Their fingers touched briefly like two flowers brought together by the wind. The distance was bridged if only for a few seconds. She held her head against the window and slowly broke contact. He watched as she closed her eyes. He wanted to say many things but it was not the moment for dredging up the past. The lights from beyond shone through her hair like little diamonds. In a few hours the bus would stop and the present would catch up with them again. Words would slip out of their grasp and leave a heavy but familiar silence behind. A silence whose heat had already evaporated all the warmth between them. The roar of the engine mixed with the turmoil in his heart. He leaned against the head rest and closed his eyes.

—–

Beneath me the earth moves in waves. The ground beneath seems to dissolve into layers and each such layer flows inwards to a point in front of me. The wind rushes through the leaves far above me.

In the distance peacocks cry out for the clouds to stop and rain.

I pass through the trees and shrubs, unseen and silent. Around me things slither and slide away into the undergrowth.

The world is in motion.

—–

There are people whispering around me. Music wafts over their heads, forming an interesting counterpoint to their sonic uniformity. I wonder. I wonder.

Thoughts from the past flit through my head, shapeless drifters caught under the magnifying glass of nostalgia. A face there, a curve of a smile here, a random word there, a touch of warm skin on a cold night here-a mental slideshow of fleeting moments.

—–

The alcohol took complete control of him. He talked non-stop to fill the gaps between us. He forgot details but he remembered the roads. Every turn evoked a different memory. Under the uniform glow of neon he relived all the little adventures that made up his life.

We wanted food and he claimed to know all the spots that would still be open at 4 am. We rushed through deserted roads that increased our hunger and loneliness. The promise of early morning idlies and thoughts of the best bread-omlet in town vanished along with his hopeful words. All the roads led nowhere and everywhere at once into worlds we would never see or cross again.

—–

I came too close to the coldness around. A new hole was punched through soft flesh and everything bled out. The will to love and live. The random laughter that erases lines. No one can understand the loneliness of unfulfilled desire.

Twenty four hours. That is what you asked for
as the sun set behind the tree without any leaves.
A day to decide the fate of a lifetime.

You wrapped your hands around your knees and started rocking
as if some clock had already started ticking. Within us
sentences skipped scenarios in search of that perfect paragraph.

I leaned against the tree and watched the last light
fall across the furrows on your forehead. There was
so much history happening in that moment.

Half a day later you called me from a pay phone
as I was leaving the bookstore. You said you
wanted to hear my voice one more time.

There was something in the silence between your words
that made me stop at that corner we both knew so well.
People curved around me as I waited for you to say something concrete.

But the connection was lost. The moment walked away with the rest.
I stood there waiting for you to call back. To call me back. To pick up
the pieces that we threw away in a moment of madness.

Night came, two hands came together but the phone remained speechless.
I waited for a coin to clink somewhere and for the connection to be made.
But it was too late, you had taken the silence between us into you.

Our favorite book of poetry was open on the table, the pages skipping
through our little histories, through the seconds that survived.
There was no way to stop the movement of moments that mattered.

The only thing you left behind was a box full of questions.
Would the distraction of distance be enough to forget the past?
Would the silence of our hearts be strong enough to make the connection?
If I just stood here forever, holding onto our book, would you still call?

Every day that passes behind the calender
strikes a different chord in the long chapter of remembrance,
the winter that never became our season,
the kisses that never crossed our lips.

It is 6 am and I am sitting here
by the window and wondering about all
the steps that we walked away from when
the time came to hold onto our promise.

Dawn breaks her beautiful cover
in the company of blue light and
a stillness that brings to mind
that night in the back seat of a stranger’s car.

Go on, take a second to remember all that
we talked about as the roads slid by beneath us.
Remember the bright promise of your words that kept
me from taking the easy way out?

I tell myself that time never gave us a chance
for in the rush to get away we came together. And
when the night hurried away to hide behind the sun
you left for the comfort of familiarity.

One day, far away from now, we will
sit with a drink and smile at the stupidity
of hope. But right now the promises are too new
to ignore, too bright to shield this weak heart.

One way or the other the world will move again,
change will turn our heads away from a past that
will be left behind in forgotten photos and in
the vast wasteland of our collective memories.

But until then let me indulge that memory
where something caused your face to glow
under the faint light of the moon when you
turned to me and whispered those special words.

We needed alcohol. Due to the lack of time and poor planning we had not picked up any before we started traveling. So we hit the streets of sleepy Trier in search of a shop that sold alcohol. But try as we might we could not find one. We drove through deserted neighborhoods and leafy suburbs but there no sign of alcohol on the horizon. We crossed the Mösel many times in our quest. It was as if we were living in a time of prohibition. All our impromptu plans of playing poker with a cold beer in hand at the camping ground were at risk of going waste. So we wandered some more. There were comparisons between the ease of finding alcohol after midnight in India and in the beer capital of the world, Germany. I found it strange that it was taking us so much time to find an open kiosk. Back in Cologne I only had to walk a few hundred yards from my house to find two. It seemed as if the people of Trier had no craving for alcohol after midnight. And so we found ourselves across the Mösel yet again. Cars passed us and their inhabitants seemed strangely content. Had they been more successful than us? Would we ever find what we were searching for? Or would we have to return empty handed and crawl into a tent without the cool balm of alcohol in our stomachs to ease the cold passage of night?

After crossing the Mösel another time we took a random turn to the left and found ourselves at an intersection. And standing right there to the right of the intersection like a lighthouse for floundering ships was an open döner shop. My friend ventured out full of desperate hope. I joined him. But our hopes did not last long. The shop did not sell any alcohol. Perhaps he saw our faces droop or felt our hopes slipping away, whatever the reason, as we were leaving the shop owner threw us a bone in the form of a suggestion. He pointed to a bar opposite his shop, tucked away on the corner and suggested to us to try our luck there. Hopes renewed we thanked him, crossed the road and approached the bar. From the outside it was unremarkable. I forgot its name as soon as I saw it. We passed through the open doors and strangely it felt like as if I had crossed some kind of special portal into another world. We walked into a land not often encountered.

The bar was a large room interspersed with wooden benches and tables. Along the walls at regular intervals were garishly bright game machines with blinking lights. At the far end, opposite the door was the bar counter. On the right side of the room were two doors. One presumably led to the toilets while the other opened into a room filled with a pale yellow light. I could not see clearly what the room contained or ascertain its function. It seemed rather odd and out of place as if it was added as an afterthought by a bored builder.

There was an air of impending decay about the place. The bar was not in disrepair but perhaps due to the sickly yellow light or the garish lights of the game machines the bar had an air of approaching apocalypse.

There were six people in the bar. Two young men were sitting in an alcove right next to the door. They were talking among themselves in the harsh guttural German that is characteristic of first generation Turkish immigrants. I was struck by their presence in that bar. It did not seem like a place for young people. What were they doing there? Had they also set out on a similar quest as us, wandered into that place and could not go back across the portal into the normal world outside? What was the strange attraction that the place held for them? I suddenly realized that sometimes when you spend too much time amidst mediocrity and routine and encounter anything out of the ordinary it exerts a force on you that is not easy to shake off. I could almost believe that the young men there were caught in the same force.

The remaining people in the place consisted of two women and a man with a white beard sitting at the bar and drinking. The fourth person was the bartender. He seemed ancient and had the same air of slow decay about him as the bar. His cheeks were sunken in gloom and he spoke in deep ponderous tones with long pauses between his words. It was as if he was measuring the passage of time in the spaces between his words. In this he reminded me strongly of Vajpayee, the former prime minister of India, whose speeches were also filled with such thoughtful pauses between words.

For some reason I remembered that morning without a name again today. A morning that was a template for other such similar mornings. I woke up first like I always did but with one of those involuntary dawn erections. We were naked under the blanket as the night had been warm. I lay awake and watched her sleep. She slept peacefully like a child with the hint of a smile curving the ends of her thin lips. I moved closer and embraced her for the gentle warmth of her body. She shifted in her sleep, put her hand around me in a reflexive embrace and made a sound at the back of her throat that was halfway between a purr and a mumble. Slowly, I slid my right leg upwards between her legs until I could feel the shaved roughness of her lips on my thigh. It was a wonderful moment in that indeterminate land between lust, love and longing. I wished that the moment would last forever. But the balance always tilted ever so slightly in one direction or the other.

On certain mornings I’d be overcome by a wave of longing. I’d snuggle closer and hug her until in her sleep she would protest weakly as she struggled to breathe in the confines of my tightly locked arms. Initially, I wouldn’t care as I was in the thrall of a force greater than me. It was a force that impelled you to crush her with the immense strength of your feeling. A feeling that often did not listen to reason. Eventually though I’d come to my senses. I always did for the comfort of longing is only a temporary visitor, taken too far it soon turns into the suffocation of confinement.

There were other times when I’d be overcome by love. I’d kiss her narrow forehead, closed eyes and the tiny protuberance that was her nose. I’d feel her warm breath on my lips as I gently brushed her lips with mine. Afterwards, I’d bury my face into the crook of her neck and lie there for a minute or two. Then, I’d slowly slide lower until I felt the rich and delicate softness of her breasts on my cheek. There I’d rest until she woke up slowly like a dream diver swimming up through the various layers of sleep.

But that morning I was overcome by lust. The wave started deep within my loins and like a hot flush traveled along my back into my head so fast that I felt like I was on fire from a fever. It was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and pain. It was the pleasure of a basic instinct as old as mankind. It was the pain of carrying a rigid erection.

Lost in the lust of that morning I kissed her mouth hungrily and opened it up as if it were a sealed envelope. I searched for her tongue with a desperation that only unfulfilled desire can generate. I found it sleeping peacefully but the insistence of my tongue woke her’s up. It initially tangled with mine uncertainly as if it were in a daze but as soon as awareness broke across her brow she responded immediately. She embraced me tightly and reached into my mouth with her tongue. She tasted my lips and sucked on them as if she was slaking a great thirst. Her left hand reached between my legs in a familiar motion, took hold of me and gently started stroking. The fever in me rose and I kissed her deeper and stronger. I broke the kiss in one sudden movement and moved to her neck and inhaled her morning scent. Aroused further by her insistent stroking I moved to her breasts. It was my favorite part. The feel and taste of her nipples going rigid in my mouth felt like a thousand bubbles bursting on my tongue. She moaned then and her hand gripped me tighter and moved faster.

Slowly, with my right hand I parted her legs wider and with my fingers found her trembling lips. I dipped my middle finger in as if I was testing the temperature of water in a vessel. She was wet and the heat within warmed my finger. I slowly slid my finger in and out until I built up a steady rhythm. At the same time I slipped in another finger and rubbed her swollen clitoris with my thumb until her back arched and eyes opened wide (all vestiges of sleep erased). She clung to me like a drowning sailor desperately clinging to a piece of driftwood. With a wild and bright hunger shining in her wide open eyes she attacked my mouth and pushed her tongue in forcefully as if she was wrestling for control. And just like that we were caught in a moment that flowed through our hands into our bodies.

Suddenly, she broke her embrace, pushed my moving fingers away and climbed on top of me. She took hold of me again and in one smooth movement moved me into her. She rode me like a jockey completely in control of her steed. I could feel her wet muscles squeeze and release in a repeating sequence of unbelievable pleasure. Her breasts heaved and swayed. Her speed increased as the wetness inside swelled like a river in flood. In that inexorable journey we did not last long. I crashed first and exploded deep within her, losing myself in one spine cracking spasm after another until I could almost believe that I had embraced the beautiful blankness of death. As I twisted uncontrollably she dug her fingers into my chest as if to find some purchase and screamed in a low voice as she breached the banks of her being and overflowed in one great gush. I felt her soft muscles first tighten, throb and then relax as she fell onto me like a great black waterfall. Her wet skin beneath my finger tips seemed to ripple like the surface of a serene lake from a stone thrown across it. We almost forgot to breathe as we lost ourselves to a plethora of sensations that annihilated our senses. Spent and exhausted we lay still like that until I drooped and dropped out of her like a small water snake.

Outside my house the lone tree
is smiling with her crown of fresh
green leaves.

It was only a month
ago that she stood there, bare like
a curtain less window, looking
forlorn as the cold hacked at her
naked limbs.

Today, the sun is out and the rising
heat is enough for her to unfurl her
withdrawn limbs and embrace the
benign warmth.

Birds hide among the new green
and sing to the uncaring vehicles
that rush hither and thither, oblivious
of the spring symphony.

At the base of the tree is a shrub
planted by some forgotten city gardener.
It is in bloom now, bright crimson flowers vying
for attention from the many who walk past, uncaring.

Towards evening, as they begin to droop the
flowers are revived by a breeze that comes
out of nowhere. Tired but content they slowly close
their white pupils and wait for the evening to end.

There are certain moments that you remember even years later with a terrible clarity, reliving every second of what happened as if it were happening again around you. The details are like needles poking your mind and sharpening your memory. You remember the slant of the sunlight that fell on his forehead. You remember the words of the song she was singing. You remember the sound of the wind rushing outside. You remember the sound of breaking glass. And you even remember in excruciating detail the moment that seemed to last forever as it hung before your eyes like a question for which no one had an answer.

We were traveling for the weekend. We were on our way to Freiburg. From there our plan was to head on into the Black Forest. It was winter, just after Christmas. We planned to go where the snow would be thick. I wanted to be surrounded by a blinding whiteness to wipe everything from my mind while my friends wanted to ski. It was a perfect arrangement. I could wander the whole day through the forest and photograph the snow covered landscape and trees to my heart’s content while my friends would practice their skiing skills on the slopes of Seebuck. We would be staying in a quaint little hostel in the nearby village of Feldberg.

The friends I was traveling with were German. I had met them both while couch surfing through Hamburg back in November. Frederica was 31 years old and was just starting out as an architect. Her boyfriend Klaus worked as a consultant for the state environment ministry. He was 30 years old. Unlike the popular stereotype of Germans they were anything but reserved. We had connected instantly and my stay in Hamburg was a particularly memorable one. We ate, drank and talked late into the night about everything in the world. It was during one of those endless conversations when time seems to fly by so fast that the idea to travel together was conceived. They were not big on Christmas and I as usual would be on my own doing nothing. Since they were big ski enthusiasts and I wanted to be surrounded by snow we decided to travel to the south of Germany. We arranged to meet in Frankfurt as it was a convenient place for them to pick me up as they drove down south. The day I met them again in Frankfurt was one of those rare winter days with a very bright sun, although the sun did nothing to dispel the cold. But we were warm in the car and the conversation flowed again on the long drive as if it had never stopped.

The meandering conversations helped me forget the many issues I was dealing with. It was a particularly trying time for me on the personal front. I had recently gotten out of a relationship that was going nowhere but the whole break up had turned very bitter. They were problems on the home front too. My sister had fallen in love with a Muslim boy and my conservative parents were not happy about it at all. So twice a day I had to listen to my parents rant about how my sister had shamed them in front of society. As a result of all these happenings my work got affected and I had already been subjected to two performance reviews. On more such review, I was politely but firmly told, I’d be on my way out. Naturally, I felt like running away to some far off place, away from all the seemingly silly troubles that I was unable to deal with. The trip, the warmth of my friends and the solitude of snow would give me some time to recover and recharge I thought.

I also sensed that Klaus and Frederica were having some problems of their own on the relationship front. Although they never talked about their troubles and seemed to be perfectly happy they would frequently start arguing for no reason. The arguments, on the surface, were about superficial things but I could sense that something deeper lay behind them. From the little hints that Frederica dropped from time to time I guessed that it had something to do with the question of starting a family. It seemed as if Klaus was against the idea for economic reasons while Frederica like many women of her age thought that biological time was running out for her.

But in that car our conversations cut through our troubled thoughts. We enjoyed the changing landscape around us as we passed into the scenic state of Baden-Württemberg. The sky peppered us with a light snow from time to time which immediately froze as soon as it touched the cold ground. We caught up on gossip about film stars we did not like. We argued about the US foreign policy. Frederica and I debated whether Calatrava was better than Foster. Klaus criticized our skepticism about climate change. Later, Frederica and I started singing Klaus’s favorite songs intentionally off key to irritate him. To make us stop he tried to scare us by attempting to drive erratically on the slightly slippery road. It was during that moment that it happened.

Mad Men: A sedate and unbiased look at the American advertising world of the early 60s when sexism was open and casual and sexual mores were just beginning to change. It is a world of well dressed and groomed men who live the good life and treat women as objects to adorn their bedrooms and their arms. It is about women caught in the cusp of change unsure about the extent of their independence. It is about the conflict between the two. At times too slow the series is however beautifully crafted and atmospheric with the highly detailed production design a splendid visual treat. Jon Hamm is the pick of the excellent ensemble cast disappearing into his laconic role of Don Draper, an ad man with a mysterious past. Of course, any show that has the voluptuous Christina Hendricks (Firefly fans will recognize her as Malcolm Reynold’s ‘wife’) gets my automatic vote :) That she is good in her role as the secretly suffering woman caught between failed ambition and illicit love is an added bonus.

The Office (US Version): Steve Carrell. Watch it for him. The depths he plumbs in portraying, what seems to be on the surface, an unlikable and often unwatchable, cringe worthy character is simply phenomenal. He gives the character a certain tragic dignity that makes you want to understand his immense loneliness and even like him in spite of yourself. A brilliant achievement that. Add to that a slightly uneven but idiosyncratic bunch of characters as well as great writing and you get one uniquely funny show. I’ve not seen the original British version but for me this is more than enough.

30 Rock: A delightfully subversive comedy that pokes fun at everything on and about network television. This series is one of the smartest comedies I’ve seen in a long time. Tina Fey as the show’s creator, writer and main actor deserves high praise for the consistently sharp and witty bite of the show. But the two characters who walk away with the show are Alec Baldwin and Tracy Morgan. While Baldwin is deliciously wicked in his role as a NBC TV exec with high ambitions, Morgan is hilariously mad as the resident TV star.

The Sopranos: Well, well, well…what can I say that has not been said already by thousands before? THE TV show that set new standards for the depth of its high quality writing. This is the Goodfellas of the small screen although even that high praise is simply not enough. An outstanding cast that quietly but very effectively disappear into their roles (with James Gandolfini and Edie Falco being particular stand outs) and featuring a soundtrack that would have made Scorcese or Tarantino proud this series should not be missed at any cost!

Grey’s Anatomy: The hospital as a setting has been a happy hunting ground for many American TV shows. There have been innumerable shows set in a hospital that have done extremely well. This show starts with that similar setting but comes up with enough fresh ideas and characters to set it apart. Dealing exclusively with surgeons what makes this series stand out are the believable characters and the web of relationships constructed around them. They will irritate you, make you smile and laugh, pine for them and sometimes even cry. Deeply emotional and sometimes a bit too sentimental the series still has a sustaining power for the life the writers and actors breathe into their characters.

Damages: A chilling and cautionary tale about people who will go to any length to win. Glenn Close is diabolically good as the high flying attorney who wants to to win at any cost. Rose Byrne offers her able support as an ambitious rookie lawyer. Tightly plotted and shot in a claustrophobic manner using a muted color palette the series grips you from the first episode and the pace doesn’t slacken until the end.

Prison Break: The first season was fresh, intense and very gripping but the second season slipped into 24 (and Lost) territory with so many unbelievable twists and turns. Man, did it get exasperating or what! I simply gave up in disgust after the first few episodes of the third season. And what is up with Wentworth Miller? Does he think sporting a permanent scowl is a substitute for acting?

Reaper: How would you feel if your soul was sold to the Devil before you were born by your parents and the Devil has come to collect in the form of a job as a catcher of escaped souls from hell? Pissed right? That is the basic premise of this show. A light hearted series with an interesting idea it is fun to watch even if the storyline is often wafer thin and the characters disappointingly uni-dimensional. But Ray Wise as the remarkably suave Devil livens up the screen whenever he makes an appearance. His eyes have this sparkle of evil glee in them that just sets him apart from the rest of the cast.

Bionic Woman: A somewhat uneven re imagining of the original 1970s series. It is pulled down by a disappointingly bland lead character but the show still manages to sustain interest through some interesting secondary characters and the many Battlestar Galactica regulars (created by some of the same people behind that show). Katee Sackhoff chews through her scenes and is perhaps the best thing about the show.

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles: The wildly popular film series is now re-tooled for the small screen. While in the beginning the series seemed to be done in by bland and low budget special effects it slowly picked up strength and steam as the season progressed. Lena Headey, who initially seemed ill equipped to fit into Linda Hamilton’s iconic role as Sarah Connor, has slowly brought a strong credibility to her character even if she still looks too sexy for the part. Summer Glau ( River from Firefly) is near perfect as the benign terminator sent to protect John. She almost made me forget Arnie!

Pushing Daisies: Imagine the universe of fairy tales crossed with the visual style of Tim Burton and mixed with the narrative style of Amélie. Pushing Daisies would be the resulting offspring. Bright saturated colors, whimsical characters and an improbable power adds up to one of the best new TV shows. The intense but non-physical chemistry between the two leads, the unsentimental detective, the pining waitress and the lovable idiosyncratic aunts give this fairy tale the human heart. Witty, sweet and a delight to watch this series should be on your must see list!

Californication: This series has enough full breasted naked women, dirty dialog and sex to satisfy even a porn addict. But do not let all that naked flesh and profanity distract you from what is a surprisingly witty and self aware comedy drama. It is a special delight to watch David Duchovny play against type as a writer struggling to come to terms with his writer’s block and the departure of his long term girlfriend whom he still loves through an endless parade of women through his bedroom. He sinks his teeth with glee into a character that is often on a self destructive streak but is also at heart a loving and caring human being. It is definitely a pleasant thrill to see him carry the character off in his own special way. Go watch it. Unless you are a prude, you will love it.

The Daily Show/The Colbert Report: It is perhaps a telling indictment of mainstream American news media when fake news/media punditry shows such as these seem more believable and trust worthy. John Stewart and Stephen Colbert are two of the sharpest and funniest satirists on TV. Their incisive and biting wit might rely heavily on their talented writing staff but the characteristic spontaneity and goofiness is all their own. While Stewart is more smooth and somewhat softer in tone, Colbert has a more harder edge. And the best part about these shows is that every new episode is made available for free the next day after broadcast on their respective websites. If you are bored by the bland, watered down news of the mainstream media take a gander at these guys. You will learn a lot about the world while laughing.

One day soon
this heart will burst
and in the midst of flying flesh
you will discover all the words
that troubled my tongue but
never crossed my lips.

—–

I wish I could string
a necklace made of moonbeams
for the sinuous emptiness that is
your neck.

—-

The waiting in winter
still continues but
beneath the frozen exterior
a faint heart beat glows.

—–

One more minute
and I could have caught you
in my arms under the tree
where our lips first touched.

——

One heart beat at a time
I wish for all the beautiful things
that will never come to pass.

The words are caught
at the back of my throat
like phlegm after a bad cold.

I wish they could roll out like marbles
and spread across the slate
to give meaning to emptiness.

But this instant of darkness rises
within and smothers their meaning
and the benefit of sharing.

To choke their cowardly presence I
watch the world through the window
and marvel at the clockwork lives of others.

Is there purpose left behind principle?
Will it matter now that the end is so near?

This waiting for fickle deliverance.
This search for fading confidence.

The painful pointlessness of it all.

The descent into mediocrity continues
and the world slowly spins out of control
beyond the reach of my grasping fingers.

Aimee Mann - Video

…the bell tolls and i can hear it even though i exist in a land between shadow and sunshine. the sound is muted but the meaning behind it is not. time marches on it seems to intone in ponderous tones. neither mortal nor immortal will wait for the moon to change face. who makes the rules? and who keeps track when they are broken? for in those rules lies the truth of distance and absence…

….the candlelight is so faint that your face is obscured by the shadows. i bend to pick up the candle and move it closer to your face but your fingers curl around my wrist and gently push it back. ignorance is bliss indeed. the glint in your eyes moves with the light, sometimes making your eyes smile and sometimes filling them up with a strange liquid. the darkness where your mouth is occasionally opens to reveal a flashing brightness. and as the night fades between our slow breathing your fingers reach out and touch my lips…

…every evening you open the window at the back of the house and stare at the birds making their way home. hands folded across your chest, feet splayed out you stand like a statue sculpted in stone. what is it about those birds that attracts you? is it the regularity of return? is it the curtain of dusk sliding across your body? or is it the tired cries of the birds as they squabble and settle down? whatever the reason this rigid ritual furrows your brow at first and as the last rays of the sun are pushed under the hill a small smile opens up a dimple on your left cheek…

…while you talked i looked at the way your mouth moved, at the way your eyes lit up with the light of a deepening bond. i watched the way your hands moved through the air as if underlining some important point. and I felt the belief behind your words touch me like spring would touch my winter-hardened skin…

…we know how to add and subtract. to balance all the equations that make us dance around each other. a minus sign here, a small addition there that can be divided by our finite attention. but can you multiply the gaps in our conversation? can you add a few zeros to the frown on your face?…

…there are no apologies. no apologies indeed. i am just waiting for the pieces to fall into place like a giant jigsaw puzzle played by gods in three dimensions. the wail of the guitar pierces the silence bringing with it whole verses of emotion. who will follow me? i can go alone but i do need someone in the back seat to catch my ego if it falls…

…change is a funny thing. it is always beneath, around and even inside us but we are always the last to recognize it. we let it pass us by and then when it is ‘cool’ we run after it and try to embrace it. grow up son….the world is not waiting around for you to live life again…

…he has come back to haunt his old space, anonymous and untouched, its very pristine nature a subtle attraction. will the rawness still elude him or will he be consumed in its inelegant display of private emotion? a new graphical interface, eye-candy for the digitally insane. but who the fuck cares? not you, not him for sure. all that matters is that there are a billion thoughts waiting in a mental closet for his mechanical fingers to transmute for universal consumption. these days he is turning into himself more and more, living in the unperturbed arena of creative obscurity. a closed circle within an open loop. this is his life in a short sentence. does that satisfy your voyeuristic curiosity?…

…hear the small and subtle sounds you miss. the sounds of flowers blooming and the clouds moving. the whisper of grass growing under your feet. the steady drone of tiny feet behind the curtain of leaves. the subsonic humming of butterflies. the quiet patter of rain walking on your window panes. the tidy tides carting in and out the flotsam and jetsam of humanity’s dark deeds. nature at work…quietly…

…solitude and silence are like a long and lovely novel, endless, delightful and sustaining your soul on long evenings. what would we be without them? an empty and broken shell of cold blood and withering flesh just drinking out of the same old cup of jaded familiarity and vacuous companionship…

…what shall I talk about? shall i describe to you how beautiful a woman’s smile is when she is in love? or shall i tell you how the laughter of lovers tells so many stories? or shall i narrate a story about this guy who was directionally challenged? or can i wax rhapsodic about the sublime pleasures of seeing the world in stark tones of black and white? or maybe i can whisper to you how breathtakingly beautiful sudden silence is?

but the angel of sleep is making impatient sounds on my bed so i shall have to give in to her charms. therefore, let me disappear my dear into her soundless arms. i can then forget how failure tastes and instead learn to appreciate the slow burn of eternity…

It is oft repeated but really rock music is well and truly dead these days. It can be argued that most of the truly great rock music was made between the 1950s and 70s. I’ve always wondered how it would have been to have lived through the 60s when there was a palpable excitement in the music that was being made. It was perhaps the feeling of hope. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was something new and great. Or perhaps it was the feeling of living in a time where you felt you could truly change the world with a guitar slung over your shoulder. It was all of that and more but what is indubitable is that it was the golden age of rock music with so many bands making such glorious music. I doubt if I’ll ever get to see such a thing happen in my lifetime.

The other day I was wondering about how indifferent I had become about contemporary music. Mainstream hip hop with its talk of money, bling and women makes me want to rip out someone’s heart while the mindless pap that is churned out in the name of pop bores me to tears. Alternative rock has mostly lost its soul while indie rock spends too much time navel gazing. Of course, I’m not a loyal follower of the current music scene. In fact, I’m usually at least five years behind the current music scene so I might be missing a lot of great music. But the few times I’ve listened to music on the radio or on the net has only reinforced my opinion.

That is not to say that great music isn’t being made anymore. There are still artists/bands out there that are still carrying on often against the odds to make the music they believe in. But somehow that fire and excitement is not there in my opinion that was there in rock music’s heyday. Now it is all about sleek studio over-production and marketing to the right demographic.

Maybe I’ve become too old and cranky but there was a time during my undergraduate years when music meant so much. It was part of your soul and the songs literally formed the soundtrack of your life. There was a thrill, a thrill which was equal parts envy and enthusiasm, in watching someone play the song you would give your left hand to play but would never be able to even if you could do that. And every time you attended a rock concert, even with a bad band playing, you earned to be on stage singing those lines and playing those searing solos. Not because you could look cool and attract women (well maybe for that too) but because there was something cathartic about singing your heart out in front of thousands of strangers. It was a perfect medium to let out all that you were feeling into the open through song. It is a pity that that unique pleasure of discovering great music and sharing it with your friends seems to have been lost, perhaps forever.

During that time (and later) I discovered some truly great rock music. Music that has stood the test of time and manages to speak to you with clarity and passion even after so many years. And so even if I have never lived during the golden age of rock here is a list of rock albums that have had a palpable influence and at one point or the other transformed themselves into religious texts for me. Not all of these albums are from the 60s or 70s, there are some from recent times too, but all of them have a touch of greatness in them. These are albums that you should listen to at least once in your lifetime.

Pink Floyd - Eclipse

Pink Floyd-The Dark Side of the Moon: I’ve this inexplicable, almost mystical connection with the music and songs of Pink Floyd. I actually did not like them when I first heard them. I still remember vividly when I first ‘got’ their music. I was sitting under the shed in Nizam’s one afternoon alone and listening to the live version of ‘Wish You Were Here’ from their otherwise bland ‘Delicate Sound of Thunder’ album on a walkman. And there was this moment which I’ll never forget when something clicked and a whole new world opened in front of me. It was magical. After that there was no turning back.

They have made such great music backed by some of the greatest lyrics ever written that it is hard to select the best. In fact, I’m tempted to include at least half their discography in this list!

It took me an insanely long time to really like Dark Side. Even now I don’t think it is my favorite Floyd album but this is the record where everything came together in the correct amount for the band. Water’s profound lyrics, Gilmour’s beautiful guitar playing, Wright’s melodic keyboards and Mason’s tight drumming. Add to this an almost flawless and intricate production and you have one of the greatest rock albums ever made. With its themes of madness, depression, loneliness and greed it is definitely not an easy album to listen to. In fact, it is rather depressing when you really listen to the songs. But that still should not deter you from enjoying ‘The Great Gig In The Sky’s yearning melody or ‘Us and Them’s soulful theme of separation or the epic finality of ‘Eclipse’. However, for me the greatest thing about the album (apart from the iconic cover art) is the lyrics of ‘Time’. Here are the lyrics from the last half of the song:

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.

It is breathtakingly sad but beautiful poetry. Please, go get the album.

Van Morrison - Astral Weeks

Van Morrison-Astral Weeks: Someone once said that Van Morrison could sing the phone book and make it sound good. And that is quite true. This album is a testament to that. It is hard to explain the almost mystical quality this album has. Perhaps it comes from Morrison’s Irish Catholic background and Celtic influence. Whatever the reasons it is one of the strangest rock albums. The jazz inflected music perfectly complements the often incomprehensible lyrics.

If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dream
Where immobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop
Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down
In silence easy
To be born again
To be born again

But it is all brought to life by Morrison’s singing. There is a certain pain and yearning in his voice. It is not the pain of anger; it is the pain of loss. You cannot help but get affected by his singing; by the way he brings the dense lyrics to life. It is a 47 minute trip into a different land. A journey you will want to repeat every time the smile around your lips begins to fade under the weight of circumstances.

Radiohead - Climbing Up The Walls

Radiohead-Ok Computer: In many ways I prefer their earlier The Bends album for its simple, more mainstream melodic music that is instantly accessible. But the sheer scope and depth of this album has to be appreciated. It is perhaps the best rock album out of the 90s, Nirvana, Pearl Jam and R.E.M. notwithstanding. Dense production and the droning drawl of Thom Yorke are the signature elements of this record. The guitars swirl in layers, the electronic drums are sonorous, the bass throbs with a certain quiet intensity and all of this is tied together by the almost incomprehensible singing of Yorke. The album is quintessentially post-modern in feel with its vague but cool art work and themes of pre-millennial alienation and the coldness caused by technology. There are no instantly hummable tunes here or catchy choruses. The songs have a certain moodiness to them. The moodiness of modern melancholia. But there is melody beneath all that fuzzy distortion and the album grows on you. It is truly an album in which you will discover something new every time you listen to it.

The Beatles - While My Guitar Gently Weeps

The Beatles a.k.a The White Album: The Beatles made many great albums with their Sgt. Peppers album often touted to be the best rock album ever made. But I like this sprawling and uneven masterpiece the most. This is also the album where the cracks first began to show between the band members with most recording sessions often done individually in separate recording studios. And in that regard this is not the work of a band but more the work of the individuals. It was the beginning of the end for the band. But even with all the friction between them what glorious music they made. Abbey Road might be their swan song but this is the album which truly gave them time and space to experiment individually and also move towards a new clean sound. Most of this album was actually written in India where The Beatles had gone to study transcendental meditation under Maharishi Mahesh Yogi at Rishikesh. That influence clearly shows in the simple but strong song writing even if the band were ultimately disillusioned by their experience at the ashram.

Hold that thought between
your lips. Let me trace its edges
with my tongue and tease out its intentions.

—–

In the hope of making sense
of your words left behind
the toaster and under the eraser
I try to remember
the gestures your fingers made
while your breath slid down along my neck.

—–

Will it matter now that the Eastern sky
is your new home and the winds of information
shield you from my words?

—–

To understand the difference between
your weakness and my need.
The cost is so high.
Who will pay for the renovation of this relationship?

——

I will look for a sign from tomorrow.
But tomorrow will soon become yesterday
and I will still be here counting the fallen letters,
watching the wind whip away the answers.

——

Tonight, I’ll walk to the river
and drown the silence
that hangs like a sword
between our eyes.

—–

The time has come to
remove the bookmark
and put this book back
on the bookshelf.

I have not slept for 36 hours. While your brain has been chewing on sleep I’ve been wide awake watching TV shows and forgetting my face. Yeah, now, I finally come to the point. I don’t recognize my face.

What do you mean I don’t recognize my face? I mean exactly that dumbo. Right now, I’m staring at a face in my bathroom mirror which apparently sits on my neck and torso but I cannot fucking recognize it. Do you get it now? Or should I hand you a web browser for a second opinion. Wait…back up a minute and let’s go back a bit. Do you see it? No? Read it again you moron. Yeah, you got it now, I said my bathroom mirror. So I seem to know that I’m in my bathroom but I do not know ‘my’ face. Does that make any sense? No? Ok, let us go back to what I’ve written again. No, not that sentence again but whatever I’ve written until now. I’m sleep deprived. So excuse the crankiness.

One small clue that does not explain anything. So let me go back to that thought that I left unfinished. I’m staring at a face that is sitting on a body that is staring back at me in the mirror and is not mine. Don’t doctors just love stating the obvious! Why did I forget what is seemingly my own face? Have I gone mad? Reasonable question. When you have checked out upstairs and vacated the space anything can move in. But I have not checked out. I can rationalize my situation, talk about it and even record it. Perhaps I’ve undergone some kind of injury and am suffering from some kind of delusion and experiencing all of this in my head. Possible but scary. Real scary. Let us not go there yet.

Ok, first, where am I? Describe my surroundings. Alright, I’m in a bathroom as I already stated. I’m looking into an oval shaped bathroom mirror that has a face in it. Ha! Got you there, didn’t I? I love stating the obvious. All right, moving on, below the mirror is a ceramic washbasin with stainless steel taps. Yawn, I’m already getting bored with this. Basically, what you have around me is a fairly generic bathroom and toilet with a washing machine, shower stall and some toiletries. The washing machine is a bit interesting though. It has clothes in it. No, wise ass, I’m not making fun of you! Will you listen and stop stating the obvious? The clothes have been washed but have not been taken out to dry. From the state of things they seem to have been washed more than a week back. So perhaps I, if this is indeed my bathroom, am a lazy pig. Doesn’t help or change my situation. But hey, here’s something new, did I mention the door?

No? Sorry, I just did not want to state the obvious again. So if there is a door there must be something beyond it right. I just have to open the door and see what is beyond. Wait…wait…not so fast. What if danger lurks beyond the room? What if I open the door and a gaping chasm is waiting there ready to swallow my sorry ass? Or what if I open the door and stumble upon a crime scene? Perhaps I’ve killed someone and have come here to wash the tainted clothes. Or perhaps I’ve just witnessed a gruesome murder and have come into the bathroom to hide. So maybe the killer is still out there, standing still by the door with a sharp kitchen knife to plunge into my useless heart the moment I open the door. I do have an exciting imagination, don’t I, for someone who has been sleep deprived? But hey I like to cover all the bases. So here goes nothing. I open the door.

Once Upon a Time In America: Forget the spaghetti westerns for which Sergio Leone is famous. This (along with his Once Upon a Time in the West - see below) is his masterpiece. A big flop when it was first released as the studio had chopped up the film into an incoherent mess the film’s reputation was restored when the original director’s cut was subsequently released. It is a slow but beautiful film underscored by the haunting score of Morricone that deals with the consequences of memory, betrayal, loyalty and loss. Finely nuanced performances by De Niro and James Woods add to the moody nostalgia of the film. The city of New York in which the film is set in is in itself a major character of the film whose growth and problems mirror those of the film’s characters. If you like Leone’s Westerns then do not miss this. Also marks the debut of the luminous Jennifer Connelly.

Once Upon a Time in the West: As mentioned above another of the masterpieces directed by Leone. An epic western starring Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson and Jason Robards it forms the beginning of a loose trilogy which ended with the above film. Featuring yet another masterful and melodic score by Morricone this film like the one above slowly grows on you with each passing minute. It examines at leisure with slow tracking shots that lack much dialog life on the edge of civilization and the choices men make in those circumstances. The painstakingly choreographed gun fights are a sight to watch even if they are over in a flash.

Diarios de Motocicleta (The Motorcycle Diaries): A moving and inspiring film about the epic journey made by Che Guevara and his friend on a motorcycle across South America and how the journey played a major role in the awakening of political consciousness in the young medical student.

The Conversation: In some ways this is the best film made by Coppola. More intimate than his Godfather and Vietnam War epics this little film about a quiet and intensely private man who spies on other people works on so many levels. Suffused with an intense sense of paranoia in keeping with the subject matter of the film and the conspiracy riddled time it was released in (just after the Watergate scandal broke) the film is still hugely relevant today with its themes of erosion of privacy with increasing technology and personal responsibility. Gene Hackman is pitch perfect as the audio surveillance expert.

One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest: One of my favorite films. Milos Forman stayed mostly true to Kesey’s novel and in the process crafted a fine jewel about non-conformism and its effect on rigid authority. The film works because of some excellent performances by the lead actors. Jack Nicholson and Louise Fletcher deserved their Oscars for the roles of McMurphy and Nurse Ratched, which they made their own so well that you cannot imagine anyone else in their roles.

La Battaglia di Algeri (The Battle of Algiers): A landmark film based on the Algerian War against French rule that has been highly influential. Gillo Pontecorvo’s fiercely independent film refuses to take sides and in that process exposes the cruelty that both sides resorted to in the name of freedom and colonization. The film’s semi-documentary style lends it an authenticity and rawness that very few films dealing with a historical topic manage to achieve.

Solyaris (Solaris): Often termed as the Russian answer to Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey this Tarkovsky film is a masterpiece in its own right. Based on a novella by the Czech writer Stanislaw Lem the film is an exploration of the hubris of man and his overconfident dependence on science and technology as the answer to everything even when it utterly fails when confronted with an alien intelligence. Deliberately paced and at times irritatingly slow (the car driving sequence) this is not a typical science fiction film as there are no epic space battles or spectacular spaceships to feast your eyes on. On the contrary the film is a psychologically intense examination of man and the alienating effects technology and space exploration has on him as well as the resulting loneliness. (The film was recently remade by Steven Soderbergh as Solaris with George Clooney in the lead which although better than most Hollywood science fiction and featuring an intensely moody score still falls short of Tarkovsky’s version).

Earth: The second part in Deepa Mehta’s elemental trilogy is based on Bapsi Sidhwa’s novel Ice Candy Man (later published as Cracking India). Set during the turbulent times of India’s partition and the subsequent Hindu-Muslim riots that engulfed many parts of India as seen through the eyes of a young Parsi girl. A fine film if a little rough around the edges. It somehow lacks the edge that Fire, the first part of the trilogy, had even though it deals with a horrific period in India’s history. The somewhat tepid nature of the film is redeemed by the intense performance of Aamir Khan.

Baise Moi (Fuck Me): A highly controversial film, co-directed by a former pornographic actress and a former massage parlor employee turned writer, that was banned in many countries upon initial release. It divided Western media over whether the film was blatantly exploitative or had a genuine point to make. The film is highly graphic in its depiction of sex and violence and most of the actors come from a pornographic background. In spite of its often exploitative nature the film I felt had a point in its depiction of two women who after being exposed to the brutality of men and society embark upon a killing spree. Shot on grainy digital video using available light the film seems more like an amateurish porn video than an actual film but the look of the film somehow suits its subject matter very well. While it is debatable whether their actions are justified or not one should at least commend the directors for offering an unflinching view of the ghettoized nature of modern French society in all its stark hypocrisy. But it never comes close to the masterful restraint and finesse shown by La Haine which dealt with some of the same issues although from a more obviously masculine perspective.

The Shawshank Redemption: Another of my favorite films, Frank Darabont’s almost perfect adaptation of Stephen King’s novella is a modern masterpiece. It is a film that revels in the simple joy of telling a good story. Criminally ignored upon its initial release this film has developed a huge fan following after its DVD release and rightly so. It even managed to creep up to the #2 position in IMDB’s list of top 250 films of all time. A simple, warm and touching story set in an American prison the film is above all about one man’s hope. A hope that he will never let die. Morgan Freeman is simply brilliant and disappears into his character with his warm voice overs (that actually started an irritating trend for using his voice for narration in many other films) and gentle smile. This is a film you will keep coming back to over and over again and in the process find something new to like every time.

In my eyes
you lived
like a flower, flowering
only in my
daily daydreams.

——

I let them play
hide and seek
on my closed eyelids
seeking to believe
that their every touch
is a warm kiss from you.

—–

I covet,
I protect,
their mediocrity,
their patchiness,
like a jealous mother.

—–

They
do not affect me
anymore
as winter had
seeped into my soul
snowflake by snowflake
while I was immersed
in your silence.

——

I’m sitting
in the eye of a storm
watching the calm
waiting for reality to
unleash her sordid story.

(I never post opinion pieces on this blog but I think this needs to be told here too. Cross posted here.)

It is as if India is losing her humanity part by part. Coming close on the heels of the recent spate of reports on women molested in various parts of India is this horrific and tragic report from Surat about a brave man named Keshav Vishwakarma who tried to prevent a woman from being heckled. For being a good Samaritan, four hours later, he was doused with kerosene and put on fire. Incredibly, with 75% burn injuries he walked two kilometers to a police station to report the incident. Unfortunately, he later succumbed to his injuries at the hospital.

It is nothing new that women in India have a torrid time in public spaces. Even as a child I could not help but notice how careful my mother would be when she had to go out alone or with me as a child to any public space, be it to the market or to the cinema or to drop me off at school. She would carefully wrap her pallu around herself completely so that no bare skin was visible anywhere between her face and feet. In the bus she always made sure that she sat as much in the front as possible, away from the men’s seats and on the road she would ask me to walk on the outer side so that I’d be shielding her from passing traffic (meaning the sundry Indian male who would not think twice about grabbing or groping a woman in public).

Later, when I was older I’d listen in horror as my female friends recounted incident after incident about how disgusting and desperate the average Indian male is in public. I was ashamed and embarassed that the freedom I took for granted came with so many reservations for them. To think that every time they were out in public they had to deal with innumerable snide comments which would range from ‘kya potti hai re’ to men in cars slowing down to ask ‘ati kya?’ showed me how different a world it is for an Indian woman compared to her male counterpart. They had to be on constant guard to not let men get too close in public spaces. For if men got too close more often than not their body parts would be groped, grabbed or pawed in the most obscene way. My friends often would not take it laying down if they were in a group and always tried to fight back. But they also knew that it was safer to keep quiet especially if they were alone. They knew from practical experience how unsafe it is for an Indian woman to walk on the street alone even in a big city like Hyderabad. And these were the so called elite upper middle class women who were confident, educated and unapologetic about what they wore or how they behaved and who therefore, according to some, are asking for such abuse by dressing or behaving unlike a ‘traditional Indian woman’. One friend of mine, upon listening to such incidents from my friends above, even had the gall to say that if they stopped wearing dresses befitting a whore they would be given more respect! Unfortunately, the truth is not so simple. Even women who wear ‘traditional’ Indian dresses are not spared such abuse. I recall a nonsensical dress code directive by Anna University along the very lines of such an argument about which I had blogged here.

So why do we Indian men behave like this? Many men would object perhaps saying that men are the same everywhere in the world. To a certain extent that is true. But I’ve observed how big a difference there is between the average European male and his Indian counterpart when it comes to women. Men defer to women here in public spaces. Although men do eye good looking women here it is limited to just that. There are no snide or obscene comments passed and in my four years here I’ve never ever seen a man behave obscenely towards a woman in public. Yes, there are occasionally teenagers who seem to tease women but they are more the exception than the rule.

This past year has been the year of the (American) TV series for me. I’ve watched some really great shows that have become firm favorites and which I can and do watch over and over again.

1. Battlestar Galactica (2003/4 reimagining): Perhaps my favorite TV series among all the shows I’ve seen. For more read my post on the show here. While Razor, which aired last November and tells the story of Battlestar Pegasus was something of a disappointment, I’m impatiently waiting