrimony were derived out of small talk. Despite not being the most romantic of people, my parents overcompensate for the lack of flamboyance with compatibility and respect; virtues beyond a generation that employs emoticons and selfies to express.

To withhold an opinion and employ silence at the right time is more important to a relation than wearing the entitlement to one's opinion like a badge of honour during wrong times in the name of expression of individuality.
This is something I've grown up watching my mother practice with my dad every time things get heated between them. Not the person to design her ethical system out of bestsellers; she more often than not allows my dad to have the last word because she is aware of the fact that she is the more mature of the both of them and has a better tolerance for nonsense.
She's always taught us about the need to look at a intention behind a hurtful word uttered; for what would remain after the word has resigned to irrelevancy is the intention of the person.

She is that sort of a cook; that earned me a lot of friends on the merits of my lunch box during school days. Her paneer gravies and sambar are things that bring solace to my sarcastic tongue; which doesn't stop me from taking regular digs at her culinary skills with women musing over her expertise.

If courtesy sounded mellifluous and bargained incessantly with vegetable vendors; it would look a lot like my mother. She's one of the warmest of hosts; as obnoxious as a guest may be or as ill timed as their visit might be; a complete antithesis to my "trespassers will be prosecuted" style of welcoming guests.
Having a woman who's grown up with brothers for mother comes with it's share of perks; for the candour and camaraderie happen more organically as she already knows how grown up men function. After my break-up, all it took her was a look at my face to know what I was going through at that time. Her being empathetic and cool, made the uphill walk a lot more easier at that time, than a gratuitous sermon from conventional parenting manual would have.

This piece is an attempt to reminisce about her evolution as a person  without getting too cheesy; an objective fly on the wall account of sorts. The time I've taken to write about my mother on the occasion of her birthday has brought many fond anecdotes to my mind; a few of which I've quoted.
That said, the ways she has touched upon our lives doesn't absolve me from pulling her legs about her miserly ways, likening her cooking to euthanasia or having week long cold wars over flimsy reasons on a regular basis to only think about what to do to make her 50th birthday more special than this one.
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Enough

I was never thankful enough,
To be the one you mused

Adjectives weren't beautiful enough,
To describe how much you amused

No distance was separation enough,
For you were always within

One lifetime was never really long enough,
To grow fragile in the limbs with you

It was ironic when the day would come,
Where I had ; really had enough 

Forbidden Love

A hot headed guy; he was this fruit out of the marriage between commerce and addiction. She was this carefully crafted red herring; whose luscious appearance made hordes of men take the bait, notwithstanding the grind that lay ahead.
"Opposites Attract" goes the popular maxim, this wasn't just another tale of contradictions and accruing fondness between acquaintances feigned out of Mars and Venus. Right from their founding fabric to the interests they pursued and the interests they were pursued as; they were dissimilar at every level that their bonding seemed as unlikely as a camaraderie between a toad and a serpent. Yet they would go on to passionately fall in love with each other, even if the affair was short lived and morbid.

Detrimental to each other, they were pawns in the hands of destiny;their unison was an anomaly designed to add flourish to the myth of love. She savoured every occasion they came in contact, she caressed him with her elusive tenderness that other men meditated upon fervently.
He for his part, with constant fire in his belly and admonishment for a way of life; found absolute approval in her unadulterated love; the only person he loved to suck his soul; his soulmate who saw solace amidst his fire and stench.

This was a tumultuous relation, where everything from when they would meet to how long they would be together was not in their hands; leaving how they were together alone to their discretion. The most they made out of every interaction, making a decade out of every moment spent to serve as buffer during separation.

There was this blessed phase which would eventually lead to their impending separation; during which they used to meet more often than usual where they made fervent love like animals that they could given birth to an entire township if not for the unfruitful nature.

It couldn't be more right that too much of nectar is poison, for their overzealous streak had taken a toll on her. She was becoming weak and waded, a pale shadow of her gorgeous self. Yet she couldn't keep herself off him, even if her life was lying collateral. He on his part, was concerned about her dwindling health oblivious to the fact that he in fact was causing it.

Like the love of a serpent doesn't wither away the sting of its venom, his infallible devotion to her well being was not changing the detrimental effect he had on her.
Shaken by the unflinching resolve of the soulmates, who were happy to die an overwhelming death together than rot in separation; the universe had to conspire as their collective conscience to end their relation for greater good.

She was forced to a relation with another of his kind; similar to him yet an antithesis. As in all tragedies, the estranged couple tried every possible way to get back; but had to make do vicariously.
Her health improved dramatically with every passing day without him and soon she was back to her alluring best. He had found audience in another person; a rebound of sorts and soon moved on for good. She broke up with the doppelganger of her estranged lover and soon lost interest in his kind.

With them ended another love story in this world. In a place which stands witness to far more consequential tragedies with every passing moment; an end to a fleeting affair between a pair of lips and a cigarette would not mean much, would it?

Relatively Human

While at an uptown restaurant we are the personifications of our appetite at the end of a famished day, while our order makes it's grand entrance,ensconced in an utensil built to flatter it, we are all our hungry eyes could behold, when the carefully preserved aroma escapes to tantalize, we become aware about the ability of our neglected nostrils to be seduced.
Finally, when we consume our dinner, the fleshy muscular organ we slog hard to appease all day long, the most judgmental part of the human anatomy, the wagging testimony to the most intricate of architectures,with every square inch of it demarcated to react to a specific taste vetoes the chef's culinary expertise;  we know the role the tongue's tip plays in making our lives tasteful or not.

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I've just deconstructed the fine-dining process and the synchronous sway it holds us in, despite appearing inconsequentially palatal. Same is the case when in a concert, where all our personality is contained from either sides of the brain, with the dichotomy of the conscious and sub-conscious self or during salacious indulgences, when our intellectual extension  becomes subservient to the primal one; while the body as a whole becomes indifference in trance to the genitals.


We take pride every day, every moment in immersing neck-deep into sub-plots, overstaying in some, constructing designations and jargons around them to feel less narcissistic and more flattered; then end up calling life complicated.
So we have words like "connoisseur" to cushion over-indulgent men,"workaholic" to crown shallow-employed beings and phrases like "make love" to sugarcoat passionate intercourse.

A machine is a composition of heterogeneous parts with individual mechanisms that work synchronously towards a homogeneous objective, the machine's functional purpose.  A bike with an over competent engine or a wheel with an independent agenda would be an anomaly, not a facet which would go on to define the bike's purpose altogether.
Whereas we as a race, take pride in being subservient to take a specific organ's ability or need,hone a skill out of it, make the skill utilitarian and bask in the perks usurped in the process.

 The other organs notwithstanding their independent aspirations become thankless reindeer to the sleigh, the flagship organ navigates. Vestigial by priority & designated by anatomy, it takes a mutiny in the form of an injury or an infection to remind one about their existence; the rare occasions when they get pampered with handpicked medicines and priority.

So, nepotism to one's vocal cord makes him a singer,devotion to his cerebrum, an intellectual or an artist; while obsession to the cavity between his legs: a pervert or a pornstar. An athlete or an bodybuilder's anatomy should be the most egalitarian scenario though, with the body bordering on megalomania and excessive flattery.

So unlike machines, birds and animals, this ability to extrapolate uni-dimensional prowess and in the process become different persons with each iteration makes us the most intriguing creatures among the created. While the former kind are homogeneous by objective with  a laid out blueprint to nullify individuality, our objectives and blueprints are contingent to constant evolution with every passing experience attained, every acquaintance made and hitherto insurmounted peaks breached.

Maybe this ability to lose plots passionately and make plots out of sub-plots with every passing indulgence constitutes our self-declared sixth sense, our alpha clout over animals and birds.Some call it the mind's eye, the ability to see beyond the vicinity of the present continuous province into the heart of the future continuous pastures making planning for an unborn era a possibility beyond mechanical existence in the present realm; with  roads, monuments, canals, dams, surgical procedures, doctrines, philosophies standing testimony to this gift.

This gift, like any other gift puts us at an advantage over the other species without the gift, our ivory tower to call the shot for ourselves and our beta designated peer species. To utilize the vantage point of our altitude in a fiduciary way within the covenants of restrain and empathy or squander the same for vanity is up to us.
If we decide to tow the latter path, we've always got our alpha adversaries in calamities,epidemics and comets to give us a reality check. For,all it takes is a mad elephant or a stray tiger to re-evaluate our alpha status.

The Neceesary Evil

How relevant is the light at the end,
without the winding tunnel inundated with darkness

If not the Devil for nemesis,
How relevant is the God's prowess.

Apathy instigates one to love,
With a marooned man's plight for a ferry.

All it takes is a clinical drought to famish,
To appreciate nature's benevolence,when she cries earthwards.

At the end of an endeavor,is born an outcome
At the dichotomy of an outcome, is born success or failure.

Their romance was a platonic anomaly,
Comfortably uncomfortable together; yet apart

They blossomed in the disapproval of each other;
Yet came alive in figurative unison,
Everytime someone quipped,"Opposites Attract"

Image Source: onhech.blogspot.com

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The August 15th patriots

Today would mostly start with a live relay of a septuagenarian within the safe confines of a bullet proof cabinet, delivering a speech which would make a 4^th Grade student’s essay on “Dream Nation” look more plausible. Next we excavate those translucent white kurtas (subtle metaphor for patriotism it seems) from below the debris   of Van Heusens & Peter Englands in our cupboard, only to flaunt in the Flag hoisting ceremony at our alma maters. The journey to our alma maters is characterized by banters of desperate RJs hurling patriotic trivia & songs at us from every radio station.

Then the flag hoisting with a spirited rendition of the National anthem ends on a sweet note, courtesy Caramilk(a provision store relic). Then we have over enthusiastic alumni deliver articulated lectures about why culture & folklore are more important than android phones & GDPs. Thus begins our patriotic rigmarole on the august day.

FREE ARE WE AS INDIANS?!

Lets start with freedom in movies for a start, If the movie's font is arabic or the protaganist has a beard without a moustache....the movie's anti-islam-ban it!...if the protagonist utters any word which bears remote similarity to a political figure’s moniker or is shown contesting election(even if in college)-the movie's politically incorrect-ban it! When our political mechanism has broken down huge stars with the ease of a fragile twig, what chance do we lesser mortals even stand in our Constitution backed freedom of expression!

Art isn’t far from the long arm of our Political guardian angels either- If a famous painter depicts a Goddess in a semi nude state, we ensure he is rusticated from the land. Ironically though, ancient architecture in most of the temples depicts Gods & Goddesses in similar manner.

If an author dares to take on a religious issue in his fictional book in a gutsy manner, he instantly is made an apostle of Satan in public domain & his citizenship is severed like bad friendship.

With the freedom of expression of a common man becoming thinner at a more alarming rate than the ozone layer, If someone mentions a political proper noun in bad light in social network or even a inter cubicle conversation, he can be rest assured of a rendezvous with Arnab Goswami or brief internship behind the bars.

INDEPENDENT ARE WE AS INDIANS?!

Lets talk about how independent we are at a grass root level taking into account very mundane things for instance, we Indians are genetically programmed to look upto people with good spoken English abilities with scant regard to their intelligence…like an unwise customer picking up a branded vessel with a hole in the bottom. We look down upon someone mispronouncing an English name like a dung beetle, only to enjoy Geoff Boycott’s carnage of Indian names like connoisseurs.

More often than not when we talk about movies in public space, we flaunt names of unheard of Egyptian/Spanish/Korean/Russian movies with the pride of a newly married woman gossiping about her loan funded honeymoon. Notwithstanding this we celebrate 100 Years of Indian Cinema, where we make a tribute movie helmed by reputed auteurs, only to be diagnosed as a rip-off!

Despite being in a tropical country, we dress up like Louis Philippe mannequins to make our sweat glands work overtime. And if the wardrobe buffoonery wasn’t enough, we assign anglicized alter egos to burn midnight oil for our living, so that westerners learn to use their home appliances.

UNITED ARE WE AS INDIANS?

The only time we are genuinely united together as a nation is when Sachin’s batting or India is in a good position in the second innings of a match. Another occasion we display unity in diversity is when the news about a politician’s multicrore scam hogs limelight or Rahul Gandhi tries to make a political statement, this is when everyone suddenly seem so opinionated & awakened. Barring this flickering display of patriotism on these stray occasions, every state seems to be an isolated mini nation with its own agenda. While public holidays & bribery seem to be a common thread linking the entire nation, the legality of prostitution changes from state to state.

As on date our pan Indian feeling seems to be a shallow concept that is characterized by either pilgrimages to places ripe with religious heritage or sin-dissolving dips in holy waters that transport corpses or art of living workshops where saffron clad urban babas teach us life altering things like importance of eating bananas . Not to forget our uniform liking to ayurvedic massage spas or failed attempts to smuggle pickles  past terminals in foreign soil or our favourite national past time of talking about the gutter, our political system has become.

Being patriotic doesn’t just end with Ben Kingsley’s Gandhi on playlist or standing up when the anthem is played, it’s a mental state where we accept the nation with its share of flaws without making a laundry list of lacunae…like a mother’s unconditional love for her son. Till then August 15^th would just be another cosmetic public holiday when pizza joints gives us buy 1 get 1 offer!