Wednesday, August 31, 2011

It's, but words again

Six months have I been gone. But you were here. Waiting. Knowing. That I'll be back. That it might be long, but it'll never be never till I return. Plumbing the darkest depths of a churning ocean. Spinning out a maelstrom of, what else, but words.

So here I am again. Returning as you'd known. Without a grain of strength or spirit. Typing away at midnight. With feet as always cold. In the peak of Summer. But somehow colder still. Literally and figuratively. Finally feeling true to myself. Finally writing - not in the usual soft-pencil clickety-clack of a restless brain on visceral ether. But the harder, soothing clack of a letter at every key press.

And to think that the moribund 'Come death take me, I am ready' days had already acquired the warm after-glow of hilarity that only retrospection, anticipating its absence in the future can bring. Fool's paradise. So here I am. Back again. Immune to sun rises and sun sets. To raindrops and their tingling touch. To the earthy smell. And humid heaviness. We sit feeling the 'virtual' pleasant cool of freshly-verdant, drenched tree leaves twirling in the short lived monsoon  breeze, through the extreme cold of our air conditioned offices.

Whew, I feel better already. So you are - connivingly knowledgeable, but waitingly loyal - the best friend I could have. Absorbing silently all the emotional churning my plunges to the darker side create. And for now, you are the only one who should hear. Call it minimum dissipation of disturbances.

But time and again it's been the same catharsis - Words. They've been my blessing, my curse. The best gifts I can get. And tools of torment. My desire. My hope. My craving. The void. The presence. All manifesting through the inextricable net that words weave. The net you spin, but can't withdraw.

What I've said today, so far, was not what the restless occupant of the cranial cavity set about spinning when I fell fatigued on my bed wanting nothing but a good night's rest. But this occupant wanted an outlet. It had been a long time since we actually word-ed.

What will you do, when I walk the precipice of reason.
Watch me walk the edge or lasso me in?
Watch me slip and fall or deep dive?
Or steer me in, off the line?
All you need is a rope.
Yours to wield - it's the Words you braid.

Let's call it a night. I know, you know, that the best is still for the ether - ethereal it is!

Monday, March 7, 2011

The Firs in Winter



(The last of my classroom doodlings. I wonder if there'll be any more. Doodlings or classroom.)


Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Metrotopia, Tweet-Man

Had to document this before I forgot all about it.

Metrotopia last year, 2009 - the superhero contest.

All credit for the art to Nali. And most of script to MadHatter. Well, only most. And that's only 'coz he is too finicky to acknowledge when someone else has written better than he has (the comfort of knowing he'll never visit this place to refute this :D).

Well, happy reading. It is a tad sarcastic. And a lot more than just wee caustic. But it is fun! Yenjai fellas!

Team ‘Bodhi Dharma and the Third Patriarch
Super Hero Tweet-Man - Fights his enemies by posting passive aggressive messages on Twitter.

USP:  In comics, the "major" strips are tiny black and white gag strips crammed together in your daily paper that dish up the same cat or doodled office, day after week after year. By contrast, web comics are like the Sunday weekend strips year round, with full colour, original ideas, and expansive illustrations that sprawl beyond the frame of your monitor.
Web 2.0 has captured a new zeitgeist: it has an enraptured demographic with its own role models, opinion makers and heroes. 
We are capturing on this very essence by caricaturing one of their biggest heroes – Shashi Tharoor or Tweet-Man, a man synonymous with the reach and influence of Web 2.0.
In Tweet-Man we have created a subversive, tongue in cheek comic strip that can stay relevant for as long as the Web stays relevant.

Super Powers:
· Mastery over the fine art of passive-aggression.
· Perfectly coiffed hair maintained by using a centuries old potion of the oldest herbs, coconut oil, and radioactive tuna. Uses his luxuriant hair growth to awe his enemies into submission.

Weaponry – BlackBerry, broadband internet connection

Sidekick: Special Officer Kutty

: New York/Delhi

Attire: Tweet-Man’s attire is marked by its simplicity: he stalks the streets of Delhi in his deceptively conformist garb of a mundu and kurta - conforming to the strict guidelines of his organization, ‘The Aam Ungli’. But alone in his room, with his Blackberry strapped on, and his Twitter account signed into, he picks from his many Liberace costumes and types away; fighting injustice, confronting allegations, and masking his intentions with denial, dissonance, and passive resistance.

Background Story: Born with a silver spoon and perfect hair, Tweet-man spent his formative years with the Jesuits, imbibing their colonial hangover. His stint with the Jesuits helps him perfect his skills with the pen and the alien tongue - skills requisite in his quest for passive-aggressive supremacy. He used his new found powers to pen down allegorical accounts of his resentment toward The Queen Witch which earned him her ire. The Queen Witch puts an immediate curb on Tweet's shenanigans, banishing him to the land of Happy Meals and Cherry Flavoured Colas. However, she did not anticipate that our superhero's path in exile would lead him straight to the nurturing ground of diplomacy; the ultimate school of passive aggression- United Inertia.  Here, Tweet-Man learns the tricks of the trade from the very best and quickly moves up the ranks to be the second in command to the head of United Inertia – Token Black. Unable to replace Token Black23w as the head of United Inertia Tweet-Man indulges in the last of his passive aggressive behaviour in New York by moving to India. Permanently.
Received with the usual brouhaha reserved for uncles with Toblerones and Marks and Spencer sweaters, Tweet-Man uses his perfect diction and a deceptively casual "foreign returned uncle" charm to win over the land of the Gods.
Tweet-Man is soon dispatched by God's own people to manage their affairs in Delhi where his troubles were to soon begin.

Tweet-Man’s face off with THE Holy Cow

 In the hallowed portals of power Tweet-Man comes across the Holy Cow, soon to be his arch nemesis. The Holy Cow with his austere hair growth finds Tweet-Man’s luxuriant hair despicable and decides to shear him to size.

 The holy cow gets ready to attack our hero. He unleashes his most potent weapon, the SPIN. The world is soon inundated with anti Tweet-Man propaganda, some even questioning the authenticity of what has to be Tweet-Man’s most prized possession – his hair. At the seat of power; in the hallowed portals of legislation; with nary a friend; our hero finds his cadence – Twitter.

 Tweet-Man decides to fight back the only way he knows how: 140 characters at a time. Tweet-Man inundates The Holy Cow with the most prolific of passive aggressive behaviour, and Twitter’s reach punctures The Holy Cow’s spin, and the bovine overlord’s put to pasture.

Coming Attraction: How Tweet-Man’s perfectly coiffed hair accidentally saves the world!

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Fairy Tales

It's a competitive world. And Prince Charming doesn't have it so easy these days.
Nor do the Cindrellas, brought up on Barbies and fairy tales. So the Cindrellas grow up fixated with size zero and a Prince who can just not do enough to prove himself to be the one.

Holding the glass slipper right and gazing romantically into Cindrella's eyes is just not enough. She would want him to say a snarky line or two and sweep her off her feet with his ready wit and just before she completes the dizzying fall, twirl her by waist and the glass slipper slides into her foot. Oh, and Calvin and Hobbes would not hurt. Nor would some Mozart and Michael Jackson, and if you could moonwalk, wouldn't that be so awesome too. Of course, the Prince is tall, dark/fair (as per the modern day Cindrella) and handsome. His ready repartee just witty enough to bring out her feminine wiles.

You know what the fairy Godmother forgot to tell Cindrella? She gave her the carriage and the dress. She just forgot to tell her how to find the Prince in the ball attended by all the princes and princesses of the neighboring kingdoms. How is she to know who is Prince right?

You think the wicked wolf of the fairy tales comes with foot-long fangs and smelly fur? Sheep skin is passe! Someone tell the modern Cindrellas that the wolves now come in the suave garb of the "supposed" fairy tale man - humor, wit, looks all in tow. And later then unsurprisingly, heartbreak.

Can someone tell little girls as they grow up, that sterling men come with lesser flash and more substance? Can someone tell them that they won't floor you instantly with chemistry and endorphins but slowly and steadily with rock-solid character that'll give you a life long kick dopamine would never in a split second moment!

Will the real Prince Charming please stand up? Nyaah, Cindrella, you'll have to learn that all that glitters is not gold. And all those who stand up at the call are simply pompous asses. Prince Charming was never so self congratulatory.

Un Anno

one year
Thank you.
You turn my world around and make it bearable by just being you.
I see around me depravity and turmoil, you give me strength and clarity. I am learning to cope.
You do so  much being so far away, am I wrong in wondering what magic your presence will weave?
Near or far, you are my key to sanity; my key to a world of love and trust. A world whose existence I was learning to doubt. A world I saw falling to pieces all around me.
Thank you for restoring my belief in all that I valued and held so dear.
Thank you, for being you.

To many more years of togetherness.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Judgement Day

Let your guilt be your redemption
For all the judgementalism
For all the hate without a reason
For presuming without knowing
Using your insecurity to bracket
Slotting, categorizing and not giving a chance
Lest all assumptions fall apart

Do not psychoanalyse last words
It’s demeaning to the means and the end
Were it that simple to decrypt -
That straightforward and in your face
It would not be ever written
If nothing else, grant the last respect
Of continuing enigma -
Unsullied by mundane interpretations

Martyrs of Suffering

How proud are we of our Suffering?
Do we wear it with a flourish?
Hoist high the crown of thorns
And place it venerably on our heads.

Does our chest swell with pride?
As we neither flinch nor wince
And hear the sighs of wonder
At our valour and stoic ness

Do we compare the thorns?
And see if mine prick harder
And compete in a pageant of pain
To see who emerges stronger?

Do we silently mock?
As we wipe others’ tears
Scoffing at their softness
While whispering soothing ayes?