Watched Sex and the City. I had this instinct that it’s going to be a sissy movie; with lots of crying and emotional stuff relating to women that can never get into the logic-fuel driven mind of a man (I have never watched the HBO series of Sex and the City). And lo, what did I bump into: humor and emotions laced in an intricate way that cannot be catalogued into different pigeon holes of MAN and WOMAN.
In it I discovered the quintessence of humor in life, and how it is the single most revitalizing factor that helps us to wade through any situation. In life, we do not relate this element with every emotion of ours…
In happiness—yes.
In a pensive mood—somewhat.
In sorrow—are you crazy!
A person who tries to make light of the situation is seen with a raised brow; it seems people relate sorrow and emotions so much with a sad contemplating face that the existence of a smile or maybe a moment of respite is beyond their concept. I still remember the time when I had drawn the ire after cracking a joke while visiting a friend who was diagnosed with cancer. While my friend laughed aloud, I could see the discomfort around. Why, come on, you people are feeding him the cancer, I felt like shouting out aloud.
My friend survived the disease, and people have forgotten my act. Otherwise I guess, the joke would have become a case study and I’d have had to live the rest of my life for being insensitive.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
What is it that I want?
“But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for”
Bono sang for me all night, bringing me to one question that I’ve been struggling to get an answer for.
What is it that I want?
I do not find any reason in the space of time that I butcher away from the morning when I step out to go to office to the evening when I heave myself back home. Every morning I see the raising Sun, and every evening I forget of its existence in my life. As I’m climbing the corporate ladder, I tend to ask this question less and less. I seem to be more content to let life “unfold itself”. But every now and then, the question comes to me like some viral fever. During this viral attack, I move from the content being to a restless drifter who questions everything that is and that can be. This drifter sees nothing as an impossibility and wants to find an answer to the age-old question that has been lying dormant. I call this the “awakening”. Unfortunately, I’m still able to resist the call of this awakening and move on. Somehow I am reluctant to find the answers, maybe because it asks me to leave my secure world and step in to the uncertainty. With each passing day, I’m getting glued to this secure world of mine, and in the process moving away, gradually, from that single answer.
I do not know why this fever is not strong enough; sometimes I pray that it lasts a bit longer so that there is no U turn for me to my mundane world. I would then have only one way – the way towards my answer.
Bono sang for me all night, bringing me to one question that I’ve been struggling to get an answer for.
What is it that I want?
I do not find any reason in the space of time that I butcher away from the morning when I step out to go to office to the evening when I heave myself back home. Every morning I see the raising Sun, and every evening I forget of its existence in my life. As I’m climbing the corporate ladder, I tend to ask this question less and less. I seem to be more content to let life “unfold itself”. But every now and then, the question comes to me like some viral fever. During this viral attack, I move from the content being to a restless drifter who questions everything that is and that can be. This drifter sees nothing as an impossibility and wants to find an answer to the age-old question that has been lying dormant. I call this the “awakening”. Unfortunately, I’m still able to resist the call of this awakening and move on. Somehow I am reluctant to find the answers, maybe because it asks me to leave my secure world and step in to the uncertainty. With each passing day, I’m getting glued to this secure world of mine, and in the process moving away, gradually, from that single answer.
I do not know why this fever is not strong enough; sometimes I pray that it lasts a bit longer so that there is no U turn for me to my mundane world. I would then have only one way – the way towards my answer.
Monday, June 2, 2008
My Beloved
My beloved knitted me words of the choosiest colors,
With a ply of wool that let the air marinate into us in a warmth
That neither boiled like the pleasant morning sun growing into the day
Nor cooled down like some coffee left in the window sill over pensive thoughts.
My beloved left me a blank note beside our smiling photograph
With the weight of the photo-frame’s shadow holding the message
From the call of flight of the sleep-disturbing wind of a Sunday morning.
I read the words which her three-page letters would otherwise never talk about.
My beloved left her painting palette and a begging-to-get-wet canvas
And stepped into the picture she wanted to portray.
The colors have dried up,
But even in the deep smell of cobalt blue I find her attentive hand’s fresh prints.
My beloved, why do I see you through your creations,
And never through the compass that you had gifted me once?
You keep an intrigue element in this game of yours
That you have no intention to teach me and yet ask me to play.
I just keep on playing for you to win me
And for me to understand your unstated rules of the game.
With a ply of wool that let the air marinate into us in a warmth
That neither boiled like the pleasant morning sun growing into the day
Nor cooled down like some coffee left in the window sill over pensive thoughts.
My beloved left me a blank note beside our smiling photograph
With the weight of the photo-frame’s shadow holding the message
From the call of flight of the sleep-disturbing wind of a Sunday morning.
I read the words which her three-page letters would otherwise never talk about.
My beloved left her painting palette and a begging-to-get-wet canvas
And stepped into the picture she wanted to portray.
The colors have dried up,
But even in the deep smell of cobalt blue I find her attentive hand’s fresh prints.
My beloved, why do I see you through your creations,
And never through the compass that you had gifted me once?
You keep an intrigue element in this game of yours
That you have no intention to teach me and yet ask me to play.
I just keep on playing for you to win me
And for me to understand your unstated rules of the game.
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