To baba - to be a rock and not to roll !!

Those big rough hands which once cradled me and didi now hold my son. Those tales which once fired my imagination - Pirates and of great adventures at sea, of Moby Dick and Fidel Castro, of Lucy lost in the blizzard and tales from the scriptures will soon regale my son. Those lines and wrinkles on his face like ancient rivulets tell stories of struggle and hardship, of the many paths taken, mistakes made and triumphs enjoyed. Albeit weakened but those eyes have witnessed history of this nation and of his own family. History, which he still recalls with great accuracy. Spartan-ish disciple, hermit like disregard to worldly trappings, Stoic optimism and ice –cold patience defines him. Bent maybe but never broken .. that’s my baba !

Let a home never be a house

When does a house become a home and more poignantly, when does a home turn into a house. They say every house has a heart and one has got to listen to it very carefully to hear it beat… hear it above the sounds of laughter, din of brooding silence, screams of rebellion, cries of heart break of its occupants. You learn to match your heart beat with that of the space around you. And at that precise moment cement, sand, brick, paint, furniture, fixture ceases to exist. You resonate with that beating heart… your house becomes a home. Memories are born, which hang not just as framed pictures on painted walls, but hang in the air that you breathe. Occupants grow, leave, die but the memories remain, holding onto some other time, refusing to skip a beat, keeping it warm under a blanket of emotions.

A more difficult question to answer is, if at all, when does a home become a house? When do these memories turn sour and the air poisonous? When does the beat fall off rhythm? When do you hear it no more? Perhaps we all know the answer or can atleast hazard a guess.. Perhaps best to avoid the question. Perhaps to each his own.

Not a great feeling

Its is not that I am not trying, perhaps not trying enough, perhaps trying wrong ! Getting self consumed into a downward spiral of dark foreboding. Something needs to give..real soon. Got nothing to write, sketch, sing about !

That's it for now.

The Coalition

From Mohiner Ghoraguli to Bollywood via Bob Dylan. From Classical to Rock via Folk. From Rabindranath to R D Burman via Nusrat Fateh Ali, our musical influences know no boundary, while our preferences represent a seamless co-existence of genres. Our band members comprise of individuals whose background is as diverse as their musical tastes. Students, Professors, Corporate professionals, Engineers, but perhaps whose singular point of congruence is that of an unflinching passion for music.  Befitting therefore, that we call ourselves ‘The Coalition’.

Theseusian Paradox

Over the long August weekend, had the good fortune to watch this seemingly abstract but incredible movie called the 'Ship of Theseus'. The film has been critically acclaimed as one of the finest Indie Indian film ever made and it has won enough awards across the globe to justify the same. It is an educated, thinking man's film as against say a Salman/SRK cash-cowish movie which I am sure appeals to a much-much larger audience base and successfully ropes in the monies fueling the production of more such cash-cowish movies. I am not questioning the intelligence of people who pay to watch these films, perhaps the un-intelligence is what makes these films attractive, like the monotony of EDM music is what makes it appealing.

Anyway coming back to the movie and what it got me thinking on is this - If a company were to replace each and every employee with new employees would it still remain the same company, or if the replaced employees start a new company would it be the original company itself? If a company is more than just its name then what constitutes it? If it is people who create and imbibe so called company culture and philosophy then by apriori reasoning the new company formed by the old employees should indeed be the original company.

No? I welcome your views and counter-opinions.

Orchards wait

As wise men debate,
Deep fried sorrow gets served each morning on our breakfast plate.
And each night
Missiles like fireflies light up the Ramadan sky
While death has a shameless quickie right in front of your eye.
Blood, still fresh and warm, polka dot the white shroud
Of 1371 cold sons whose mothers stand in a crowd
Singing requiem in a high octave
With no flowers laid on their grave.

With payers on their lips, but with their fingers on  the trigger
the orchards wait for times to get better.

Let me know

Will you light a fire and keep those memories at bay when they come visiting me again?
Will you save my soul once I have lied every lie and broken every promise made?
Will you hold my hand comfort me when I have bled every bleeding vein and screamed my lungs soar?
Or will you accuse me,
Hurt, humiliate and curse me, judge me?
Disown me? Leave me?
Tell me,
Would you lay beside me on a naked terrace of the tallest apartment in the city,
Or will you just stand in that corner looking dazed confused and pretty.
Let me know.

Lost and found

Somewhere between the falling rain and those grey high rise city apartments,

Between neon-lit cafes and fly-over riddled city scape,

Between burnt diesel fumes and French perfume,

Between two decades of failed romance and happy marriages

I lost you…

…. And then from behind those ravenous dark curly hairs,

From those smiles and whispered words,

Under the sweet veil of music and nostalgia,

Between friends and a few hours of wine fueled excess

I found you….

Petrol

Need about a jerry can or two of petrol

No not to run my car but to burn down

Steel, glass, colour grey, negative sign on a battery cell.

Burn down

These scars, this emptiness, these city streets, cafes and neon signs,

Your contact number, Watsapp, Facebook, Mobile phone, laptop, coffee,

Memories, goodbyes, too late… burn them all down.

And if there is some petrol still left

I will light a fire to warm my heart cause it’s gone cold and plays an irregular rhythm

To which you can’t sing a song no more.

Into that fire I will throw in a handful of four letter words,

And my twisted sense of morality, base instincts, lust and perversion.

Let it all burn in a blue blaze and leave behind red ashes.

Perhaps a phoenix will rise in a day or two.

Rain

Thoughts like dark raven sit ominously on the lightning conductor

While a little to the left of right and a little further from near

And slightly below above

Pregnant clouds hang like a hangover from day before’s orgy.

In the meantime, unhappiness comes visiting like an unwanted visitor

Overstaying its welcome and drinking up the last drop of sleep.

Rain fails to bring much needed relief or fill up the void that

you left so nonchalantly. 

To unnamed love - reprise

Where do they find refuge today, your lips

Where do they rest? Who do they seek?

Who do they obey?

They have recollections for sure

Of time spent within four walls which bear testimony

To agony, ecstasy, pain, tears, fears, skin, sweat, dreams… love.

Too late you say,

But memories remain.

Memories which are tattooed on our lips..


Image Courtesy : Debjani Roy

My epitaph

... and when I die

let flowers grow wild

on my grave and be my epitaph.

Let them sway to the breeze and to words whispered

Let lovers meet and never be judged

Let no tears be shed but just your songs be heard.

To unnamed love

It’s too late you say

Tomorrow you will be on your way,

But hey,

Tomorrow is another day

Can’t you just look my way today?

Take me in your arms and just stay?

Can’t you give me one last chance to make things right

I won’t fight

I swear I won’t hurt or humiliate

But my love it’s too late

You say

Tomorrow in someone else’s arm you will be on your way.

Who is to say what will become of me

Can’t you feel my pain can’t you see

That I am down on my knee

Begging you please can’t you give me one last chance to make things right

I won’t fight

I swear I won’t hurt or humiliate

But my love it’s too late

You say

Tomorrow in someone else’s arm you will be on your way.

But can I beg you to stay?

15th day of May

Sadness drips all night into my veins from these walls

These walls from before a time that this house became a home.

A home with a couple of faces, furnitures and a bed

A bed which has soaked semen and tears, more tears than semen.

Lustfully I am caressed by a cold depression

A cold depression which starts from the heart and engages in a debate with the head.

The head turns blind while the heart screams in labour pain

Pain that is primordial and pure, more pure but no less primordial.

15th day of May a day sadder than sadness, more depressing than depression

Depression which starts from the heart and engages in a debate with the head.

Head full of memories, bed full of semen and tears, heart full of pain

Pain that is primordial and pure, more pure but no less primordial.

Ode to Demo-crazy

You believe that this fascist will make things better

 So you have coloured your finger

Taken a selfie and posted on Twitter

Feeling proud having exercised your right as a voter.

Change, development,

Progress and empowerment

You love to hear them, so they are spoken about often

While millions get siphoned off quietly like death entering a coffin.

One who cares, dares,

But gets slapped on the face climbing down the stairs

In an ancient city lined with 33 crore gods

Better senses will prevail, but what are the odds?

Meanwhile beyond the mountain and the jungle, bullets fly

Fathers die

Mothers raped and hung to dry

Children cry.

Fly away...

North, South, East, West or perhaps

further to the south of oblivion, further.. further…

In vain we try to unravel your mystery

today 239 Icaruses have found their wings.

Closer to the Sun, further .. further from pain.

Fly away MH 370.

Being busy

Here is the thing... I think that I am possibly the only person on earth atleast in the professional world who has ample time. I always had and I am sure I always will have time. I somehow don't trust people who are always busy with work. I mean how much work can there be in a person's life? I know it is cliched but it either means you are lying /pretending or you are extremely lousy at managing time. I would assign equal weightage to both.  

I mean most of us are either selling coffee or lozenges or instant noodles or toilet cleaners or selling some crap 'concept' on the digital platform which nobody cares about... 99% of us are not trying to find a cure for cancer or aids or saving peoples live in a war zone. No body for sure is changing the world...atleast none amongst us. I cannot for the life of it comprehend what this huge work load that most people claim to be shouldering is. What is it that you are trying to achieve and at what cost? your own life, your hobbies and interests, your family and most obviously all this for a paltry sum of money... I know what most of these people earn anyways. 

Apart from the obvious reasons as mentioned above, I think it has also got to do with people trying to give themselves self importance or worse trying to run away from more important tings in life like friends and family for whatever reasons. Trust me over a period of time you will realise that " ten years have got behind you no one told you when to run you've missed the starting gun" etc. Your friends and family will move on too!!

So stop being busy and start living life!

On 'Bhalo mamu'

Me and my didi call him 'Bhalo mamu', roughly translated means ' Pleasant uncle'. He is my elder maternal uncle. Bhalo mamu has always been one of my favourite relatives whose visit and whose company I have thoroughly enjoyed over the years and continue to do so. He was the first to introduce me to the world of encyclopedias ( i still have the first one he bought me from the Kolkata book fair years ago), western music and everything that is new and futuristic. An engineer by profession he has retained his immense thirst for knowledge and anything that is new in the world. Yet he has not done this at the cost of traditions and values. He enjoys the company of old friends and relatives and large family get togethers with large family group photos :).
Whenever he meets, he will invariably quiz me on latest movies and music and books.. 'Have you seen this movie?' or 'have you bought any new cd?' or 'have you read this book?' these are obviously things which are close to both our hearts..movies, music, books, politics...
My earliest recollection about Bhalo mamu is of his Yezdi bike and his Hara jeans. I remember him advising ma to never say no to us, or never stop us from doing anything we wanted, or exploring new things... Now that I am a father myself I have made it a point to never say no, or hold back my son from anything he is exploring, lessons I remember from my childhood.
Oh yes, one cannot talk of Bhalo mamu and not talk of cricket. Himself a prolific cricketer in his days he has retained his love for the game till date. Never missed a single India match in his life and not to mention a die- hard fan of Ganguly.
Today he might have grown old, but his thirst for knowledge remains, his positive attitude towards the future remains... he will remain young at heart for ever i believe. Looking forward to meeting him soon...

Chromosome 21

I have no idea why I am penning down this particular article if it is not from a sense of acute pain and helplessness. I have always loved children ( who doesnt ?) and the joy of being a father and too see your own child grow up in front of your eyes, a little everyday, is perhaps the greatest feeling of satisfaction that there is. And it is from this sense of satisfaction perhaps stems my deep anguish. Since I now know what it feels like to be a father to a normal healthy kid, my heart goes out to parents who are not as fortunate. Particularly with kids who have Down's Syndrome. How must they be feeling when they see other kids playing in the field, making friends, fighting, laughing, crying.... I cannot begin to imagine!!

Two instances that i would like to put down least I forget the intense, gut wrenching, soul stirring pain I felt..

The first involved a train journey from Dehradun to Delhi. Right in front of my seat were seated a couple with their beautiful angel like daughter. I still remember, she was wearing a pink dress, made her look like a cute bunny rabbit. I saw other kids running up and down the alley in between the seats in the train, but little bunny rabbit just looked on... from her father's cozy lap. I am sure her father wanted her to join the other kids and play... later she started crying and her mother took out some biscuits and handed it to her. Little angel couldnt grasp the biscuit and it rolled on to the floor... Her name as I later found out was Rashmi.

The second involves a speed boat tour in a foreign land. A family who were our fellow tourists had a kid, a little boy with the syndrome. The family had other kids his age who were enjoying thoroughly, but he sat next to his grandma and just looked on. While the other kids got onto the sea beach and built sand castles he just stayed away from the water and shadowed his grandma.... I dont even know what his name was...

Cactus unplugged

The naysayers had almost written them off. They said they had run their course and that they were not as hard or heavy as that other Kolkata based Bangla Rock band. The youth of Kolkata apparently wanted darker stuff. Unfortunately the detractors missed out on something fundamental to performance art, relevance and relatability. Cactus' new album Blah Blah Blah has both in ample measures. No this article is not about the album, which has anyways been given a thumbs up by critics and fans alike. This article is about the new unplugged sounds that the band has been experimenting with. 
It had been a long cherished desire to see Cactus develop some unplugged versions of their cult classics and of course the new songs. Last evening I caught them performing unplugged on TV and it was right up there with any good unplugged show I have ever seen. More than anything the performance reiterated how good each of the members of the band were in their respective trade. It didn't matter that my favourite Baji played with just one hand, it didn't matter that the studio sound could have been better balanced particularly on the song Blah Blah Blah where on the television set one could not hear any instrument over Sidhu's vocals. The rearranged Bodhu re was simply spectacular as was Dibs measured vocals. Rat and Buti were tight like blood brothers, all brought together by BMC and his ice cool demeanor and bass line. I thought it was testimony to Rat's guitar skills as his fingers ran up and down the fret board and juggled the six strings and showed that he is equally proficient with extracting juice out of his processor as he is with his stripped down acoustic guitar. Buti as always was the life of the band with the keys obeying all his command. Though i would have preferred an acoustic piano instead of the synth for such a show :)
The show brought out the craftsmanship in each of the members and Cactus as a whole. What was most satisfying and defining about the whole set was the fact that they did not reduce an unplugged show to just mindlessly replacing the electric guitar with an acoustic guitar like amateurs do, but rediscovered, rearranged and re-sang the songs in a new avatar. The commitment was clearly evident.
All in all a fantastic way to spend a chilling cold evening here in Gurgaon and reminise Kolkata and its sound. Long live Cactus and the spirit of good music. 

2013 the year that was

1.      Health :

a.      Heart attack J

b.      Angioplasty

c.      Lost 9 kg

2.      Travels :

a.      Goa

b.      Neemrana

c.      Mcleodgunj

d.      Krabi

3.      Lyric :

a.      Joined play-school

b.      Started talking

c.      First international trip

4.      Other interests :

a.      Wrote atleast one article every month

b.      Picked up the ukulele

c.      Drew two and gave away both – Ayushman & Boss

d.      Did some reading yes J

e.      Saw some movies – most memorable Meghe Dhaka Tara

f.       Political view unchanged

g.      Faith remains unrestored

5.      Profession :

a.      Got promoted

All in all a mixed bag… nothing to remember this year by except perhaps health wise.

Winter

What to you, me and our privileged son is Christmas, New Year’s eve,

barbeque parties, wine, warm blanket, snuggles, branded jackets,

coffee, waking up late, delayed flights ….

To them it’s the curse of a mother

whose little Ayesha’s hands will grow cold all night

and will not wake up the following morning …

600 litres of water they say
should be enough to wash this curse away...