Family Ties


Its been on for seven days in a row.

Dripping hair, and soaked to the skin, I struggled with the umbrella stuck ajar. Nope this little monster would not give in either. Checking past yet another, in a string of flops for the day, I ran through to the street to the platform to catch the local train back home.
Its one of those long monsoon runs, lush greens and grey skies, full of din and flashes throughout the day. All good, one would say for a view from a room, not if you have to scamper around town for work, in the slush and mess under your feet.

Feeling the chill of the rain, metal of the train, my bones are numbing. And home is still a long way away.

All for a prospect client, who did a raincheck at later than last minute.

But, its been seven days in a row.

I’m losing hope and running out of money.

Cold and tired, I walk into my house. It smells damp, dark and lonely.

Warm and dry now, I brew a pot of coffee, I still cant feel my hands too well.
As the pot is about to coo, I hear the phone bell ring.
Not in the mood for another disappointment, I tend to my warm coffee, ignoring the call. I need some quiet, peace. Sigh, I need to take this.
As soon as I reached out for my phone, it quietened. Here we go again… the string of flops..

It was a call from my sister. Leading a busy life in a big city, in a distant land, she had all in life that I aspired for, except time. Invigorated by the coffee, and the one off call from my sis, I decided to call her back.

She chirped in a hello in here usual cheerful voice.
I being coffee invigorated but still mellow, managed a meek one.

Rounds of catching up and we end up reminiscing about summers, koels, monsoons and mangoes. Our hot cups of tea and steaming hot savouries to go with it. Oh just the imagery brought it all back, the warm and cozy evenings by the window side, chatting till late and sharing dreams of hers and mine.

Monsoons ahead in time, we had a handful of dreams still left to pursue, many more forgotten, strayed aside. The call didn’t last too long, she left me with ‘Just doing your best counts, just keep at it’. For me it worked like a crackling fireplace and blanket in a cold winter night.

Collected and inspired, I sat down to wind up the presentation for yet another client prospect to meet the day after. By and by, the pitter patter mellowed down and I could see the sun peeking by the clouds around sunset. A brilliant play of colors around the sky scape.

All in a days work, full of sunshine and rain.

For Sunday Scribblings prompt, ‘the Call’

One on one

one on one
A string of monologues, weaving a perception of the India in its power centres (Delhi, Mumbai) over the last decade. If one keeps up with the newspapers, the stories are all known. The voices are all too familiar of the usual folks on the news channel, the workplace, the road, around you. The stage light up in a flourish in the beginning with the act of the usual Indian babu, and the slain bodyguard, both performances promising an interesting run to the familiar stuff. But the tempo doesn’t continue through the end. The wit keeps you occupied but you leave the theatre with a feeling of a few laughs and the ‘same old cribbing’ done in the same old verbose way those chatterboxes near you or as the hyperbole news reporters on television do.

Have to mention the act of the street pole commenting on the vagaries of city life, created by the powers that be. Rajit Kapur’s unbearable flight food act was a tad over the top, funny nevertheless.

This not quite the ‘Love Letters’ from the same production house. I would love to have that one staged again.

- review for the play ‘One on One’
Play by Rage Productions (Mumbai).

Directed by: Akarsh Khurana, Kunaal Roy Kapoor, Nadir Khan, Rahul Da Cunha, and Rajit Kapur.
Playwright: Anuvab Pal, Ashok Mishra, Farhad Sorabjee, Oliver Beale, Purva Naresh & Rahul Da Cunha.

Cast: Akarsh Khurana / Amit Mistry / Anand Tiwari / Anu Menon / Imran Adil / Neil Bhoopalam / Preetika Chawla / Rajit Kapur.
staged Dec 18, 2010 at Ravindra Bharthi, Hyderabad.

Image source: http://www.thehindu.com

Taramandal – Finding your own direction amongst the push and pull of others

A scene from Taramandal

'The casting interview', A scene from Taramandal

An award-winning playwright swells expectations. Taramandal, nevertheless entices with its immensely orignal characters, which connect to anyone chasing an elusive dream; or is in different stages of giving up or coping with the vision. A melange of opulent story lines along the centrepiece around Patol-da, the part that enthralls; about the actor being like a vegetable hawker, is to be simply prepared to sell his wares and can do nothing much beyond shouting out aloud what she’s got to offer, and wait. The stage came alive with the skillful performances, impeccable lighting, music and neat stage management by the performers; all made for a riveting theatre treat.

-Review for the play ‘Taramandal’ by ‘Tadpole Repertory’ staged Dec 16, 2010 at Ravindra Bharthi, Hyderabad

Image source: http://www.thehindu.com/

Surging Verve

Was a cool stream
meandering on my happy way
pulled back in a pan
Boiled burned changed
to steam,
to steam again?
Did I cross this bend before?
Maybe not,
Bends are always curvy
Hard and pretty
the same way
Bustle on,
Making my way..
..

a steady pier

Be sought for
not feigned by beg instead

Command the charge
not for forced on, scampered

Dither, owned askance
not belonged herewith

Enduringly be cherished
not tied entwined

Fastened to belief
no shadows hanging

Ground steadfast pier,
stride afoot from

A thing of beauty

Getting back from sickness, I ve had a long lazy time in the bed for the last four days. Yearning to be on my feet again, I jump to the table with my laptop, reading the numerous feeds queued up in my content aggregator. And then in a glimpse, lying on the black and glass desktop monitor I noticed a white speck move.

Nearly dismissing to be my sick tired eye’s illusion, right there as before, I see it again, better, a bright white blob with fine white eight legs.

Before I could absorb its white striking beauty, it hopped onto to the matte black cabinet. To make its visual opulence even more surreal against contrasting backdrop, akin to a diva on a red carpet, capturing attention. There it landed, leaving behind a glistening silken thread working past the edge of the box.

Enraptured I got up, grabbed a colorful supplement from the Sunday newspaper – thumped it on the edge of the cabinet. Scooped whatever was underneath, and, the crushed ball of paper and all was in the garbage bin in no time.

penance for truth

The ‘rightful’ thing to do
I m aware
of choices on spur,
for duress’ sake

A retreat from ‘truth’
to seek shelter under
The truth that I see

The understanding is fleeting
transient feelings pushing it to heights
so big that it challenges reality

I relent and flow onto
further with the truth of the moment

the ‘rightful’ far left behind
for the gust of the whim is strong
the truth of the moment
dwarfs the rule, the exception
the rightful, and its ties

the moment, the life
owned by now,

years of the past
surmised by a moment
into now
of a prick precipice

- penance to severance
pain a sign of decay, gives way to the new a fresh beginning. At times, though, the scars do not go away

listening to Nee Nenaindal while I write this. I do not understand the words but it sets a reflective mood.

I am what I seek

“My major hobby is teasing people who take themselves and the quality of their knowledge too seriously and those who don’t have the guts to sometimes say: ‘I don’t know….’” -Nassim Nicholas Taleb

We’re born into an illusion. Grow up to live in and create perceptions of us and the world evermore. In fact buying into and working around the illusion is the only way one can navigate through the life here. It’s the only framework available here, one gets into the game of life and has to play by the rules. Most of our life thus, is spent perfecting the game and scoring the points as the rules dictate. The only difference between being lost and having a handle to the railing is in being aware that there is an illusion. As the guard of awareness goes off, the railing vanishes and one simply falls infinitum into the deep dark hole of the myth.

Though Taleb meant the above in the context of once awe-inspiring now hated financial pundits, this ailment of believing your own myth seems all-pervasive in these times. Is the reason that the life’s illusory myth has self perpetuated to such a complex level that it is harder to keep up with the other half of the void of the myth? The balance to seek between the self, hidden and marred by role-specific perceptions and expectations; the life, in all its material manifestations and limited time; and in the and the game therein, of perfecting the rules and workarounds about it: to me, is the aim to seek in my time here. Mystics and spiritually enlightened folks, from their high pedestal of having been there, done that call others ‘ignorant’. I understand the spiritual journey to be a very personal and internal endeavour, one that is catalysed and guided by the trials and tribulation of the illusory life aforementioned. A guide should be able to nudge to on track if you go astray, but nothing can push you or bring it to you unless you respect it, seek it in earnest; and, perceive yourself to be worthy and ready for it. A seeker seeks and cannot be shown. To each his own, in this long hard journey. There is no one single highway or even a single destination. There is no formula, and probably no answers at the end. An individual evokes respect, if his is a sincere path treaded with earnestness and awareness that the absolute is a semblance.

Leisure

I am a compulsive leisure seeker. I like to stop; observe and absorb. In times of rush and race, leisure is draped to look like a guilt ridden escape. But its a retreat to your own being or some new experience emanating from an unusual observation..an expedient to a creative realisation or a new awareness..
similar sentiments by a well known Welsh poet:

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

- William Henry Davies