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Tuesday, 17 August 2010

I am...














I am a writer in my own right; I write notes about every figment of emotion that excites my ego. I observe random nooks and crannies of people, behaviour and society at large; I form my own views about them much to a critic’s delight. I build my own reserve of clichés that I identify in untouched cues of human behaviour and I am steadfast to avoid them in the way I do things. I gauge tomorrow’s outcome in today’s light, probably that’s why am limited to rational set of thinking. I weave silent soliloquies with Almighty and that’s how I indoctrinate my own private spiritual being. I was a kid that walked the bylanes of the old-fashioned Mohalla, and I am the adult who mapped the urban streets of London. I am a boy next-door who sleeps in a middleclass neighbourhood and the one who wakes up to a niche candyfloss society. I am a seasoned mind that propounds old-age philosophies and I am a youthful body that disguise itself in contemporary fashion.


I mince words that mean a thousand emotions to myself and I hit backspace to save others of my literal confusion. I am a grown man of 26 years, who happens to be the youngest of siblings, yet expected to deliver machismo like sensibility underneath that pampered upbringing. I am a man sunken deep down the darkest depths of love and I claim to know every speckle that the grain of hate offers. I am a living legend surrounded with impossible constraints, yet I dwell in the subconscious immaturity of a fool’s paradise. I dig with fingers towards the interiors of my flesh, only to find my own troubled blood clotted almost vain in veins.


I am a thought that germinates in a fraction of a second and I am an idea that takes ages to die. I am memorabilia of unvoiced mannerisms and I am an emancipation of your habitual negligence. I design landscapes of inimitable finesse and I paint them with my own emotional baggage. I am a drop of sweat of a humble fatigue and I am that warm gush of breath heaved in unabashed vanity.


I am everything that I can write for a humble escape… I am a perpetual exaggeration of my vocabulary’s content. I am Aarif Khilji, the man of words, engrained with emotions… empowered by observation… And until the next sentence clicks…


Saturday, 24 July 2010

The Old Wallet, a Letter and a Bygone Dream...



With that screeching of the wooden gate and the stumbling exposé of my wardrobe, beneath the atypical bachelor heap of crushed garments, I happened to lay my hands on that old wallet of mine. The dusky old leathery smell and that overdosed fold, reminiscent of many a things, mostly memoirs. A spectacle of yesteryears which I had treasured in my life away from home. Borrowing a thread on a secluded piece of modern day papyrus I found some words, those promises and a bunch of expectations inscribed in her handwriting, it was her letter resting in my wallet.



Sensing a quicksand of pathos ahead, I still dared to read the first para. The occasion was my departure to london. It was Zenny writing to me the night before I fly, expressing the pangs of butterflies she’d felt because I didn’t meet her that evening. The start of the letter was mirroring a complain much similar to that of a soldier’s wife. Jolting me with both hands for traveling one more time away from her, once again leaving the void of my absence for her to fill.


Sharing eight sublime years definitely subjects any twosomes to those innumerable squabbles. Habitual incidence of such quarrels is another reason why it starts to feel a normal chore. And because of this normalcy I was oblivious to the very backdrop of her penning me those words. Sinking in emotions I reckoned my demons of insecurities during that trip and the reason why she wrote me that letter. Those weren’t just words, but an assurance to rest my fears about her. Fears that she has changed or will, fear that she’d exchange me for a different life. Knew nothing about stars or sorcery then, but I knew it was coming.



Hmm! reading a few lines enlightened me about the debut of that letter, I remember reading it while onboard the flight next day. Like every other time she had come to see me off and thats when she handed the scroll. Huhhhh! why doesn’t life offer a rewind, just to live those beautiful pages whence desired. I was made to believe that everything is alright, nothing can move that four lettered emotion in between us. The one that starts with an ‘L’ and ends in ‘E’ and the one that seals the bond with wedding vows...


Love today is defined with dynamic precision, which is why despite having an ear for philosophy I tend to alienate myself of any gyan thrown at random. Everyone seems to be a self-professed master with the philosophy of life and having dealt with issues such as love like they’ve been there, done that. The truth is no one can come close to what I feel and how I feel. Especially after reading those words which promised a lifetime of togetherness and then surviving in the reality that is today.


And it took just a few lines of that letter to add salt to my otherwise open wounds. Where did all that love fly Zenny? and why am I left to weep dry the ocean of salt contained in my eyes. For all the time that I’ve lived in these eight years, there wasn’t a single dawn that dusked without an exchange on the phone. And now I live days without being called, wonder if it at all qualifies to be living anymore. Haven’t spoken to Mom or Dad for the fear of passing my pain to them, its not for them to bear and know that I am in pain.


And now that I am left because she thinks her decision is right, it reminds of a piece of scroll @ Costa Coffee, whilst analyzing her priorities. I was at ‘the top’ on that list, and so it remains etched... Yes I was a priority on that list and on that very paper... confined in ink. Indeed anything scribbled on a paper is just ink and not an actual truth of life and so is the irony. Just like the words, those promises and the expectations in that letter that I found, inside that old wallet. And it will still lay in my wardrobe reminding me of a time we were together like a bygone dream...

Monday, 19 July 2010

I meet a Mirror everyday...


Reflecting the pain that I go through...

The same that happens with it too...


An affection towards it I feel...

An embrace that I wish to steal...


Stopping me it, with a tale of its own...

Expecting me yet to know the unknown...


As strong a mirror it stands amuck...

Shattering hopes on which I’d stuck...


Of pains that I thought was only mine...

Shares the mirror with an awkward smile...


Sure yoU Meant It all you told...

Killing As Sugar, Hastened In Fold...


Invincible above is written a code...

Of the mirror I speak, this poem behold...


Mesmeric feel of mirror that I once held...

Etched in moments together we'd spend...


And when I think of the embrace…


Of soul that vouched in another’s name…

My wanting for it seems indeed lame…


Proud of the mirror that I see everyday…

Through this thick ‘n’ thin with me it stays…


Anyway, my precious mirror how much I espy…

Why ain’t stay with me - you together for this life…


Why Why Why… Bidey Bidey… Why Why Why…

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

How he died...


Ever since I left Indian shores, I was always of the view that I aint gonna talk like stereotypes. No matter what amount of time I spent abroad, my affinity towards motherland will remain unshaken. However though the litmus test brought in negative shades and that just happened in 3 years.

I was part of this system for 23 long years, and boy it wasn’t a ride of an idealist sort. Always heard about the rampage of corruption that prevails in India. But after experiencing a few years of honest and clean administration abroad all this ends up with an itchy feeling every time I encounter the desi system.

Everything that needs to be done, finds itself juggling between a number of desks until it sees fruition. And not to mention the unwilling instance to depart with money under the guise of chai-pani. Not so impressive is the tale with a Mumbai Police official outside UAE Consulate. Had been there to attest my prestigious Bachelor’s Degree after 5 years. The first impression then was an out of the world experience. I was greeted by the Police officer at the gates, with all the warmth and kindness that I did not expect to find. Just like you’d anticipate from the receptionist of a Multinational. So there I was walking in awe of the hospitality extended and mind you, those weren’t polite words alone, but procedural information extended in addition for my convenience.

I had a change of heart and thought towards Mumbai Police and felt some things do change and of all did their ways. But once a wise man said... People might have many faces, you will encounter the real one while you are shown the door. As proverbial it may get, I faced the same polite and altruist officer on my way out. This time I was greeted with “Sir is the work done? can we have some chai-pani...” and unabashedly he pointed me to a newspaper on the desk... asked me to leave a sum of my liking inside. The point was not that he asked for something unusual, but the deception of service and the resultant expectation.

Taken aback was I and with an intent to register the protest, I did say “India kabhi to badlega” sounding like an idealist. All this said and exchanged only to realise that the juvenile idealist in me hasn’t moved a thing in him. What I got back was his witty repartee “tum kya akele India badloge...” Sensing that he was right in some alternate sense, I still mustered the courage and snarled, “Kahin na kahin se toh shuruat karni padegi...”. Despite knowing that I’d bite dust, I still gave in the dialogue.

I thought I’d done enough to silence him, but then I was probed whether I was from Delhi... And my nay affirmed him that I was an old horse Mumbaikar... somehow the conversation lasted two more minutes. And I left with an ugly feeling, since I had to return the next time to collect the document.

All the way home, it was a war between the cynic and the idealist in me. What concluded in the end were some constructs based on the observation, experience and a partly dead hope.

  1. India is too big a nation to expect and accept change.
  2. Though there is hope from this generation and the next, but there are a substantial predecessor still alive and not wanting to part with their way of life.
  3. People are forced to be corrupt because the salary they draw doesn’t suffice in this inflation. Hence to make ends meet, bribery will prevail.
  4. I once proposed that the British left two things in India while leaving, one was English, the other was Cricket, but now I know the Red-Tapism and Bureaucracy quantifiably qualify.
  5. Lastly for every hopeful believer and idealist there are two steadfast on the dark side. Not at all a promising situation.

So no matter what and how much you despise, certain things are there to stay until the next five decades or so.

Incidentally when I approached the office the next time, I still found the same officer smiling at me and making another uncanny move coated with hospitality less expectations. I was determined to remain the idealist, went straight in, did the work and was about to leave. Unexpectedly though, I had a change of heart, my hand dived in the pocket, pulled out a Rs. 50 note and met his. All this for no reason and yet for a reason. What moved me was not the absence of greed the second time, but the genuine humility with which I thought he recognized me.

And then I came home... thought of life abroad minus this babugiri, corruption and God knows what. Took me sometimes to come to term with the fact that, I’d like life much simpler and easier the next time I face such chores. And to me the answer meant hopping into a flight leaving for another destination, but India.

With that a hope crushed... a thought discontinued... In the end the NRI survived and the idealist in me was DEAD...
Bold

Monday, 3 May 2010

I walked...




I walked through the day... learnt to fight dismay...

If this is what life wants... I better gulp my qualms...

Every grain of lament... that I collect in your name...

will surely add up somewhere... within me it'll remain...


There will come a time... you'll witness a subdued climb...

Of a journey you cherished... slowly fading in thin air...

Perhaps then it may dawn... mine was an act of care...

I know you know not now... to remember those vows...


And then...

You point me to a mirror... that speaks loud & clear...

Showing me where I stand... stealing away my chance...

Things shown to me you had... I wish you too see that...

Roads you chose for me... weigh with common ink on thee...



When emotions go numb, and love voices despair...

A damage I sense so grave, it seems beyond repair...

For all that I may reason... I face a closed door...

Still afloat with hopes... to catch a glimpse of shore...





Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Observation Obsession...










Observation Obsession: the latest one being Facebook status... we can well analyse the fb quotient (read- personalities) of people just by browsing through their status message...


Incidentally this post is a by-product of my new FB status message. Going forward is a spectacle of how insightful FB can be on people. These are some stereotypes that I find every now and then...

1. Atypically ‘philosophical' types

People who look for intellectual recognition... totally filmi... the funny thing is, they get the most number of hits in the comment box. Thanks to the ‘make-my-presence-felt’ types. Usually the fb status is more than two sentences long, you have to read it more than once to comprehend the meaning. Plagiarism synonymous... Originality is as extinct as life on Mars...



2. The ‘what i am doing right now types


Huhh!!! Wannabes... You might see a new status message every time you refresh the page... from scratching the head, till the discovery of lice... every second update is the mantra... Normally want to fit the whole story of whatever-happened-to-them and hence you see bouts of compromised articulation... Comes handy especially when you have low self-esteem. Just read their status and thank God for not making you one. Commenting on their status is like feeding your esteem barrel... You can pull a pun on them without even making them realize your intent and have the last or rather lasting laugh...



3. The ‘make my presence felt types


People who just wanna comment for the heck of it... u might see them every hour, unless you use a filter... The poise to make-thy-presence-felt overpowers their judgement of what will sound cool. Normally are on the lookout of a potential status, suitable enough to their hackneyed sensibilities or else how can one avoid sounding obnoxious. Finding a new comments each time you refresh the FB page is highly probable, just like US of A’s next war on terror...

4. The ‘opinion leaders


People who have the right words for wannabes and philosophical types , usually found in the comment box... the best kind... who have the right mix of humor, timing and articulation. You know them when you read them and you’ll always have a sense of respect. I reckon Abhijit Bhatt & Richa Singhal belongs to this class. Incidentally their status message are always lauded by the same kind, indeed you need wisdom and sanity to decipher and react to whats written. Creative and original...



The reason I gave names in the latter is obvious. You might find yourself in any of these, however this is not the end of the list. You may have your own classification, but one things sure, we all have gone through all of these stages, depending on the level of experience one has on FB... Just as in journalism people want a bite of things happening in the big bad world out there, I log on to escape in this wilderness...



Its creatively satisfying to pull a pun and opine... very humbling to act like a wannabe... earn a food for thought by being philosophical... and very liberating to irritate others by making-thy-presence-felt...



By the way let me quickly see what’s your STATUS ? ? ?

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Jolting Conscience

Thursday, 11 February 2010



As predictable it may appear to me, I once again find myself sitting in a dark corner, trying to shape the soliloquy that I haven’t done in ages. Refreshing is the thought of moving my fingers on the crisp keyboard. Complimenting my belief, to start a flow of a random thought.


Here I am on a land far away from the life and independence that I enjoyed till now, amidst this haven; a thought colludes my mind. Despite a time long enough when I was guarded for every action, why the independence that I learnt in the last three years comes to mock the present state.


The learning is simple, it doesn’t matter how experienced and old you become, for your parents you are still a child. Perhaps time doesn’t prevail on every emotion that a man carries and it doesn’t fathom the judgement that parents arrive about you. Humility calls for a time to observe patience and caution. Caution because a sane thought is not necessarily a wise one.


To everyone who reads this confusing monologue; I request and advice, PARENTS are the biggest assets ever gifted. More precious than anything one may think of, to value their existence is an act of grace and responsibility. Fortunate are those who have the privilege to bring them a smile. Though the hope sails, my quest for the honour still lurks in murky waters.


What lies in my compass is the seed of patience. Maybe I’ve matured, but so is their experience about life, Maybe I can make decisions but so is their right to choose for me, maybe maybe isn’t the right chord that I should strike. Times change, so is the side of players on the field. Yet to choose which form I belong, is another mystery...


am I the ball, which the player kicks at his will, but only my trajectory being the ball decides the fate of the game...


am I the player whose toil and attitude decides the outcome of what happens in the end....


am I the crowd, whose hopeful cry while the game sinks can bring the ship ashore... or whose benign existence doesn’t rub against the predestined....


While pondering in this dark corner, such thoughts reflect... All I understand is it is for me to understand them, and thank them for whatever goodness that I have earned so far... And so shall be my plan for the days ahead....

Monday, 9 February 2009

Missing Melville… Missing Liverpool… Missing a part of life….

The Ingenuity of any fictional script lies in the spontaneous essence of thoughts. Trying to pour my heart out on a random figment of philosophy wasn’t a bad idea though. However making up my mind and finding some time to jot memorabilia on characters in my universe kept me off the keyboard. Now that I find the solace and mental expenditure to account the monologue, it gives me a mixed feeling. A sort of confusion that is evident in the structure of the aforementioned sentences.

This time a parable appeals to my psyche which I now feel qualifies to be a fable; a fable that was otherwise an unforgettable part of my life. Being born and bred in a traditional family is like growing in an institution which is good on the part of learning discipline in life, but also teaches you to cope with the lack of space. This obnoxious idea comes to me because had it not been for the virtue of my upbringing, the year at university wouldn’t be that special. From a set of closely guarded walls I found myself living in the free-reign wilderness of the University life. A time when there wasn’t a question of being questioned on actions that I did. And yet being humbled with bouts of jolting conscience to do what is right; I can only thank my parents and the extended joint-family to have taught me morals.

Amidst this contrasting conundrum I did find time to indulge in a carefree mode, playing with the new-found freedom in the dormitory.

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For the first time I actually had the time to be myself and rule my decisions from dawn till bed. And for goodness I did enjoy that part of life like never before.

It is during such tasteful times at University I made friends from different walks of life. Every child dreams of seeing the world, but God I was fortunate to scale the geography, calculate the maths, register the history, experiment the physics, dilute the chemistry, discover the science, solve the algebra and decode the language from people of different origins – that is the way the child in me saw the world. And all this spectacle was thanks to the University...

Coming to the obvious point of this outing, which I had grown oblivious to – an unforgettable chapter of my life... Studying at University... Thinking of this joyride splashes a reel of moments that made me laugh and contemplate on life. The learning, that friends taught me while I was decoding the untouched part of my personality. To start with being a part of Soul-brothers of Melville, a trio comprising me, Umar and Clement. Despite of having some precious gems called best-friends in India, I see Clement and Umar as a part of genetic symbiont. I can still recall the infamous blunders in the kitchen, be it burning the only food available, or jamming through the night. Whenever I remember the memorabilia, I am famished to relive the experience once again. But boy the beauty of beauty lies in its random occurrence, or else the charm is reduced to being an underplay of mundane sorts. The reason why I recollect those memoirs remains a subject of enlightenment. Remember me talking of going back to childhood, well University life now seems a part of that childhood from my current stand.

I miss Tintu a lot, my proverbial punch-bag, my bubbly friend, my outlet of humorous escapades. Me missing Tintu is an extension of my last encounter with her on the net. Under normal circumstances our interaction revolves around calling names, cornering every statement, mimicking every repartee and climaxing in laughter. And those surreal catfights one can imagine in the early hours of the night. I always counted on Tintu to awake the creative genius in me, even if it meant accepting defeat at war of words. But then it always worked for me to kick-start ideas that’ll counteract her girlie banter. And boy I did took a piss outta her many a times. Am sure she’ll laugh on the prank that I played using the Text-to-Speech function of windows. Imagine what sense of Deja Vu will it give when a voice resembling an IVR announces that you’ve won a thousand pounds in lottery... Lolz and what fun it was to see Tintu falling for the prank. All these enjoyable pranks and catfights were just one free phone call away. That was University; it was a carefree life.

I miss the boon of living without responsibility, yet claiming wonderful moments of smile, contentment and laughter. But this all has changed, post-university Tintu isn’t the same, instead of picking a fight on Yahoo, she talks gyan, instead of mincing nonsense, I find her words sane.

The most clichéd philosophy about the only constant in life being ‘change’ sucks when such indelible moments cease to exist. And the only respite I find is to capture it on the canvas of my blog. As of now, one purpose solved, couple of memories revisited, and a thought thought...

Sunday, 7 December 2008

A random read…

 

A hope is a positive note that always HOPES for something desirable to befall on the man of tomorrow. With such hopes I tried to scaffold my previous outing. My thoughts then stemmed from a philosophy of reading books, books that I found revealing its pages to me every now and then.

This extract here is a matter of surprise to me as well, considering that I read this particular book on & off, most of it during my breaks.  But whenever I did read I found a consistency of juvenile sorts that am actually jealous of.

One of the best things in life which we all lose is the innocence we all have as kids. The zeal to overpower the wrongs despite being minutely developed on the intellectual side. The days when a mere childish spirit belittles every known evil, irrespective of the immature moral intelligence. And of ’course the showcase of mannerisms that are naturally authentic to that innocent age. All these naive traits often become a tale of yesteryears and however unconsciously though, we all love and cherish it in our offspring and every little child that crosses our horizon. The legacy I talk about is the natural state of behaviour that kids reflect and what we unanimously personify as ‘cuteness’.

The subject of my scrutiny is a lady called Charlie Monique Russell. My connection with her is a matter of random encounters of Hi/Hello sorts every once in two days or so. So you can positively ascertain that am either too sharp on my observation or maybe the person in question has something worth discussing on this blog.

 

charlie

As a matter of fact I dint bother to ask the lady her age, but my observation gives me a taste of a childlike behaviour for every etiquette portrayed by her. A natural depiction of certain cues that one can only expect from a kid of 4. I believe none of our colleagues may endorse what I see, but this is the power of discretion that I exercise on my blog.

In my opinion I have seen very few people who retain such subconscious adolescence in their behavioural make-up. Anything pretentious in this regard may sound and appear too hackneyed if done on purpose. But this is where Charlie scores on my observation. What I see is not a portrayal of the deceiving sorts. It is rather an act in a natural state that doesn’t require any efforts except behaving the normal chore. And that is what Charlie does. Be it the defensive alibi when she forgets to close the door at the end of the day or talking business during leisure in the canteen. There is always a riddle of emotions, expressions and literature. What I hear are the words from a lady, what I see is a Section co-ordinator, but what I understand is a child fighting from within to make her presence felt. This is a complex idea for me to make people understand and least of all Charlie.

I can still reminisce the composure, the excitement and the mixed feeling she expressed when I told her she is the object of my next blog outing – “Hmm am so confused and nervous” was the same reply on repeated occasions.

Now my intellect questions me, why the hell should one bother if any tom, dick or harry writes about you on his secluded blog. It is not the end of the world if you are someone in the crowd and not a new thing if you are a celebrity either. But this is Charlie and the kid in her that tells me – “Ohh am confused and NERVOUS” you are writing on me. So now I believe you get a blurred picture of what I see in her. All this doesn’t mean that am romantically in awe of her, but as am alone and grounded by several things in my small universe. These are certain things that I notice in people like Charlie and many other, which then I use to divert myself off, of all botheration that challenge my peaceful existence.

I’m not a good judge of character or the intricate programming it carries. But I see people as a literature and faces as a book. What I say here has very less to do about the literature that Charlie has, but rather what I read in the preface of her book – little suspense, varied emotions, comic timing and best of all – promise of a bedtime story...

Though she is keen to read this article on my blog – the thing that I write now will make sense to the Indian in us. The beautiful ‘Ghazal’ (read as – philosophical poems sung in calming melodies) of Jagjit Singh –

Yeh daulat bhi lelo, yeh shauhrat bhi lelo,
Bhale cheen lo mujhse meri jawaani,
Magar mujhko lauta do bachpan ka saawan,
Woh kaagaz ki kashti woh baarish ka paani…

The aforementioned Ghazal is what I feel in the delicate cues that I find etched in Charlie’s antics. The fact that we all are grown up, but somewhere keeping the child alive in us would make things so much interesting; interesting for people who like to see a mix of both worlds. The World that was yesterday and the world that is today... The child we were once and the childhood we all want to go back to...

Beware certain legacies are beyond normal human comprehension, and those which are in the reach are seldom celebrated. So I advice Charlie do what you do, coz you are natural and pleasantly original at it... Don’t bother what people write or think about you, it is very subjective... And don’t be nervous in my presence – coz I’ve observed what I wanted to… And am off to my next chapter- a new book, a new literature and a fresh start...

Friday, 31 October 2008

Have you read some books?

Its been quite sometimes now that I wrote something from my hand. What an excuse though, as I am always hunting for topics for my blog, this time I had some in mind but as I mentioned earlier I need the first sentence to occur in my head before I start the flow. So as raw as the first attempt from my travel diary I decided to write the outlines of my next outing.

This time I’ve decided to give a spectacle of some people who comes in my immediate universe. Some friends, some foes, some people whom I’d not like to categorize, but the script of whose character appealed to me.

To begin with let me give you a piece of myself of what I think of myself not in totality, but certain things that I notice about myself. Since the time I’ve had the opportunity to be myself on my own from 17th September 2006. I’ve learnt a great deal about the individual that resides under my skin. I’m a keen observer not in matters where the opposite sex is involved, but rather everything under the sun. Maybe that is the reason why I have many things to say about things.

This is a fresh start of writing after the previous para ended and this time I’m writing with a new perspective thanks to Youtube I know am very late to catch up on Big Boss Season 2. And there I was wasting my entire night’s sleep on watching the episodes.

It was interesting to see pretentious characters and amidst this conundrum a beautiful thought from a late Pakistani Television series occurred to me. The thought asserts that one of the most interesting books ever available freely is a human face. Living in this century often makes us immune to this facade of life. Personifying a human face makes me assert that they make an interesting read. Under same fabulous lush covers you find some of the most austere literature known to man. And in some rugged and weary face we find a superlative mix of vocabulary. Ever since I learnt this thought, it has been etched in my conscious memory and I find myself reading faces all the time.

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This part of my blog is dedicated to the books that I’ve read in recent times. People, whose literature appealed to me, people whose script has affected me in some way. To begin with I’d like to start with Mr. DM, my line manager. Before I venture further, I’d like to be honest that this is not an attempt to cajole or sugar-coat anything that may influence my equation with him. I am a non-calculative person by nature, and would consciously make every effort to refrain from such diabolic underplay.

My first encounter with Mr. DM I remember was when he came looking for me as a new recruit. The closest to what I remember is he told me “You came through Raza. Good Man!” That was the first time probably my expectation didn’t quite honour. When Razabhai suggested me Dilan, i never occurred to me that the person in question would be of an Asian origin. Though my first brush with him wasn’t of revelation sorts, it is the qualities that I observed made him a protagonist of this first chapter.

I’ve been learning the management discipline since my undergraduate studies, but to sum it up; what I learnt by observing him in practise and the dialogue that we have on the professional front, has taught me more than academics did in the last 4 years. This man pertinently breathes communication to get the work done. Many of his techniques which I have made a note off will soon be a part of my practise too.

Ever since I’ve been handed a department to look after, I’ve experienced roaring pangs of frustration. The reasons of which has little to do with my incompetence. And it is in these testing times that he delivered some brilliant piece of communication to my rescue. Lately I assess that my equation with him has changed to that of a mentor and a protégé. Simply coz on more than one occasion I feel my behaviour was wayward and yet he was tolerant enough to accommodate my antiques. In such blunders he gave me some food for thought to improve my professional being.

In summation and on a funny note people may deceive you in appearance, but that is the least form of deceit. Coz mostly the sense derived based on appearances is often an interpretation of our own mocking intellect. It is not that I had sketched the protagonist in some meek light, but as truth is stranger than fiction so is our assessment of a situation.

In good sense I am glad that behind a dark looking cover (don’t mind if you read this) there is indeed a “GOOD MAN”... And after tonight’s conversation I’ll make it a point that I shall strive to create that Wow! factor. Coz not often do we find people winning whose attention makes an intellectual sense...

Tuesday, 23 September 2008

An answered QUESTION...

Indifferent to my norms, this write-up isn't the sorts where I get the first line at random which then pricks me to write some nonsense. Today I faced an unexpected question from my Line manager and since then it is bothering my conscience. Like I mentioned in my previous outing, the Void that I experience by not being in the creative field has always been a digging truth of my life.

However not so indifferent is my actual take on life and my current profession. What I do for a living is not my obvious choice, but then I'v had very little scope to experiment and slow my pace down - A privilege only open to people with white skin I suppose. When I first started working on my new job, I belonged to that conventional brigade, where one is always up for grabs on anything to prove his mettle. Not that after working for sometimes has had a demotivating effect on me. But Mr. DM's question this evening has made me realise that a thing called SMILE is amiss from the topography of my face. I was thinking of things to set the contours right on my face and with good reason I found some leads.

Surprisingly I feel more than confident now, that though the thing I do may not interest me, but am grateful to God for making me do it with full honesty. I am glad that others appreciate me enough to keep me moving irrespective of the emotional downfall. I'm lucky that people around me had very limited complains to pull me down. I remember Ian's gesture when he said, that you really have an opportunity to prove yourself, by taking up a thing that is not your own and making it your prowess in due time. Though it may sound a routine gimmick, but I believe having taken it with a pinch of salt, I know how it tastes.

No matter how tough the going is, you can sustain and endure until a little thing called HOPE resides within. On a closing note, I'd quote a text from the letter of Andy Dufresne (of the Shawshank Redemption fame) "Remember HOPE is a good thing, perhaps the best of things and no good thing ever dies" So here I'd like to keep the fire alive and why not, that is the only reason I read a lot of books on advertising. It really keeps me connected with what I want in life...

Wednesday, 10 September 2008

The Persistence of Void...


The dullness of any expression can often be rooted to its ambiguity – ambiguity derived from the absence of any relative sensibility. The concept of the aforesaid thought might sound ambiguous to some of you, but that is the least explanation I have for this thought. The very reason of its vagueness is the relative sense one derives for a thing. Like for me, creativity is one thing that I find a sense of direction in. Anything else despite making conventional sense does feel a perverse course of action to me. Working in retail for me hasn’t been a choking experience though, still to fill in the emptiness that lack of creativity offers in my current occupation, I find my blog as a way to feed my creative hunger.


Having taken a rather complex route to come to terms with the purpose of this write-up, I’d say I wanted to write something on the mocking VOID that everybody has in life, irrespective of time, situation and resources. I’ve had dark circles with an amazing consistency of more than 4 years now. What different phases in life made me maintain this consistency is an interesting story for my future write-ups. But presently I feel that these dark circles are a result of a fruitful activity to me. Often I type things like this which appear on my blog, in the most calming depths of the night. The reason why I inflict this indiscipline in my life is the VOID of a creative opportunity.


Bizarrely all of the articles on my blog were never a work of a well-thought and structured thought. Every of those articles including this has started with just the first sentence psychically occurring to me while travelling in the underground, closing my eyes for slumber, or simply pondering in the loo. The moment the first sentence strikes me, I experience this desperate urgency to churn a flow of words, which seldom makes sense to any of you. Notoriously though, this article too came into existence, when the very first line of this write-up occurred to me in the loo – the time was 3.47 am. Instead of dying the death of lying in the bed, I prefer to stay up and jot whatever thoughts that construe to my intellects.


I undertake this avoidable exercise to fill the creative lapse in life. Call it lapse, absence, vaccum or emptiness... for my creative liberty I choose the word VOID. Void is something that has a notorious legacy attached to it. People who achieve material ambitions or even spiritual excellence, still strive to go beyond despite being at the apex level of their prowess. This is the legacy that I talk about; this is what persistence of void does to all. No matter what level of self-actualisation one has for a particular thing in life, he or she is definitely cornered with the insurgent thought of Void... And often it is an antecedent to an undisciplined trajectory.


For those fortunate beings who successfully handle this ominous truth of life, setting the boundary of contentment is an achievable feat. Unlike me, having a red-brick MBA, with a reasonable job and still getting cornered with Void... results in the evolution of this isolated blog. The very reason that I write these secluded articles is this creative cavity. And this I feel shall only be filled for once when I’d be called a COPYWRITER.



Until then...
This blog is my pet,
till the days I regret...

Takes a favourable turn
Hope this creative fire until then...
continues to burn...

Friday, 29 August 2008

The Beauty of Silence


Very raw from the utmost depths of my nostalgia I managed to recollect a poem from the 3rd grade of schooling in Mumbai. It seldom made half sense to me while being a part of the curriculum during that year. Though Figures of Speech came much later in the schooling syllabus that poem was my first brush with Antithesis. Not many of my contemporaries may remember the poem called “The Town Child and The Country Child”. The poem had two different perspectives, one from the boy who lived in the modern-day city and the other from a rural terrain. Both had distinct and ironic views for sound. It reminds me during those years, poems for us kids were just a mere literary material to study and forget, and rarely did we try to relate it to life. For me, discussing this poem out of the blue for a simple reason is experiencing the very experience of what it says.


The poem beautifully balanced two conflicting ideas towards noise - the love of the town child towards the calming silence of countryside and the attraction for the city noise of the latter. However as philosophical by birth I was, the town child did relate to me in some immature sense, though I never felt that I’d live to ponder on those two facets of noise and here I am. Living in Mumbai comes with all types of cliched stereotypical experiences and one of it, is the never ending commotion of the town side. I remember how living in the typical Mohalla can haunt you with high pitched decibels. One second you can hear, Saas-bahu catfights in loud noise, and on another the pathetically trite sound of some news channels, kids playing in the lane, hawkers honking for daily bread and vehicles struggling to make way through. What a pity for ears especially if one isn’t a selective listener.

Circa 2006, I landed in the city of Liverpool, epoch away in time and distance from the noise of the city, the fast life and of course the deadly combo of soap operas and the Indian media. Never did I enjoy a place and time in life like I did for my year in the University – a cosy dorm-room for perfect solace and the silence that mesmerised me to no end. The first few weeks were numb, for not being familiar with dead silence. My comrades did reflect the horror the absence of commotion brought to them. After all living in Mumbai makes you immune to especially honking and other unwanted sounds, which also speaks about being habituated too.


Though England has its charm in beautiful locales, what I like about this place is the silence that you can experience during nights. Living in still-life is one of the boons here that I admire. Music and sound makes living a lively affair, but there are times to turn off the music, because silence is what one needs to breathe, to uncoil, to return to a state of balance and hear the quiet soliloquy of your own heart. Ever wondered what profound relief a few minutes of silence can bring to oneself, am sure everyone of us have experienced it at some point in life irrespective of the conscious thought.


In my opinion, in silence one can truly nurture emotional intelligence. Not only emotional rather subconscious intelligence. Often if you we assess, unwanted sounds are nothing less than a physical assault, it shrinks some part of our attention span and therefore restrict the experience of processing meaningful information. It is like working with deep concentration on some office project at one point when the sudden sound of a ringtone voicing the latest number makes you think of the actors in the movie, the jarring costumes they wore and the slapstick moves they did to qualify it as a dance of romance – Aaargh!!! See, where did you started as, what were you thinking and where did you land – all simply because of sound.


It is only when we find a morsel of conscious silence, we realise how deviating is the onslaught of the sounds we haven’t chosen to hear. But irrespective of our choice it still manages to divert our thought process. You may find silence in an empty room. There is silence in some places of worship, work of arts, in depths of paintings, in the bark of trees. And most of all within us when we shut eyes and stop thinking of anything that bothers.
And for once I say, choose a place where you think you find peace, close your eyes, shut the world around. Sit or lie comfortably, breathe gently and tune in to that inner-self – have a soliloquy with your heart and REJUVENATE...