thought i had something more to say...

it was 2 o' clock in the night when i thought of giving new colors to this painting which i painted an year ago. the result is before you.

the colors in the sky speak of the storm in my head and the darkness my story...

my wall...

the words glare at me every moment

the thoughts provoke me now and then

they want me to fight

the time has come

its time to win

its time to kill...

the end by doors (apocalypse now)

This is the end

Beautiful friend

This is the end

My only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end

of everything that stands, the end

No safety or surprise, the end

I'll never look into your eyes...again

Can you picture what will be

So limitless and free

Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand

In a...desperate land

Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain

And all the children are insane

All the children are insane

Waiting for the summer rain, yeah

There's danger on the edge of town

Ride the King's highway, baby

Weird scenes inside the gold mine

Ride the highway west, baby

Ride the snake, ride the snake

To the lake, the ancient lake, baby

The snake is long, seven miles

Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold

The west is the best

The west is the best

Get here, and we'll do the rest

The blue bus is callin' us

The blue bus is callin' us

Driver, where you taken' us

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on

He took a face from the ancient gallery

And he walked on down the hall

He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he

Paid a visit to his brother, and then he

He walked on down the hall, and

And he came to a door...and he looked inside

Father, yes son, I want to kill you

Mother...I want to...fuck you

C'mon baby, take a chance with us

C'mon baby, take a chance with us

C'mon baby, take a chance with us

And meet me at the back of the blue bus

Doin' a blue rock

On a blue bus

Doin' a blue rock

C'mon, yeah

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill

This is the end

Beautiful friend

This is the end

My only friend, the end

It hurts to set you free

But you'll never follow me

The end of laughter and soft lies

The end of nights we tried to die

This is the end

its all dark

yes it's dark its really dark. and this is the only reality left in my life now. it takes time to assimilate this harsh truth of life but when it gets absorbed u feel weaker . a loneliness never felt before, a kind of helplessness never experienced before surrounds and breaks you from inside. i was in a dilemma when he told me about this fact whether to believe it or not. but he was sure that i would experience it one day and feel as helpless as the people in the past had been or the people present feel when they encounter the ultimate. the most difficult part i would say had not been the realization but life with this realization. in my case the realization came in stages. the first time i felt like dancing when i saw the reflection of darkness in the figure of krishna. i felt like seeing krishna for the first time in my life. it was nothing less than an enlightenment. i wanted to dance like a child dances naked in the rain. i wanted to smile as a mother smiles when she looks at her baby the first time after delivery. it made me stunned as a boy who discovers his sexuality for the first time in the act of masturbation. i felt like reaching the peaks of mount everest standing there infront of the idol of krishna. i felt like discovering something never ever discovered before. the second time pink floyd made me realize what it really means to be dark and alone. i would have listened to those chords of the guitar a hundred times before but what they wanted to tell me i could never ever imagine. i felt as if pink floyd was formed not to create music but to make me realize the intensity of the dark canvass on which our lives have been painted. i felt like vomiting. i felt choked and wanted to suicide. that realization has made me quiet as i had never been. i feel lonely in the company of friends. the celebrations have lost their meaning for me. everything seems to be artificial and false. nobody is a friend. there is war going on everywhere and everyone wants to weaken and defeat me. i don't have the strength to fight. i don't have the means to save my life. it becomes difficult to find words now. my writings seem to have lost their effectiveness. i fear to write. i fear to express. i feel i am writing my experience on a black piece of paper with a black pen and nothing is visible when i try to read it. things will change one day. i still believe it. the time may be about to come. i waited for a long time. the wait is going to over. perhaps i am out of place now. i am exausted, burnt, may be lost. it's over now. i don't want it anymore. for the first time in my life i can feel the void inside me. it may have been there from the beginning but only now i can feel its existence. its growing every minute. just about to burst. just about to extinguish. just about to engulf every inch of my survival. its laughing. i am made to hear its cry. my ears are about to explode. eyes getting blind. everybody is happy. everybody was good. they were behaving just the way they should. only i was ignorant. i was stupid. i was wrong. all seem to be meaningless now. its all bullshit. the point has come when i am able to touch the horizon that seemed to be invincible once. the things really merge here or should i say they cease to exist at all. the party is going on. friends are enjoying, dancing, getting high. music is in the air. the smoke all around. they say its a different world. i used to be a part of it few days back. but things have turned up in a different way. i am not a member now. i have been thrown out or should i say i chose it. its all same. the void has outgrown and surrounded me all over. a vaccuum has formed. i wanted to get out. but its over now. who the fuck wants to get out? i can feel no pain no thirst no hunger. just a final desire to burn into ashes. i want to end up everything. life is just a formality now. the chain is long and i am just a small and insignificant part of it. i am no different. just another brick in the wall. all the ambiguities seem to be over. who the fuck i am roaming here purposelessly? it doesn't belong to me or should i say i am an alien. lost in the world of big people. i am a tiny speck or a worthless piece of shit. i am waiting. waiting for the things to show up fast. just want the ultimate. the end seems to be approaching every time i close my eyes. i believe in a saying that if a thing happens twice it happens for the third time also.
i am waiting, waiting for the third time...

'MATRIX AND BHAGWADGITA'

"The door to your right leads to the source and the salvation of Xion and the door to your left leads from matrix to her and to the end of your species. And as you have already put, the problem is choice."
- The Creator says to Neo in Matrix

Going back to the streets from where I started the journey i.e. going back to the concepts of illusion (my first blog) which got revived last night when I finally watched Matrix after years of resisting myself, considering it to be nothing more than a sick, graphically manipulated action flick. But to my wonder I found it to be a 21st century translation of our very own bhagwadgita, Gita which answers the very question of existence of human life on the earth and the purpose for which a man gets trapped in this web of life and death and the only way out to achieve eternity. Applying the model of matrix in our own context this whole world which we deem to be real is nothing but a beautiful illusion crafted by the perpetrator, whom we call God. The very reason of our existence is a purpose, a very unique one. Once that purpose is achieved, the doer is exterminated (in the language of matrix; gets deleted). The only real problem, keeping the rest of all aside for a moment (irrelevant in the real sense), is the problem of choice, the choice between real and unreal, the choice between desire and freedom, illusion and fact, benign and sinister, and the choice between existence and salvation. But the man smart enough to deal with the problems, already decided which way to go to, eliminates this whole problem of choice. As the Oracle explains in matrix to Neo when she offers her a candy, he asks her in return that how did she know he was going to take it? I view ‘Oracle’ as a composite of all religions, sects, scriptures, hymns and manuscripts which are there with us the entire life, guiding us always which road to take but we hardly pester us to follow them. So the question of choice doesn’t arise in practical terms. The choice has already been made. Everything is planned and already decided. Belts have been tightened and I am ready for a flight, flight to the world of my dreams, my oceans and mountains, my aspirations and realities. I am educated… I am the master... I am the ultimate. I have found the secret code. This is the only purpose of my very existence. Destruction. To born, age and consequently die without actually realizing what are life and death in actual expressions. And here lies the key to the door opening into the world of myriads lost in the fixture of life and death, i.e. the door to the left leading from matrix to her and to the end my species.

But why is it so difficult to choose the right door and why isn’t it the choice we always make? Is it really so hard to comprehend the real world which is in fact a world of illusions? What I understand is that it’s like a mirage. You try to grab it; it disappears and reappears far away, taking you further away from the door to the right, i.e. the door that leads to the source and salvation. Really, a brilliantly designed program by a mastermind who must be laughing at the moment when I am trying to crack his own puzzle.

'DIED INSANE'

i was strolling on the road
when i saw it coming
i could escape the collision
but i let it go
it shattered me to pieces
but i saved the very thing

they call me insane...

STRUGGLE FOR SANITY...

STRUGGLE FOR SANITY…

A painter scribbles four lines on paper in a random fashion and calls it the masterpiece of his life. He had never been so justified in his presentation. He always wanted to draw something like that but just now he got the real combination and accomplishment. For the first time in his life he had been so true to those four lines. For the first time he had been different. For the first time he had broken a wall. Just then four boys walk into the room and have a look at his masterpiece. They burst into laughter and call it the joke of the century and absolutely rubbish. They call him insane. They scratch the painting and tear it into pieces. The painter contented as has never been, just looking at them and doing nothing, standing there with a smile on his face collects the torn pieces from the floor and put them in his pocket. He picks up his brushes, colors and throws them in his bag and walks out of the room with the same smile on his face and retreat to sleep. He never woke up after that. But that night he dreamed of something profound. A ray of light coming from behind the mountains, dazzling into his eyes and asking him to follow its path. The path which has no road, no turns and very few accompanying travelers who look contented with the same mysterious smile on their faces. They join their hands and wave them into the air for someone standing far away at the horizon waiting for them for centuries. Just then the dream vanishes into eternity and the breath leaves the matter…

Who’s sane? Who’s insane? Who wins in this struggle for sanity? These are some of the questions which need to be answered… till then remain insane…

'THE SAME OLD ROAD'

‘THE SAME OLD ROAD’

Everyday we walk the same old road to the lecture hall. The road which we have traversed through a hundred times in the past three years, the same old road besides the field and the parade ground, then a short course in front of the haunted girls’ hostel, then making a short cut through the abandoned, barren piece of land stretching from Midway canteen to the Open Air Theatre saving 5 minutes of our long and arduous journey to the class, finally reaching the destination by another short cut through the mortuary. The road is the same, the destination too the same. Only the new faces have been added up. But their energies still the same. Everything looks apparently unchanged, identical. But things are not that similar as they apparently appear to be. A lot has changed. The only thing is that we don’t want to look at them. Rather we fear to look at them. Everybody wants to follow the Buddhist philosophy, “if there is a problem that cannot be solved, there is no use worrying about it”. They want to follow the middle path no matter where it leads them to. Talking about the changes, the vehicles have virtually disappeared from the way, ‘thanks’ to the ban on the motorized two wheelers.
The road has been flooded with a number of warning boards demanding the use of helmets and horns while driving besides speed limits below 20 km ph. Everyday we see the abandoned, barren piece of land getting converted into a beautiful garden sprawling with fountains and plantations, becoming more beautiful day by day. About 50 people working on it day and night. Their efforts have started giving dividends too. But beauty comes with a curse.The stretch has been banned from regular usage. Those who cross that land would be called trespassers and would be fined for the same. Now, we don’t use the regular way, instead travel the entire road around the once abandoned land to our destination.

Sometimes I feel guilty, guilty of becoming a part of the change, guilty of my helplessness to change the things which I want to. I feel getting consumed, slowly and slowly by the guilt from inside. The river is taking me to the place where it wants to and I am getting driven along with it. I curse myself of becoming the system, the very system which I hate the most, the very system which calls me a trespasser and the very system which restricts my thoughts and actions. I want to cross the land again but my hands are tied. I want to break the ties but the fears surround me. But whatever it is the joy of getting to the destination through the short cut remains etched in my mind, hurting me always whenever I see that road.

Walls walls everywhere
I want to see beyond
Let me go the other side

Let me break the wall…

THE FLOCK OF SHEEP AND MY POWER

“Power is when you have the power to kill someone and you don’t. That is what the emperors do”
- Oscar Schindler

“Now I think you are a little drunk…!”
(From the movie Schindler’s list)

I am educated. I am sitting on the chair. I have the power to consume what I want to. Thousand knocks on my door. They want water. They are starving. I will die if I share what I have. I can’t run. I will be caught. I will sit inside and not open the door. This is the only way. They know what is happening inside. But at the same time they are helpless. I have the power to exploit. I have the power to hide. They are meek. They can’t organize or revolt. They are handicapped. They need someone to initiate. A spark. Simply seems impossible to light up from anywhere. Someone needs to be insulted badly. Someone needs to be ripped. Darkness is their weakness, their darkness my power. Phone is ringing. A warning call. A call for help. They know that I will not pick up the phone. But still want to try their luck. Luck is their last resort, their luck my escape, my power. They chose me. They have to suffer now. They could stand up at that moment. Block my way if they wanted to. But they didn’t want to clutch anything. They were having nice dreams. Feared they would depart if eyes see the morning sun. Dreams were their leisure, their dreams my realism, my power. I didn’t want to drop what was coming my way, what was in my ‘luck’. They were dwarfs. Lonely dwarfs. I had friends for support, ‘TRUSTWORTHY ONES’. Now they are caught badly in a web. A web of dreams, a web of lucks, a web of helplessness. I have the power to destroy the web, to break the wall. But I will starve if I help them. I have to eat. Someone has died outside. They are crying. They are howling for help. Believe someone would come. Their belief is their legacy, their belief my treasure, my power. I am helpless to help them. We both have the key to the door. I have not changed the locks. I didn’t have time. I had to eat. They have lost it somewhere. They can search it if they want, open the door and kill me. But I don’t fear that they would find the key. You need to jostle for that. They can never ever. They want to cry and dream and try their luck. They are adamant. Ignorance is their steer, their ignorance my light, my power. Oh! I can’t listen to the music. They are screaming like beasts. But who cares for the music. I am starving. I have the power to eat.

“Bleeding and babbling we fell on his neck with a scream
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream.”

- From the song ‘sheep’ by Pink Floyd

BUDDHA AND FREEDOM

Buddha and freedom

A Peculiar thing is happening with me nowadays whenever I see Buddha written somewhere, the first thing
That comes to my mind is freedom. I don’t now why, but it’s true. I haven’t read Buddha to the fullest but
Whatever I know and whatever I have imbibed about Buddha and Buddhism if that means freedom
Then I don’t want to learn more about Buddha. I have reached where I wanted to. I have gained what
I always wanted to. I have found my Buddha and I am a convert now.

THE MYSTERY MAN

THE MYSTERY MAN

I often talk to him. He looks like me only. He behaves like me, talks like me, walks like me. Too many similarities. Sometimes, hard to decide, who is who? He gives me tics, makes me laugh, and sits with me when I am alone. He never abandons me. On a lonely evening, watching the sun setting, sitting in the gallery of my room, when I remember the sweet memories of childhood friends and long nights of laughter with my sisters, he plays Pink Floyd for me on my laptop. In return he never expects anything. A strange union but as cohesive as the molecules in a solid.

So many similarities but differences do occur. He contradicts me sometimes. I feel like slapping him on the face. He burdens me a lot when I am about to take a decision. A unanimous one rarely occurs. I walk west when he wants to take me east. Despite the differences we walk together. Not talking to each other on the road, struggling to remain quiet, cursing inside. He screams at me when we finally reach the wrong destination. I often think that he already knew it would be the wrong way. He is too egoistic. He accompanies me where I want to go even if it’s the wrong path but never stops me in between. His warnings are mysterious. They don’t really come as warnings. Feeling frustrated what to do, I try spy on him. But it doesn’t really help at all. I call him psycho. He smiles at me. A mysterious smile. Hard to comprehend. He takes it lightly when I give him pain as if it doesn’t pain him at all. I try to starve him, drench him, but it only makes him more rigid. Once I tried to hide from him what I was doing. But ultimately found him standing behind me, monitoring everything closely, stealthily. He knows everything about me, my weaknesses, my limitations, when I will stumble. But often remains quiet. The mystery of this mysterious man boggles me…

I have found something… But how can it possible? ... It’s absolutely rubbish… I just can’t believe… Oh! I think I heard him coming. It’s time to go now.

……..

He … lives… in…ME… but… it’s… not… ME…!

THE FALL OF CRITICISM

The fall of criticism

A Waste of talent, Waste of time, Waste of money, Mockery of cricket, an Illustration of dexterity and muscles, 20- 20 bullshit, Gully cricket, cheap entertainment… What the hell is going on here? Are you listening to us?

They are trying to make their point. They want to be listened. Please attend to them.

We can’t see you happy. The smile on your faces rips us apart. We will prove our point until the last breath and wipe the jubilations from your faces.

This is the mindset of critics and that is the sort of criticism we are dealing with in the 21st century. Wikipedia describes Criticism as a democratic judgement over the suitability of a subject for the intended purposes. But criticism in Y2k is not only illogical and blind but also deaf, dumb and lame.Criticism just for the sake of criticizing something, an opprobrium for gaining attention, a denunciation for appraisal and gossiping at cocktail parties, admonition for retaliation, a barrage of literary words thrown to hurt someone and pack the editorials of prestigious newspapers and journals, an unimpressive articulation of right to speech and freedom of expression, a bread earner for those who have been thrown out of every possible publication house or have become bankrupts after years of swindling the readers with their plagiarized columns and writings and have nothing to do in their lives now, a portrayal of frustration and jealousy, an agitprop of worthless intellect and a cheap gratification of personal rivalries against an idea or a person.

The whole nation is enjoying. Good old days are back, good old cricket is back. The people are glued to their TV sets. Cricket has finally got its fans back. Indian team has regained its consistency. 20-20 has removed the blemish of India’s greatest defeat in 2007 world cup. The world cup is in our hands at the time when everything seemed hostile. Nobody seems to have any problem. But there are few people, who have a problem in everything worthy of praise and applause, who just don’t like changes and experiments, who only want to follow the path shown to them by their great grandfathers. Sometimes I think that we don’t always need to be critical in our outlook.

People call them critics. I call them pigs, fat old pigs.

Gone are those days when criticism used to be the sword to fight against the tyranny and oppression, when criticism was a fearless supreme force, when governments used to fall by the blow of words and policies changed and implemented in a matter of seconds, when films used to be big hits or flops even before their first screenings, when words used to do what revolutions often failed to achieve, when pen was really mightier than sword. Gone are those days.

The reservation policy for the backward classes raised a hue and cry. Students went on hunger strikes. Effigies of Arjun Singh were burnt. Colleges were closed for days. Tear gas, lathi charge everything was tried but it became impossible to control the mob. The government didn’t soften. People started losing all hopes. Shattered ones committed suicides. Everybody opposed, even the people who were going to be the main beneficiaries of the policy. But it finally got a clean chit without any resistance from the opposition parties. An opposition party considers it a right to criticize every possible move of the ruling party because it is meant to do so and that is what it does even if there is nothing to criticize. But such a big move got succeeded in getting implemented without even a single remark from the NDA and other opposition parties. What happened to the strength of criticism when it was needed the most?

Criticizing what needs to be criticized and applauding what needs to be applauded. This is what a healthy criticism should be. Anyways, that is all for now. Congratulations we have won the world cup and 20-20 is there to stay and flourish for years to come.