Random Expressions

It’s been nearly a year and a half in Nepal but I haven’t ever had a haircut here. Now, don’t be unduly shocked. For those who have seen me recently would vouchsafe that I do not carry kale lambe ghane reshmi tresses on my head - in fact, I don’t even flaunt hair long enough to match Hritik’s Mowgli inspired Krishh style (nor do I have the body to go alongwith it, but that’s a different story).

The reason for not trying Nepalese barbers is that, usually, I make once-a-month trip to Delhi, and get the needful done there, in comfortable and familiar surroundings. But during January’s trip I barely stayed home, hence did not get time at all. True, I had few hours in Mumbai, but then, I am confident Priyangini wouldn’t really have relished the idea of having a meet at a barber’s shop!

Thus, by first week February I was looking quite unruly. Also, long hair irritates - whether on my head, or someone else’s. I firmly believe a man looks best with short cropped hair (and inversely, a girl’s beauty is enhanced by her crowning glory). So before the matter got out of hand, I decided to do something about it.

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Zindagi toh hai amal, sabr ke qaabu mein nahin
Nabz ka dharm lahoo, thande se aansoon mein nahin*

A chilled vein freezes the imbecile heart. The brain crystallizes into a venomous residue. Dead passion’s python strangulates emotions. Lethargy slithers through the tissue’s sieves. Fear crawls, biting into thought pores. Stillness, heavier than lead, crushes the soul.

Yet, life’s purpose is to be eager, and not be contained within patience; the vein’s rule is to flow with warm blood, not congeal with cold tears. There is light in my eyes, and not only water. I am reality, not some story!

How does one reconcile the two thoughts?

The evening comes empty handed. The evening departs empty handed. Nothing has moved. Nothing moves. Nothing will move. After this, the night tiptoes in. The night is quiet. It does not cry. It does not laugh. It is a blank night. Neither do I cry. Neither do I laugh. The blank night will pass away. But I have to wipe out the night’s stain. If I do not do it, it will return tomorrow. And the day after. Time has lost essence. I have seen time slip by. Slowly. Ardously. It is black. And white. I want to fill it with colors. I cannot do it. I want to stuff it. Yet, I am unable to move. I am helpless. The effort is coagulated within my thoughts. I am my own spectator. I want to intervene in my own life. Yet, I feel tied. Time slips by. Life slids by.

*Lyric: Kaifi Azmi; Tunesmith: Anu Mallik; Voice: Sonu Nigam; Film: Tamanna

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When the landlady’s bitch (ok, she-dog) started barking again today afternoon, I had thought she was at her vocal best again; she often goes into a hyper-module even if she sees someone climbing an electric pole on the other end of the compound wall (apart from a variety of other inexplicable reasons). Generally, from a back room window, I stand and shout, and she is positively scared of me from there. In a normal course, immediately she would quieten and retreat to her kennel.

Today, it was different. It did not seem a normal bark of a bored canine. There was an urgency, a snappiness, a shortness. Peering out, I noticed her body was stretched like a tense bow, and her eyes were concentrated on the main gate. At first an irritaton swept me; barely a couple of minutes ago, I had walked in from the same gate. From a side window of the same room, I looked out towards the gate; the latch was securely tightened, as I had only done so before entering.

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Since I have no decent topic to write on, here is a collage of a few sights and thoughts while I walked the streets of Kathmandu. For those who know the layout of the city will understand the route I took. This is a presentation of half a journey, sliced midway, lest some stalker finds his way to my home.

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The maid is on leave; in fact, she has not come in since the time I returned back. For the first two days I gave her the benefit of doubt of not knowing /remembering my return date. Today, I verified from a couple of other places where she works, and learnt that she has indeed been on an extended Holi holiday.

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The mind is a complex maze of alleys holding forth myriad sounds, smells, sights, synergies, each pressing its own response trigger, meshed with the present views, all clamoring for their own wails to be noticed by a video screen in a corner of that same small space, or perhaps, the soul. Analytically, it is a whirlwind, much like the bowels of a washing machine, relentlessly churning in its own cyclonic epicenter; experientially, it throws up images with crystal like clarity, and the most advanced stereophonic acoustics, leaving in no doubt the purpose of its call.

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It is strange that in your comfort zone one tends to take for granted the sounds that emanate in the night. In Delhi, I live very near a railway track; but till the time a staying guest points out, I never realize the bursts of train rambling along at regular intervals. Honestly, how many of you have actually listened to the noise and sounds before slipping into the cushiony tenderness of sleep?

Despite a month of staying here, my sub-conscious has still not befriended the nocturnal acoustics of Kathmandu. Since I stay in a virtual greenhouse, surrounded with a lot of trees and shrubs, the rustle of the leaves is a consistent background score, joined in by insects shrills.

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It is amazing and surprising how a smell, a sound, an incident, or a person can bring back so many memories, like an over-burgeoning river breaking all dams in its innate fury and force. Recently, KJ (a fellow-blogger) had written a wonderful piece on this, perhaps slightly in a different context, but the sub-text remains the same.

In school we had these innumerable ‘boon or bane’ essays to be written (remember, “Is television a boon or bane” etc). Today, I am almost tempted to make a similar attempt at defining whether memories are good or bad for human beings… with arguments for the both sides already sharpening their wits and swords to slaughter each other’s logic down. But I shall refrain from doing any such analysis because, memories, whether rotten or rosy, are part of man’s inherent nature; and my arguing, or wasting precious ink (or let’s say, cyber space) will not solve any matter.

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It’s often said that there are four things that a man seldom forgets in life- his first job, his first shave, his first love and his first lovemaking experience. Although I shall skip the last two in this piece (because I am still too inhibited to really open up on such private matters so candidly), I would definitely love to share my experience on the first two.

My first shave was on technically the last day of the school- it was our farewell party. To state the obvious, leaving school is, for any one of that age, full of mixed emotions- there is excitement as one is crossing an important threshold of life, there is an apprehension as deep as that of Christopher Columbus because the future is suddenly a vast unexplored territory; there is sorrow, for all the friends of yore are going to part and walk different paths; and of course, ironically and paradoxically, there is the immense joy of leaving behind set norms of class timings and uniforms and stern teachers. Amidst this pot-pouri of feelings I ventured my first shave.

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After writing a piece on boredom, here was a week full of happenings, outings, and fun.

Fun, literally, as I happened to watch Masti- a whacko comedy about three married friends who decide to get naughty. Enter Lara Datta, the enchantress who lures them with her alluring beauty. However, beneath the charming face lies a blackmailing mind. So by the time the three harried men get the money (with some rib-tickling moments), the lady is found to be dead. The film is slapstick humor at its best with dollops of double entendres thrown in. I know the reviews of the film have been very harsh, but then these stupid critics should realise that they cannot judge each film with the same yardstick. Masti belongs to base humor, and at that, its a winner all the way.


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All relationships come with an expiry date

If I am not mistaken, this is a line that I had read in one of the interviews of Pooja Bhatt. Even if it’s not her original quote, or even if she did not say it, somewhere, and somehow, I have always attributed this line to her. I am not too fond of Pooja Bhatt as an actor, but I am definitely enamored by her spunky, sprightly and absolutely sensational quotes and interviews that she gives. Whether she means them, or they are said only for effect, I cannot comment, but I have always found them meaningful and truthful; to put it crudely, she catches life’s morality from the balls.

I come back again to Mr. Ramesh Somasundaram’s blog*. In that he has questioned the mysteries of relationships in a wonderfully eloquent manner. I have gone through a few very deep but failed relationships and have not been able to unravel the mystery even by one layer of the complexities that wrap them.

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