Friday, June 5, 2009

The Lost Race

Schools are a trailer to the movie of life.
And in a fit of a 'Eureka' moment, some sadistic P.T. teacher decided that the best way to prepare the fragile minds of the tiny tots entrusted to him was through races. But then he realized that at the sprightly age of eight and nine, when potbellies are alien and rheumatism of the knees is unknown , running is a joy, not a punishment. And with this realization began a saga of scarring young impressionable minds (yours sincerely starring as yours victimized in the series).

Why could a race never be a simple exercise in running from the start to the finish line? Why did it have to involve inanities like carrying a spoon with a pea between your teeth? Worst, why did it have to involve eating bananas when every Indian worth his tan knows that bananas and Indian summers are inimical? And herein lies the key to why the mess-bhaiya has to suffer a daily interrogation about the state of bananas at breakfast and solemnly swear to their un-rotteness.

I was the fastest kid in the block. I ran like the wind, darted like a bee and braked like a butterfly. If there was one chink in my armour, it was an intestine wringing aversion to rotten bananas. And that is where the PT teacher's creative thinking began. The format of the tiny tots' race : run hand in hand with your partner - of the opposite sex (Sri Ram Sena would be so apalled, this debauchery began in school itself. ) - rush to the finish line, gobble bananas and run back to the start line.

The D-day dawned bright and clear. I chose a sterling specimen, fit to be preserved as the finest, perfectest banana there ever was and clung to it like a drowning man to a shark. Through the crowded bus, i shoved for a shove and scratched for a scratch and though I was much bruised, the banana emerged unscathed. And then in this proud moment of victory, fate played foul and dealt me a deathblow.
All the other bananas lay in a careless heap at the end of the finish line and that is where mine was to be kept too! There would be no chance of finding it in this Everest of plantains! My partner and I sped to the finish line like eloping lovers , but the love turned star crossed at the finish when I jumped head long into the banana pile looking for the much protected one I'd brought from home. Needless to say, people came, people ate and people ran back and I suffered the murderous glare of my partner and the humiliation of being the last one left standing at the finish line. Finally, the school captain asked me to budge and make space for the next lot of banana eaters and suggested that maybe the shoe-lace-tying race would be a better idea. But that is another story and meanwhile if you see me turn pale and look petrified at breakfast, just take the rotten banana out of my hand - that's a scarred psyche for you.

myArt : II

It's beautification time again!
The tremendous fanfare that was enjoyed by my previous artistic publication has prompted me to upload this.
The budding artist has tried to abuse MS Paint as much as it can allow without revolting. :)

Ahem, and the pixelated effect is deliberate and a very time-consuming activity!!

Of the Origins of Poetry

The genesis of true poetry lies in the vituperative, viscid, visceral coils of frustration.

And when I say poetry, to the dismay of perhaps the more regressively maturing part of the population, which also constitues a predominant chunk of my blog readership, I coup-de-graced at the grave risk of alienating them and rendering my uncommon blog forever common in the forgotten realms of obscurity, that 'Roses are red, Violets are blue, O my Dahling, I love You', does NOT count as poetry. Even if you use it to mark the momentous occasion of the first-week-together anniversary with you girlfriend. (I am surprised she hasn't ditched you yet).

And when I say frustration, sleeping on the scorching bed on the first floor of Parijat does NOT count. Even if the foreigners get air conditioners and we 'natives' dont.
Grow up folks! There is more to frustrate a spirit than temperatures imported from supermarkets in hell. Like what? Like lost battles. Like jilted love. Like socio-politico-economic hegemony. Like bankruptcy in a financial crisis. Like a writer's blog err..block. Like existential crises in a pre pubescent, jocund world (courtesy, a recent conversation). Like a never ending conference that begins at 6pm in a software company.
Not in any specific order except that the most poignant, gut-wrenching, heart rending poetry emerges from the last cause on the pathetic list.

And I am sure that all organisms of the fast proliferating species called software engineers would agree. So when you read the lines below, I request you to keep in mind the fact that this was written on a happy day in spring when the bees buzzed and the birds sang; the sun had mellowed to a warm ruddy glow in the distance and the night was riding in fast. And I sat, with a group of other wretched creatures, trying to ignore the insistent, muffled speaking from a Cisco IP phone , battling an AC induced brain numbing draught. The pathos of the situation will melt your frigid hearts.

"And I stand at the horizon,
Watch the Sun set,
At the other end, night creeps in,
At this amalgam of light and dark,
I cross the threshold and step beyond,
Into the lap of eternal sleep,
Beyond any life giving force,
Outside the grasp of life itself,
I embrace the only permanence,
The only change to stem all change,
The only stop to constant transience.
I open my arms and welcome thee,
Take me with you Death, I am ready."

Ah! The pathos!
To all of you reduced to tears, I am much indebted. You may shed sympathetic tears and write warm reviews below.

To all of you inclined to laugh - beware you infidels! Unless you forward this link to 20 more people who religiously leave comments, your lead will call a meeting at 6 every evening!

To all those concerned about my suicidal tendencies and preparing to raid my closet for boa constrictors and rodent poison, R.I.P - I have resigned.

P.S.- If you feel unable to feel sufficiently frustrated to spew out 'deathly' poetry, contact me. I'll lend you my ex-boss.