Musings of a ‘Fever’-ish Mind

(Body temperature presently a little over 99 degrees)

This is the first installment comprising some of the perspectives of the serious side of life. Due to the change in the style of the written word, it can be considered equivalent to an attempt to venture into yet-unexplored and dangerous ground, especially considering the sensitive nature of the very first issue at hand. Before I really begin, let me just put in a few clauses:

• These are the authors personal opinions and bear very close resemblance to ground reality as perceived by him, but feel free to differ and express in politically correct terms exclusively (read “this is ‘my’ blog!”
• Please restrain physical assault on the author with weapons equal to or less destructive than soft bound light-weight books or equivalent paper bundles, below neck level and above waist level, and targeted for temporary damage only (temporary defined as less than five minutes injury)

Now that we have the basic ground rules in place, let’s set the ball rolling. The very beginning, and hopefully not the very end, is with a subject that tends to confuse at least half the world (the male half, to say the least), and the referee too (read GOD), as history stands witness: WOMEN! So how do we really classify this species, so special that neither can we (males) live with them nor without them, within reasonably perceivable bounds?

Women are complex. Complex is a synonym for life. Life is short. Short is sweet. This naturally leads us to the conclusion that women are sweet! Wait a sec! (This can be fully attributed to the fingers on the keyboard outrunning the mind!) Anyways, so shall it be.

Moving on from the primary comprehension of the species at hand, let’s delve a little further into why this species complicates life to such a great extent. It is undeniable that, at least in the Indian context (if not globally), males are highly dependent on women for many a survival tasks. This dependency creates a need, and hence the resulting failure, to understand the behavior of this particular species; after all, it’s a matter of survival! Consider the following behavioral patterns to comprehend the depth of the matter:

• The spoken word is never consistent in its meaning and is highly dependent of the context of the conversation, the particular instance of the species at hand, the subject, the time and the timing, the tone, the mood and innumerable other factors that would in itself take a lifetime to recollect
• The same pattern can be seen for the “look”, the particular way in which the head is tilted, or the eyes that reflect the gravity of the happenings inside the mind of the species, and is eventually left to be perceived by the male counterpart on the basis of his past experience or naivety, resulting in ‘mirages of perceptions’ leading to physical damage to the male specimen, however temporary or permanent the damage may be
• ‘Bitch’ing, as the word goes! About whom, when, to achieve what ends and for pleasure or purpose, probably very few of the species itself really understand the complexity of the process but choose to indulge in it endlessly (though I would certainly not deny that it is highly entertaining and indulged equally by their male counterparts, even though the origin of the word can probably never be attributed to them (for further clarifications, the word itself stands testimony to its origins))

The aforementioned behavioral traits are just few of the many that characterize typically this interesting species. At this juncture, two particular specimens of the species in discussion gratefully previewed the content penned till now, and the following discussion with them led to the discovery of some further interesting traits.

• This species suffers from a serious syndrome of “selective perception”, as the first specimen ‘Miss Read’ “temporary defined as less than five MINUTES injury” (previously mentioned) as “temporary defined as less than five MONTHS injury”. It seems that not only is time circular in nature for them (consider the minutes (‘Miss Read’ as DECADES) spent on cellular networking), but is also a proof of their contorted thirst-for-domination over the poor-and-helpless male species (and then they call it a man’s world!). As further proof, I shall quote from a street sign (seen close to Punjabi Bagh, just in case you doubt my credibility, or laud my innovative genius) targeted at supporting the male: “Man Help: Call 9********. Agar biwi pareshaan kare to jald call Karen” (Read: Call urgently if wife troubles you!). Add to it their polite touch of sarcasm intermingled with the sweet but poison-deadly honey-dripping melting-warm razor-sharp sideway glances!

• Coming to the second specimen, it seems that due to a ‘two-second’ read through half the article, she got confused as to its indications (which factually speaking, seem to be rather well directed in nature). This takes the toll of the “confused” now to exactly half the world (the male half) plus ONE (according to present estimates). This provides a clear indication to the following two aspects: the first reinforces the previous “selective perception” syndrome, and the second that it is very elementary to confuse simple-hearted specimens of this species, even though it is the same species which in general dissects every sentence uttered by their counterparts to the last letter, drawing conclusions from it which seem bizarre and unimaginable to even the most complex male minds on the face of this earth.

Now that we have dealt in-depth with the behavioral traits peculiar to this species, we confront the dilemma which nearly every male species faces on a day-to-day basis: How does one communicate effectively with their kind in order to generate a response which resembles (even remotely, if nothing more) the one we desire to have (and without the risk of every trace of one of our kind being removed from the face of this earth, for each response!)?

If only we were to learn from our mistakes, it would have been evident that it is the species itself which provides the answer to most of the questions we fail to comprehend. On closer examination, the crucial bits of information can be found in the spoken words of the specimen itself, in general. Although I agree with heart and soul that not only do women beat around the bush, but they also beat around the neighbor’s bush, his whole garden, his neighbor’s garden and so on till the end of the lane, and even then there exists a fair chance that they may not reveal that crucial bit of information (however inconsequential or unworthy it may be! (and it is a fairly decent chance, on second thoughts)). Even though this scenario sounds grim, if one has the patience (read: is stupid enough) to play the waiting game, and actually manages to survive the test of time, the information received can be pretty useful at the right time and place, though depending wholly on the skills of the possessor of that particular valuable. It can provide probing insights into how to stimulate the specimen to respond as desired, with highly favourable consequences! Though a word of extreme caution is also deemed to be necessary (just for the over-enthusiastic practitioners of hot-on-the-block get-your-woman-going mantras): Repeated attempts with low success rates will only get you up against the wall, and further persistence will only add to the number of years the particularly foolish male specimen will suffer from being a “single” one (refer the author’s plight!)! On the other hand, let us consider the cost of letting go that particular jewel, a number of instances of whose kind will pass the male by, as the male in discussion chooses not to try and search for those few needles in the haystack. It’s like trying to build a sky-scraper of a relationship having in place a foundation with every alternate stone missing (and there being no intention to fill the same). Reasonable, but certainly does not sound sustainable! Therefore, we now arrive at the dilemma of get-it-or-leave-it, one which has subconsciously troubled our great grandfathers from times prehistoric. It is for this that I will not put forward a solution, as that would defy the whole purpose of keeping you going through sheets and sheets of random bawling over spilt milk. It is now that each male specimen facing this particular dilemma must make his choice, being very situation-specific (and it is this very clause that will probably save the author’s life from repercussions of yet-unknown varieties and untested kinds from specimens of either species, depending on who reads or miss-reads it by what margins!). After all, what’s the point of having a story if the punch-line spells out in crystal clear words the what-to-dos and what-not-to-dos (give me one good reason why, just why, would even the biggest nit-wit bother reading the darned story if all that mattered was the last line)! The choice is now yours; it might just be the last one! Handle with care!!

A Part of My Story

Life is a journey
So long and yet so short.
I walk right along
Looking back and forth.
It winds right through
Ever changing landscapes
And many cultures and peoples;
Some walk along
While others fade out in the mist of time.

I walked by a forest,
With the early morning dew
Clinging to the leaf
As if it were its sole moment of existence.
Alas! If only I lived life that way.

It was then that I decided
To be like water;
Take the shape of the vessel I may be put in
And fill every moment I owned.

No one ever saw the future
And history shall repeat itself.
It is a law no man could ever change
And I shall not attempt.

A sponge I shall become,
To absorb all that life pours onto me.
Tired, I know I will be,
By the end.
But my mother awaits me
At my journey's end,
To hold me in her arms
And put me to sleep once again,
A sleep which life cannot afford
But only a mother can bestow
Upon her beloved son.

Me Who?

Knock-knock!

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

“Don’t know”.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

Who do you think is the smartest of all?

Look into those eyes,

Right into those melancholy black balls,

And what you see is your very own self.

That is the irony of what we call life

Because what you see is merely an image,

A tragic illusion.

Our eyes are the window,

Our ego a curtain drawn safely across;

The mind well-hidden

From the daylight of reality.

At night we dream,

To be carried along by the flow of thought.

Like a spectator we stand

And watch the game, emotionless, serene.

The match never stops,

Merely players change.

Another illusion,

As one of them is you!

Both a spectator and a player,

A contradiction, but not really so.

Our mind was well-hidden,

That’s what we thought.

Damn! The devil’s been playing all along.

Trrrrrringggg! Good morning!

The slate’s wiped clean,

Memories all erased.

We start all over again,

Just another day.

But that’s not all.

Arjun shot the eye

But it wasn’t what he actually saw.

He looked into the water;

It was an image,

Just another illusion.

But he saw right through

To the heart of the matter.

He aimed well

And saw nothing else.

But that was Arjun;

Now who am I?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

Who do you think can see through all?

Dream-dream, come once everyday,

I wish to see my mind at play.

Knock-knock!

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

Still “don’t know”.

Damn!

The Cup of Life

I, so busy and tense,

All the time,

Producing and reducing

While the sun shines.

I, so busy am I,

That I see but never look

At the all-pervading beauty of life.

I search but never see

That baby smiling up at me.

It’s not that my eyes aren’t open,

It’s due to a shut inner eye

Which causes nature’s beauty to simply pass-by.

Daffodils are beautiful,

But so is the first ray of the sun,

Peeking thru’ the white clouds.

It’s not only the crisp morning breeze

Which brings a new breath of life,

But also the sparrow’s sweet call,

Which I have never heard.

I, so busy am I,

That I never counted

The drops that each day takes away

From my Cup of Life.

An empty cup,

A shut eye,

This I will be reduced to ashes,

And the bones of I immersed in the Ganges.

Wish I had seen the day,

When I will become, for nature,

Nothing but child’s play.

I, so busy am I,

So busy am I…

A Cherub’s Touch

A fast moving world,

That’s what it was.

Thousands of people

Rushing here and there,

Some shouting

While others worked noiselessly;

And hundreds of cyclists

With bells ringing incessantly.

The streets were abuzz

And life was electric.

The noise was loud enough

To wake the sleeping Gods.

But somewhere within

Lay a dying man.

A dusky room

With a pigeon-hole window

Formed his existence.

A thin beam of sunlight

Found its way through;

The beam of Hope

Maybe that’s what it was.

The noise fell on his ears

But moved nothing within.

He heard nothing, felt nothing

But merely saw

That ray.

It cut through his dilemma

Like a sword through the heart

And things became clear

As never before.

Life had been cruel,

That’s what he thought.

Grew up an orphan

But learnt to live,

All on his own.

He’d lived righteously,

As desired by his Gods.

A mundane existence though,

Introvert as he was.

But just as life began

The End was near.

Still, something was amiss

But pinpointing it seemed impossible.

Where was the justice

And the promised reward?

Where did he go wrong?

The ‘why’ was the most important gap.

He thought hard

But to no avail.

His strength was ebbing

And he couldn’t fight anymore.

He knew his time had come

And he must relent.

The struggle was over;

It was the Kiss of Death

Something beyond human control.

The light was fading.

Was it dusk or the shutting of eyelids

He never knew.

Simply a cool breeze

Lightly running through his hair

Like the touch of a beloved.

And then the Cherub appeared

In all her glory.

She was an angel

With the poise of a princess

And affectionate like a mother.

Slowly bending over

She kissed him on the forehead,

Gently held him by the finger

And pulled him along,

Music came from nowhere,

And soft light broke the night.

She danced with him;

Her steps were dainty

Yet the flow was unblemished.

Rhythm ran in her blood

And the music played to her tune.

It was the moment

He had yearned for all along.

His Gods were not unkind;

He now understood.

He had been blessed

By the Cherub’s Touch.

My Gem

She sleeps peacefully in my arms,
Her head resting on my shoulder,
Her warm breath running down my neck,
With its soft whistling through her nose;
It’s like the music of Krishna’s flute.
Heaven can’t be as soothing as this.

The Gods have been kind to me;
Bestowed upon me their most precious gift:
My darling baby girl, this girl so pure,
In body, mind and soul.

But look! Look at those fools,
Who value not this priceless gift.
Those literate fools,
Who put aside their morals and values,
And cross all extremes,
To murder this gem before she’s born.

How unfortunate their souls are,
To have been truly blessed
And yet destined to be the cold-blooded murderer
Of this very blessing.

But blessed am I
By the radiance that emanates from My Gem’s Being.

Where is she?

He was a dreamer
An idealist too,
Yet within that framework
Existed objective analysis
Within a subjective perspective.
Tons of contradictions,
All blended together
To form the perfect picture
Of total chaos.
But someone said
That even chaos has certain patterns.

A little sweet wine,
A touch of coffee liquor
And the rest is all to taste.
Mix it all up
And the net result
Forms that perfect confusion.

The story builds this way.
He, the protagonist,
Is off on another bumpy ride
Thru’ his own ‘mental-countryside’.
The search has begun,
For what
That is yet to be known.

The horns are blaring,
This is Indian countryside, baby!
Screech!
Phew! Saved.
A thought nearly ran him down.
He stares right into it,
And there is the first clue.
Fast and furious
That’s what he’ll like,
But able to stop
When time demands.

On he moves,
He must not stop.
Life is short,
And she must fill
The Cup of her Life
To the brim.

He crosses the Ganges
And looks far across.
The waters are so peaceful and calm,
Tranquillity bestowed upon them
By the Mighty Hand.
Yet below the surface
The currents flow
With force unmatched,
Allowing nothing to hold within!
A force so potent
And a will to live,
If only she had.

Further down he meets
The religious ones.
Orange they wear
And pure white are their souls.
This purity would do her good
And help her cleanse
Her inner self,
All thru’ the process
Of Karma and Svadharma.

He moves up the hills
And the clouds begin to surround,
Like a mysterious stranger,
They wrap their arms around.
A slight cold touch
And then a soft drizzle.
The Gods may be gently crying
Or hiding from the Light.
If only she could
Let loose at times;
The grief will spill
But not bother her anymore.
Then she would fear not again
Looking within,
And seek not again
A Guru without.
The Master of herself
Is what she would become.

The road winds thru’
Jungles of solitude.
The mountains tower high
All specks of brown and green;
If only she was
A confused blend like me.
Contradictions within
And contradictions without,
A desire to learn
From this mix of all.
A need to add
More colour everyday,
To these specks of brown, green and blue.

He climbs further,
The air goes thin.
The struggle begins
But he could still win.
The words “give up”
He never knew.
He would never teach her
And she must never learn.

The journey is what counts
Not the destination,
As once you’re there
It’s already the end.

He’s still climbing
It’s rocky and steep,
Each step takes him closer
To where she awaits him
With bated breath.
He begins to slip,
The going is torturous.
The doubts creep in,
Maybe she never was there.
He’s just human
And may just break,
One cannot say.
The mind begins to drift,
The dream still exists.
A potential conflict
With disastrous consequences.

One more step
And he should be there.
The final call
Which he cannot miss.
He lunges forward
With the hand grasping the peak.
One last pull
Which had him there.

But alas!
She was nowhere to be found.
Was it all a fantasy?!
His senses he could not believe,
Half the brain in grief
And the other half astound.

The journey was over,
The end was here.
Damn! What a waste!
He’d been a great fool
As the one he was seeking
Was right there at home
Waiting all along.