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…

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...

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…

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...

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...

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 ? ? ?

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....