The Song Lord

Numbers

2011-12-04T00:27:00.001+05:30

Numbers. The entire world is a number. The entire universe,all infinity of it, it is all a number. Even as you read this, in words thattry to approximate reality but fail, there are numbers describing you. There isa number for how fast you read this, a number for how long before you stop, anumber that is your smile and a number that is your eyes. They are all numbers,and they are true.

Your reality is a number, and your imagination is a number.Even as you try to conceive an idea that cannot be expressed through the mediumof numbers, you have failed, for numbers rule all, even your own mind.

The world is numbers. A number describes the length of yourarm. It describes how long it’s been since you last had sex. There is a numberfor Obama’s popularity, for the area of the moon, for the whiteness of yourteeth. Numbers are everything.

Ask Euler, not that he’s alive, but bring him back from thedead and then ask him, what is the most beautiful thing in the world? AskErdos, or Gauss, or Ramanujan. They will tell you the truth: that it is anumber. Beauty is described by numbers, so is truth, so is sorrow and so isjoy.

Music is numbers. Numbers describe sound; they expressfrequency, wavelength, velocity. But they also tell us beat, rhythm, melody andharmony. Lyrics are numbers, for words are numbers. Musical notation is merelynumbers, and the sight we use to see it is numbers, and the hearing we use tolisten to it is numbers too.

Consider, then. Words are numbers. Take agoraphobia, ordecentralisation. Take geography, or creationism. They are all numbers,regardless of what they mean. They are numbers, and they refer to numbers. Allelse is semantics, and semantics is also numbers.

Numbers rule our world; it is they who are our gods. πdetermines our life spans, e decides our fates. i is the ruler of our mad rightbrain, and 1 is the expression of our logical left brain. They are all numbers.Gravity and light are numbers. Protons and electrons are not merely governed bynumbers, which are ironclad and refuse to change. They are numbers, quantum and weird as all hell, which change all thetime with a rhyme and a reason known only to them.

So too are the gods numbers. Brahma is ∞; the entireuniverse is created by him and from him. Shiva is 0, who destroys all that passinto him without a care. And Vishnu is Unity, 1, the preserver who does notchange, but keeps the balance between the two who battle forever. And so theynumber three, no more, no less.

We are not in some tedious matrix world. Ours is too trueand complex for that. The numbers that dictate this world do not just tell uslikelihood and probabilities, they tell us our genes and our characters. Yourunique being is a specific expression of a specific number in a specificfashion, without it you are nothing. And nothing is also a number. The entiretyof numbers that describe the whole universe could sit comfortably in the gapbetween 0.0050 and 0.0051. It is a tiny abyss, a universe in miniature.

Numbers are the world.

Geekiness

2011-11-21T05:19:00.000+05:30

I am such a geek. I know I am a geek, I feel it in my bones.

I know this because of the things that bring me joy.

Manga brings me joy. A new chapter of One Piece, and old chapter of GetBackers, a coolly told fight or a sappy idealistic declaration by the stupid hero, they bring a smile to my face.

Video games bring me joy. I jumped for it when I realised Dragon Age 2 was out, I hugged a stranger once when it transpired that we both felt the exact same way towards Starcraft and Oblivion (that emotion being sheer, unadulterated AWE).

Television brings me joy. I can and do talk for hours, and hours, and hours about what TV I love, and what TV I don't. I love Sherlock and Doctor Who, The West Wing and The Wire.

Fantasy brings me joy. To have read, obsessively, every single book in the Wheel of Time, to have memorised the intro to The Name of the Wind, to have the gall to call myself Sauron and be called Sauron, there is nothing that is as joyous as that.

Science Fiction brings me joy. To have read the Guide more times than I care to remember, to have imagined Dune too many times to forget, to have seen in the eye of my mind exactly what Ender's Battle Room looks like, it is etched deep into my skull now.

More things than these bring me joy. They bring me so much joy that sometimes I must stop myself from exposing myself to them for fear of becoming used to that which should be carefully rationed out will take that joy away from me. And the fact that I bother to consider this, the fact that that there is a calculus by which I determine whether or not to procure an item that fulfils my enjoyment of these things merely reinforces the idea that I am, in fact, a geek.

I am a geek, and it brings me joy.

chess and cigarettes and the blues

2011-06-11T23:41:00.001+05:30

Chess and cigarettes and the blues. These are the things that remind me of her. Well, they remind of being in love with her, mostly. Which is odd, because we never played chess, neither of us smoked then, and I only started listening to the blues three weeks ago.

And yet, there’s something about the clink of a chess piece against a wooden board that reminds me of her. The way my opponent moves his bishops, decisively and without a second’s hesitation, is uncomfortably similar to the way her fingers would move across her piano. The aura she exuded, one of calculated intelligence, was endearing but also frightening. She wasn’t a queen, because queens don’t have time to stop and think. Neither was she a knight, because she never leapt to conclusions, and never leapt towards anything.

She was a bishop. She thought in lines that were straight and not straight; she kept to her rules and never broke them, but if you asked me now I could not name a one of them. Even as I sit here, contemplating the game that unfolds in front of me she haunts my thoughts (Pawn to e5, I hear myself say, and I regret that I didn’t say Bishop takes King’s Knight instead, though it would have been a risky move, and foolish too).

We play for ten more minutes, our moves clacking against the board. After a furious exchange of pieces, with more than one deft manoeuvre on both our parts, we are left with a stalemate: he has no move he can make. We shake hands, and I walk outside the dreary hall, the game had been more challenging that I’d expected. They have announced a break; it will be fifteen minutes before they start the next round, which is to be the penultimate one today.

I find myself in the company of some other chess players in this tournament, most of them nonchalant about the whole thing, as if it is a matter of course that they take part in this sort of event. Perhaps for them it is. There are four of them, standing in the heat of the summer afternoon. One is a tall, fat man with brown hair and a face like a ghost who merely nods at me; he is the favourite to win this competition. Beside him is a boy, barely into his teens, but I am not fooled by his youth. I have seen him play, and it is with a kind of intense calmness usually only found on the faces of tigers stalking their prey. I have learnt more than a few things from him today, but I hope to learn more. His brown eyes bore into mine like he is trying to divine my strategies, and for more than a few moments I think he will.

The third one is a woman, wiry and short, who is wearing glasses of a shade of purple I did not know existed. She is smiling, and seems to be the only one here excited about the prospect of advancing to the next stage, to the nationals. She is the one who has waved me over, even as she speaks to the last of the four she nods me a greeting. But it is this last man who interests me the most, for it is him that I have just played, and just drawn against. He greets me wordlessly, and offers me a cigarette before taking one himself. The woman wrinkles her face with part-disapproval and part-exasperation, before taking the boy with her and moving three steps back.

We light our cigarettes, him with his lighter, I with the matchbox that is my constant companion these days, and descend into a silence more deafening than the trumpeting of a thousand elephants. I have never known how to talk to strangers; in some ways this is comforting, to know that other people don’t, either. I am being pulled back into my reverie, my memories of her coming back to me as if she were standing in front of me (I can’t understand it, they kill you, they kill you and leave you to die, and he let them! They leave your lungs a black, heaving mess, your throat atrophies and your fingers shake and he just continued buying the damn things-)

‘Good game’, he says, in a gravelly voice. I am grateful for the interruption. This is one thing I can talk about, so I do.

‘Yeah, I was a bit careless with my rook towards the ending.’

‘No, I think you did what you had to. If it hadn’t been my knight, it would’ve been my bishop.’ I wonder if he notices me almost wince.

The tall man in front of us (I have never been sure of names) speaks with a jovial lilt to his voice that belies his stern demeanour.

‘Your strategy with the queen was terrific; I’ve never seen anything like it before! Where did you think of that?’

And with that, we descend into a discussion of chess, its theory and its practice, with our two companions advancing from their position one inch at a time. They are both of them too much in love with chess to let something like nicotine stop them from discussing it. They might not be interested in the competition, but they’re certainly enamoured with the game. Much as I have been, for the last too many years.

We’re called back, half an hour later, earlier than we’d expected since these things usually run much longer than anyone expects them to even with the timers and the stern warnings.

My last game is against an old man. He is wearing a hat that seems to be made of some sort of rubber; for the life of me I cannot figure out why. My every move is interrupted by contemplations as to its provenance, but nonetheless we get done in the time we are allotted. I have beaten him handily, once he gave up his queen in a rather silly move it was easy going. He smiles at me, and thanks me for an interesting match, and shakes my hand before joining what seems to be his family.

There is another break, a shorter one this time, during which I find my previous opponent and his friends discussing what they might do if they do happen to advance. As they see me approaching the tall one (whose name I still cannot recall) gives me a toothy grin, and continues his earnest interrogation of my queen tactics. It is refreshing to talk to someone who is able to keep up with my rather long-winded theories.

When they announce the winner of the day, and all the ones who have advanced, I am not surprised to find that all my comrades and I have placed in the top eight. Of the 128 people here, only we will go through to the national rounds, in three weeks’ time. The woman takes my number and my e-mail, and tells me she is planning on car pooling it there, and I assure her that I will be very glad to join her.

As I walk back towards the bus stand, past the shops and the cafes and the eateries, my mind cannot help but return to thoughts of her. I wonder what she would have thought, to see me doing so well. Then I forcefully throw that notion out of my mind, find my music player and stick my earphones into my ears.

Though I’ve not listened to Chopin in a while, and I have been given some music by a man called Jeff Buckley (who I’ve been assured was the greatest artist to die before his time in recent years), my fingers still choose to listen to the same people I have been hearing incessantly since I discovered them, the musicians of New Orleans. As the trumpets and the strings and the pianos envelop me, there is only one thought in my mind.

It has been a good day.

The Most Ancient and Excellent Sport of Cricket

2011-06-04T00:30:00.002+05:30

I am crap at cricket, and it should not be surprising. As a batsman I have little-to-no hand-eye co-ordination, my arms are too weak to hit the ball farther than five feet, my legs stay glued to the ground, unable to move. As a fielder I am terrified that the ball will come my way, I have no speed when it comes to running, and my hands do a terrific imitation of a frog when I try to catch something. As a bowler I’m not that bad. I get the ball to spin (sometimes) and I trick the batsman with my googlies (rarely). I am crap at cricket, but despite this, I enjoy it a lot.

I enjoy playing cricket as much as any Indian boy who has grown up playing cricket. Watching it has its own joys, but playing it is special.

I love playing cricket, and like most people I know, the best memories of playing cricket have never been in grounds designed for that purpose. In many ways, gully cricket is truly the best form of the game, because cricket is intrinsically a game of location.

Everything is about placement. Placement, of the shot, the fielder, the line and length of the ball, these are what make the game enjoyable. But gully cricket, the kind of cricket I played, had its own idiosyncrasies. There was never a home advantage like the one you have when you play at your home, with the rules you’ve come up with.

The reason I write this is because I think anyone who’s ever played cricket in a place that is not a large ground adheres to some form of these rules, and any group of players will invariably come up with similar rules regarding the same place. Cricket is cricket, and when faced with a tree, or a wall, or a door, the cricket player’s mind works in certain predictable ways.

The first common-sense rule of playing cricket is conservation of ball. If anyone makes the ball go somewhere it is difficult or impossible to get it back from, that idiot should be out.

I had a friend whose front verandah was essentially a long, straight strip, with relatively low walls and houses on either side. The only way to play, then, was to hit the ball straight and on the ground. Anywhere else and you’d lob the ball into the building next door, and that’s an automatic out. Hit it straight and high, and it would go into your friend’s house, and that’s not much better. For someone who was used to having a large offside for long-pitch, it was painful to play.

The house in Marredpally had a few places and ways to play in them. In the verandah outside it eternally depended on what cars were there and whether you could get someone to move them. Whether we played short pitch or long pitch also depended on how much effort one wanted to put into bowling. And, of course, if the ball got hit into the terrace of the building opposite, you were out. I rather suspect that if you got onto that terrace today, you would find a graveyard of hundreds of old rubber balls, all waiting to be reclaimed.

The second common-sense rule of playing cricket is conservation of force. Anyone who hits the ball hard in a direction that is problematic has to be out.

The upstairs triangle was the shortest of short pitches. You could run from one end to the other with one large stride. Of course, the ball had to be out of the hands of a fielder for long enough to allow that to happen. The easiest way to ensure the batsman didn’t get easy runs, and also makes sure there were no injuries, was to declare full-toss wall out. There were perhaps two patches of wall this didn’t cover, one of which was the 2-d space and one of which was the boundary area (I find it rather hilarious that while full-toss wall was out, full-toss door was not. That margin of error must have been tiny).

The third common-sense rule of cricket is ease of getting out. Batsmen shouldn’t be allowed to just stand there, accumulating runs.

On long pitches this isn’t that much of a problem, given that bowlers have space to run, and batsmen can hit foolish shots and get caught out. On shorter pitches, however, like the third floor terrace at school, we’d find there was a necessity to also introduce the one-tup-one-hand rule. This was a pain, because seemingly safe shots would find their way into the single hand of a fielder after a bounce, or a fielder would catch something with one hand only to support it with his other. It was the cause of much drama, ruling whether or not a catch was with one hand or two. Other esoteric rules include things like the three times body rule, or the omniscient wicket keeper behind the batsman, allowing any edged shot to be caught behind.

The fourth common-sense rule of cricket is ease of getting runs. Batsmen had to get some credit at least for pushing the ball in such a way as to avoid every awkward rule introduced thus far.

On oddly shaped pitches (i.e. most, if not all, of the pitches I’ve ever played at) we’d have to rule certain areas of the pitch as mini boundaries. If a tree was in the way, or there weren’t enough fielders to police every area of the pitch, it was easier to just say that hitting the ball in certain directions guaranteed one or two runs. In sufficiently cramped spaces, touch-one-run might be a better idea than having to run at all.

Everyone has some form of these rules in their head, simply from having played cricket and knowing how it works. When I put up a status on Facebook about playing cricket with Hredai and Sharan, with rules like one-tup-one-hand, touch-one-run, and full-toss-wall out, Vallabh was able to not only diagnose it as extreme short pitch, but also specifically as Srikrishna’s garage.

I think that’s terrific.

To Break a Bow

2011-05-20T19:46:00.000+05:30

As Rama did the impossible and lifted the bow, wondering what all the fuss was about, he was overtaken by something else. This was almost like the first time, when he had killed Tataki, but this feeling was so much more.

Power. All that he knew was power. All of creation laid bare for him to do with as he pleased. The entire world ready to do his bidding, if he but thought about it. There was nothing but power in him, and he would destroy any who challenged him. The bow in his hands was an insult to his stature. How dare the Destroyer pretend to his throne? He was the greatest of the Three. He had come down to the Earth six times before, and he would do so three times again. Brahma and Shiva were nothing. Nothing! And with a single movement, he destroyed the bow that Vishwakarma had made for Shiva. Only one weapon was allowed to be so powerful, and that was his Sudarshana chakra.

He looked around, seeing the eyes of humans and the looks on their faces; aghast, amazed. And then his eyes landed on one pair that was neither. It was calculating, cold, and reminded him of only one other. This was one of Prajapati’s Seven! He dared to meet the eyes of the Preserver, as if he was an equal! The presumptuousness! And his plans, the ones he had woven around every unsuspecting one of his devotees, the ones that no doubt the rest of his blasted brotherhood had more of, they were finally laid bare to him. This would be a lesson none would forget. The annals of history would echo with the mournful cries of this pathetic mortal -

And then another pair of eyes caught his attention. Ones that were deeper than any he had known. Lakshmi. And in a dark corner of his mind, there was a whisper. Sita, it said. Sita Janaki Vaidehi. What in the-

Sita. She Who Was Born in the Earth. Janaki, the daughter of the King Janaka. Vaidehi, Princess of the Kingdom descended from the Moon, Videha. Maithili, Queen of the City of Mithila. Sita. Sitasitasitasitasita

And then Rama collapsed, oblivion taking him and his memories of omnipotence.

________________________________________________________________

i was feeling really guilty that i had not written more, and i had this written from long ago. i really like it, ok? even if it is short, and an orphan from the rest of the story i'm supposed to be telling.

Avalon

2011-03-24T20:01:00.001+05:30

There is a place, far, far away

And I will go there eventually some day

Where Arthur and Merlin wait for the call.

Heaven and Paradise can wait for a while

For there’s another locale where I’ll

Watch the twilit eventide fall.

Valhalla sounds nice

But it ain’t got no spice

And Nirvana’s also a state of no beer

Vaikuntham ain’t bitter

(‘Cept for that thousand-headed critter)

But there’s only one place me heart holds dear

Give me my pick

And I’ll tell you double-quick

Avalon’s the only place for me

It’s got books and it’s got beaches

No end of pineapples or peaches

And there I shall truly be free

I’ll talk to Mab and Titania

(Queens of Madness and Mania)

To Faust and to the Jabberwock too

I’ll drink at the Hilton

With Keynes and with Milton

Nothing less than the finest Scotch brew

Oh, Heaven’s not really for people like me

Angels make for boring company

Their wings and their haloes aren’t my style

I don’t want to sing Hosanna

And I crave more than just manna

Anything else would be denial

I’ll go instead

To the sleeping, not the dead

And chat up the Lady of the Lake

I’ll avoid all them duties

And chase all them beauties

In a dream from which I never shall wake.

Change

2011-03-08T04:57:00.001+05:30

Sometimes change is good
It is new and green and spring
Sometimes it is good
To hear nature newly sing

Sometimes it is hard
To see an old friend go
To see comfortable things
Disappear over the rainbow

Sometimes old is restrictive
But sometimes it is not
And sometimes it is hard
To figure out which should be forgot

But this is a change,
And it has happened,
And it is time,
To move on.

Sometimes even bad poetry can say something good.

Trains

2011-02-25T17:14:00.000+05:30

~~I like trains.~~

I love trains. There aren't very many good things about them. They're cramped. The food is almost always awful. The non A/C compartments are liable to fry you alive, and the A/C compartments are likely to freeze you to death. The stations are invariably overcrowded, the toilets are stinky, the space underneath your seat never enough for all your bags.

Oh, how I love trains. The dagadagadaga of the wheels underneath you. The little bedside lamp that you never use, because it's just too bright. Looking out of the window, to see miles of woodland, or farmland. Going over a bridge, wondering whether it can take the weight of this giant machine. Stopping in a sleepy little town, or a not-so-sleepy metro, where vendors outside try to sell you plastic nothings. Reading your book, because you have nothing better to do, and let us be honest, don't want anything better to do.

Trains have character. Not like aeroplanes. Giant metal birds, sterilised, air-pressured, air hostesses saying please-sir-put-your-cellphone-off all the time, never willing to accept that if the most advanced flight systems of the world could be foiled by a mobile phone, Nokia would be marketing very successfully to Al-Qaeda. Even the food is tasteless. On trains, the food always tastes of something. The cutlets are sublime, the coffee is never bland. You only ever travel on planes because they're convenient. There is no other reason why one should travel by it.

Trains are most certainly not like cars. Horrible, cramped things with no space for your legs or for your head or for your arms or for anything. Wearing a seat belt, and not being able to move at all. The cars behind you insist on going at the speed of light, and the cars in front of you have probably never heard of Einstein or Heisenberg, and madcap motorcyclists trying to find new ad inventive ways of overtaking and/or committing suicide. Horns everywhere, and people swearing at each other.

No, the train is a special thing. The locomotive's wheels, the steam engine, the tracks on which they ride, are far superior to any mode of transport that has ever been conceived. They are conducive to memories and conversations and a dozen other things. They are home in a way nothing else is home, for trains are the technology of the Old World of British India married to the bureaucracy of the New World of the Republic of Hindustan. Sheets and pillows and rough towels that you never, ever use, the almost forgotten sigh of 'I wonder what first A/C is like', and waving to people on platforms, on roads, on construction sites, watching their bemused faces as they wave back before going on with their lives.

Traveling on a train is a cathartic experience for me. It is a way of letting go of everywhere outside, my only contact my phone, which is inevitably deprived of signal and of charge. My space the upper berth that no one else will have because it is too painful to climb, my time the entire day it takes from Hyderabad to Delhi, or the short night it takes from Secunderabad to Madras, my world my own.

The best memories I have on trains are the ones I have of going to weddings, with my entire family. Playing bluff and 304 and Uno. Buying and sharing pakodas and mixture. Huddling underneath rugs to keep warm, and talking and laughing and saying 'DODDIK-PO!' to each other.

I love trains.

Forests - Six

2011-02-06T18:07:00.000+05:30

Ahalya

Over the last month Lakshmana has seen more forest than he’d care to see for the rest of his life. There was no difference whatsoever between one square yojana of trees and another, save that sometimes there was a stream to make things more interesting. They were well and truly lost, and depended on the Hermit more than ever. They would hunt at his word, though he never partook of the meat, and they would rest at this word, though he seemed to never tire.

Lost they might have been, but they knew enough to tell that the Hermit was also quite definitely not heading back to Ayodhya. He was not even heading towards anything that could be remotely described as civilisation. Lakshmana had seen a few maps of where he thought they were, and they all agreed that it was nothing but wilderness this far east and south of the Ganga. The stars said they were going towards the river, Rama said they were definitely heading towards Rani Kausalya’s kingdom, though that was a few hundred yojanas away, and the Hermit said they were heading towards ‘the Monk.’ He never felt it necessary to expand on whom the Monk was. Rama remarked that it was probably one of the Seven, Gautama or Bharadwaja or Atri or Agastya.

‘Agastya is the Priest’ Vishwamitra said, and left it at that.

But as they ploughed on, never stopping for so much as an explanation, the princes grew ever more frustrated. By now they could have been halfway to Ayodhya, they could have found a chariot travelling home and taken it, even. But the Hermit led them resolutely in the other direction, and they had no choice but to follow him, with only the thought that the Hermit probably had a reason for hiding things from them to comfort them. About a week after they had left the sacrificial grounds, though, the Hermit finally had something to say.

‘Tell me, young princes. Is that a hut I see in the distance, or are my eyes fooling me in my old age?’

Rama and Lakshmana peered in the direction that the Hermit was indicating, but they knew there was no real point to it. If there was a hut in the distance, the Hermit knew about it. Asking them was meaningless.

‘It is indeed, Guruji. Just one tiny hut, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Is this the ashram of the Monk?’ said Rama, his eyes picking out a spot of brown in the distance that could, with much imagination, be seen to resemble a cottage.

‘It is not in the middle of nowhere, as you so poetically put it. It is on the banks of the most holy river on our Earth. It is on the banks of this same river that the kingdom of Rani Sumitra is established, a mere forty yojanas away. Yes, we are not far from Kashi at all.’ Rama and Lakshmana looked at him in amazement. Apparently they had been travelling much faster than they had thought, to have covered so much ground. ‘But there is another reason we are here. A reason that has as much to do with Gautama as it has to do with his wife, Ahalya. Listen and attend, my princes, for this is the story of Indra’s downfall.’

As he talked they continued walking towards the cottage in the distance, the story completely engrossing their minds until they paid no attention to where they were going.

‘In the Satya Yuga the Seven may as well have been gods. They were born of Brahma’s mind, their souls made from the fabric of Kala, Time itself. They were thus blessed with both the Creator’s intellect and his creativity, but there was something they lacked. They desired wives just as their father had one, ones who would match their brilliance. And so Brahma found wives for his sons, each to each. Just as Vasishta married Arundhati, and Atri wedded Anasuya, Gautama’s bride was Ahalya.’

The Sage’s tone grew wistful, his breath quickening ever so slightly.

‘Ahalya was a vision of beauty. I met her only once before her tragedy, but that meeting remains indelible in my mind for more reasons that one. My kshatriya’s mind and my kshatriya’s eyes may have wandered where they were not meant to go, but it was obvious that her heart and soul belonged to someone else. I believed then, and I believe now, that she has always been in love with only one man. It was clear in the way she walked and talked and smiled. The question, of course, is which man? And to that I have no answer.’

‘Stories of Ahalya’s beauty were so numerous that eventually they reached the ears of the king of the Devas, and he has never been able to resist a challenge. Indra’s prowess with women has always been legendary, so to hear of Ahalya proved irresistible for him. This time, however, he went just a little bit too far. In his haste to possess that which did not belong to him, he never once considered the consequences of his actions, he would come to regret his actions in the aftermath.’

‘He used his not inconsiderable powers to fashion himself in the manner of Gautama, and descended in that form to the Monk’s hermitage. He found Ahalya there, and he found Gautama missing, so he did what I assume seemed like a logical idea at the time. He approached her, only as a husband should. Was Ahalya truly fooled by Indra’s maya? There are many stories about the powers of the ones who are wives to the Seven, but having never been one, I can neither confirm nor deny these conjectures. Now, centuries after the act, does it matter?’

‘Perhaps not. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances for all involved, for it was during the culmination of that act that Gautama finally returned from his daily bathe in the Ganga, and found his wife in bed with the Rain God. An angered brahmin is a fearsome one, but an angered Monk is a sight even the king of the Devas found terrifying. Before either of them could react, Gautama cursed Indra, and he cursed his wife, and the curse of a son of Brahma is potent indeed. He cursed Indra to impotence. He lost his ability to procreate, and take part in that act for which he had gained so much fame and infamy.’

At this juncture the Hermit burst out laughing. Lakshmana suspected there was something there, a lingering grudge between the Hermit and Indra that and occurred long ago. Perhaps it would be worth digging up that little story, whatever it might be.

‘Then, to add insult to injury, he cursed Indra to have a thousand phalluses erupt all over his body, humiliating him even further. At that second he paused to take breath, and in that time Indra fled the scene, too scared to find out what else the Monk might do to him. Of course, this left Gautama with his wife.’

‘In those few seconds his rage might have cooled, but I doubt it. His second curse was as vindictive as his first. He banished the sight of his wife from the three worlds. The beauty that had so entranced the lecher Indra would no longer plague the world with its temptation, and Ahalya would never again betray him in that way again. But once his anger had abated, once he had time to think, once the rest of the Devas had petitioned him on the behalf of their lord and his conscience pricked at him on behalf of his wife, he took a very small amount of pity on his victims. So he changed Indra’s affliction into a thousand eyes, such that he would still be constantly reminded of his act. And he promised that if ever a man proved to him that he deserved to see Ahalya’s beauty, if he entered the cottage of Gautama without a single base thought about his wife, even though he knew the legends about her, if such a man were to come to the cottage of the Monk, then he would free Ahalya from her curse, and welcome back the sight of his wife to the three worlds.’

‘How Indra regained his virility is a story for another day, though he has not regained it fully. The reason we are here now is to uphold a tradition that once took place at the very beginning of this Yuga, much before Kosala was born. Men from all over Bhulokam came to Gautama’s forest, in the hope that they would be the ones to free Ahalya from her curse. As the years passed and nothing changed, their numbers grew ever fewer, until they stopped completely. Perhaps it is time to start it once more.’

The brothers stood thunderstruck when the Hermit ended his story. What Vishwamitra was hinting at seemed obvious, but it was also ridiculous. Defeating an ancient Rakshasi was one thing; it was difficult and nerve-wracking but also somehow expected of them. Breaking ancient curses and walking into the dwellings of powerful brahmins was not something princes of Ayodhya were trained for.

‘Ah, here we are! Which of you would like to try his luck first?’ the Hermit said, as if this were some sort of street attraction at the Holi festival.

Lakshmana frowned. The Hermit always came up with surprises, and this was one in a long line of surprises. There had to be some sort of ulterior motive, something that Vishwamitra was not telling either of them, something that he suspected had to do with the Seven and the plans they wove.

‘Right, if neither of you will volunteer; I’ll have to pick one! Rama, why don’t you go first?’

Lakshmana continued to think furiously. If the spymaster of the greatest network in all of Bhulokam could not figure something like this out, what was the point of all the training? Who benefitted if Ahalya was freed from her curse?

‘Guruji, forgive me for my impertinence, but may I ask what became of Gautama after the events you just described?’ Rama asked. Lakshmana immediately focused his attention on the Hermit; their combined gazes seemingly interested in nothing more than a minor matter in the tale.

‘He retreated into a deep tapas, and has remained there since. It has been a very long time since any of us spoke to the Monk.’

Rama always did know exactly the right question to ask. Gautama, then. Gautama, who knew things that Vishwamitra did not, who would tell Vishwamitra if the context was right. What better context than to have brought the man who would save the Monk’s wife from his curse? There was something here, and Lakshmana had to get to the bottom of it.

Rama had approached the entrance of the cottage, but nothing happened. Then the Hermit jerked, and motioned to Lakshmana.

‘You too must go into the abode of the Monk, Suryaputra. You haven’t travelled and fought together thus far to be left out now, have you?’

As Rama and Lakshmana both entered the hut, one far too occupied with conspiracies and the other equally bewildered by brahmins and their ways, a blinding light suffused it, bathing everything in its warmth.

‘I thank you, sons of Ayodhya, for undoing my curse. Perhaps you would like to sit down, and I will feed you?’ said the woman who was now standing in front of them, one who could only have been Ahalya.

________________________________________________________

that was easily the most difficult of them all. i dunno if i managed it well. if you liked it, please tell me, electronically or via other means. next bit will be mithila, and will come back after i have written it.

and a line from an article that in found while doing some research:

'It is ironic that though Rama’s visit redeems Ahalya, it is because of his suspicions that Sita decides to suffer fire and later enters exile and oblivion.'

Forests - Five

2011-01-29T18:07:00.000+05:30

Sacrifice

After three gruelling weeks of memorising formulae, they had finally arrived at the sacrificial grounds. For nights on end he dreamed of scions of the Surya line, men, women, even children. He learnt more at their feet than he ever had with the Sage. Not just about astras and weaponry, but about governing a kingdom, and strategies of war, and even a little bit about spying. Through constant practice he achieved a semblance of competency with his astras. He could never match Rama for sheer brutal efficiency, but an inventive use of his skills was all he needed to be good enough to keep up with his brother. He still couldn’t understand how his heir did it. While Lakshmana was proud of being able to fire off consecutive astras, Rama would string and fire three or four of them at once. In many ways he was destruction incarnate, and yet he found the time and the patience to nurse animals they encountered on the way. Lakshmana would have been bewildered if he had not known Rama as well as he did. It had been one of the Sage’s earliest lessons: ‘A king must be both compassionate and cold-hearted. Mercy without justice, and justice without mercy will surely lead to downfall’. It had been taken to heart by all of the princes of Ayodhya.

They had arrived just as the preparations were being wound up. The brahmins were ready for the Hermit to finish the rite, to cleanse the forest of the evil influence of Tataki and her ilk. They were expecting the remnants of the Asura force to attack shortly before nightfall. They had learnt their lessons well, after the death of Tataki and the subsequent skirmishes. At times it seemed as if the Hermit was steering them towards the encampments of the Asuras, just to see if the princes could handle it. It had been annihilation. After the first few battles, the Asuras had become much more careful, never coming out by daylight, always hiding in the shadows. But they had destroyed the majority of their forces in this way, and it would be a much-weakened Asura army they would face on the final day of their mission.

Lakshmana had drawn up a battle plan, such as it was. With only two warriors guarding the entire site, anyone else might have given up. Lakshmana nearly had, until the night before. He suspected the man he had seen in his dreams was Raghu himself, but he could not know for sure. Every portrait of him in the palace had only been painted after his death, and even those had been badly damaged through one mishap or another. He had only appeared for a minute, and said only one line. ‘If you cannot attack the flesh, attack the spirit’. It was a good idea, until Lakshmana knew what it meant. At that point it became genius.

The decimation of their comrades would have had a huge impact on the confidence of the Asuras. Any rumour of their prowess would only get more fantastic with time. All they had to do was play on that fear, break the morale of the Asuras, and they would win. They would make it seem easy. They would put Rama on the ground, and hide Lakshmana in the trees. When the rakshasas saw the blue skinned one they had dubbed the Destroyer, they would already be terrified. They would not miss his brother, by that point they would be too far gone in fear and adrenaline. And while Rama used his prowess to cut down the biggest and the strongest, and awed his enemies with his brilliance, Lakshmana would strike from the canopies. Any Asura that got too close would find himself the victim of an arrow that could not possibly have come from Rama. Not that he would survive to tell the tale. And the legend of the Heir of Ayodhya could only grow, could only make their next enemies easier to fool.

Like all battle plans, of course, this one had gone to pieces the minute the first arrow had flown. For the first few hours everything had gone swimmingly. The Hermit had been chanting hymns, in a better mood than he had been since Tataki’s death. His fellow priests chatted with each other, telling stories and arguing about philosophical quandaries. Rama and Lakshmana stood on guard, alert but not unduly concerned. The first Asura made his appearance just as the Hermit started the main ritual. Rama had dispatched him easily, using only his own strength, and it had begun. Instead of a straightforward attack, more and more demons appeared on their own, posturing and testing their defences, and each time Rama beat them back. An impossible hope grew in Lakshmana’s chest. It was as if their enemies had lost all conviction. He believed that right up until they surprised him.

Whatever they had been expecting, it certainly had not been this. Instead of the straightforward bull rush that the demons were famous for, they attacked intelligently. Three squads of Asuras circled the ritual glade, each comprised of several warriors, each bent on the desecration of the ritual. Every time Rama concentrated on one unit, the other two advanced, and it began to wear on both princes. Rama’s eyes flashed briefly, and with a flurry of arrows he destroyed all three squads. For a few brief, precious moments of respite Lakshmana thought they had won. But there was still something missing. His eyes widened.

‘Rama, her sons! Where are her sons?’ he shouted.

It was a question that should have struck them both much sooner. Agastya might have cursed Mareecha and Subahu, but even before that they had been the sons of two equally powerful and dangerous beings. They were princes of a lineage as ancient as Ayodhya’s own, and they were not going to be cowed by a few flashy astras. With a roar Subahu entered the fray, and the last shred of their plan blew up. Rama was beset on all sides by just one rakshasa, arms and legs clawing and tearing. Rama never faltered, but he was hard pressed by this opponent. Just as Lakshmana reached for an arrow to help his brother, something else caught his eye. Was that a foot?

A volley of limbs was being thrown at the sacrificial fire, blood still spraying from veins and arteries. It occurred to Lakshmana that they were battling geniuses, ones trained in war and forged and tempered with blood. They had counted on losing their soldiers, counted on it and used it against the princes. A single drop of blood could render the entire exercise futile, and they had more than enough for a dozen sacrifices. Lakshmana summoned Agni and burnt every fragment of rakshasa flesh that came his way, but he knew there would be something more. Then he was attacked by rakshasas. The other son, Mareecha, was still out of sight, but the Asuras attacking him were still very good. He drew his sword, slashing desperately, drawing blood wherever possible. The stench of dead rakshasa filled the air, as even more flesh was thrown at the Hermit, and Lakshmana jumped from one tree to the next.

Explosions rocked the battlefield as Rama and Subahu fought. Everytime Rama reached for an arrow; his enemy lunged at him, forcing him to dodge. Rama never had the time to aim, only to fire blindly and hope. But Lakshmana was equally beset by Asuras, and while he was doing a little better with them, his mind was still worried by Mareecha’s absence. More blood was being rained on the battlefield, and Lakshmana threw his sword at the last Asura, before taking up his bow again and incinerating them all. Rama could take care of himself, for now Lakshmana had an Asura prince to track. His eyes scanned the battlefield, until they rested on a brahmin seemingly at ease. Which was unnerving, because the only other Brahmin at ease was Vishwamitra himself, the rest of them were huddled around the fire, nervously chanting hymns to the Devas.

Lakshmana fired one arrow, then another, directly at the odd one out, knowing that if he was wrong, he would have singlehandedly completed the Asuras work for them. The death of a Brahmin would destroy the rite. But even as the arrows flashed towards the priest, he reached for them and broke them with his bare hands. No brahmin he knew could have done that on a whim. And then he saw Yama again. Death, with his noose, calmly trying every now and again to snare Subahu and Mareecha, sometimes missing and nearly encircling one of the princes’ necks instead. It enraged Lakshmana, that even after bargaining with him he was afforded no respect, no mercy.

Clearly he thought it funny. Mrtyu, asking for Mahabali and Markandeya. Well, they were the only two he had promised. He had not said anything about Mareecha, if only because now everyone knew where he was, and Yama assumed he knew where he would be shortly. But Mareecha would not die. Lakshmana was going to make sure of that. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he watched the Asura flit through the skies, through the rain of blood and gore, all the while wondering what astra to use. Then it struck him, another joke in the divine comedy that was their lives. Not a Devastra, but a Manavastra would he use. Correctly placed, it would banish the Asura from the forest, into the southern kingdoms, and leave him too weak to be a threat. He would be alive, but not much else. And it would irritate Yama beyond anything, and that on its own was worth it.

He recited the hymns, sixteen syllables for a line, and the corner of his eye saw Yama’s eyes light up in anticipation. Then he loosed. If Rama’s Suryastra was a golden messenger of destruction, Lakshmana’s Manavastra was an icy breath of doom. It left frost in its wake, and as it struck the Asura’s chest it froze his entire body. And then it sent him flying, far and away to the south, where none would ever see him again. Seeing his brother thus attacked left Subahu in a wild fury, and that was all Rama needed. At once he strung not one, not two, not three, but four arrows to his bow, and unleashed the elements upon his enemy. Agni, Vayu, Varuna, and Indra all converged upon Subahu, and with a last bellow of defiance, he swung at Rama, and then he was gone. Yama’s eyes seemed to shimmer at Lakshmana, chuckling, and then he returned, with his prize, to his abode.

With the deaths of their princes, the last rakshasas finally lost their morale, scampering into the forest. Breaking their spirit had taken a little bit more than just shock and awe. Too tired to chase them, the princes merely leaned on their bows, trying to catch their breaths, as the Hermit came to the climax of his rite. A crackle of something emanated from the fire, its very sound alien to all who heard it. And when it was done, the princes looked around, to see that there was no blood, no flesh, no trace of all the Asuras they had battled. Every vestige had been destroyed by the Hermit’s sacrifice. And so were the forests of Tataki cleansed of her evil influence, never to be seen again.

_________________________________________________

i liked this bit. action is always fun, no? one more until we finish with forests, and go on (with any luck) to mithila.

Forests - Four

2011-01-22T18:07:00.000+05:30

Atibala

Nothing bored Lakshmana more than a puja. There was no rhyme or reason, it seemed, to what was done and when it was done, except that a long time ago someone had said ‘This is how it shall be done’. However, the Hermit insisted upon them, morning, noon, and night. Incense became his constant companion, its heady aroma clouding his mind. But it was in the middle of those pujas that Lakshmana gained the time to reflect on the journey so far, to think about the startling changes it had brought upon both him and his brother. While Lakshmana had become leaner and faster after each puja, Rama did not seem to have changed physically at all. It was almost as if he was perfect already, just waiting for the right moment to show it.

But something had changed. Rama was finally grasping whatever Vishwamitra as throwing at him. Far from perfect he might have been, but whatever solution he had found clearly worked for him. Rama always did have a knack for weaponry, his hands always quick to adapt to some new exotic implement someone had presented to Father. The darker part of Lakshmana’s mind knew it to be something much bloodier, that Rama’s hands would wreak terrible havoc upon any that threatened his kingdom, that nothing would stop him from defending Ayodhya.

Lakshmana, on the other hand, had still not found a way to manipulate the gods, as Rama seemed to be able to do. There was one way, but still the argument raged in his skull, in the quiet times he found. The day he had seen Yama, he was glad to be alive. But after that, when he had tried to see him again, that was truly terrifying. Death was everywhere, when you looked for it. Predators killed prey, and were preyed on themselves. And then he had appeared. The same man, dark as the midnight sky. When he had the time to observe him, he realised exactly who he reminded him of. His grandfather Aja had had the same grin Yama was wearing plastered on his face. His eyes were a deep russet red, his teeth impossibly white. In his hands he still held his weapons, his noose and his rod, but they were now at ease. The buffalo on which he was seated no longer shook its head, this way or that, but was content to remain still.

Nephew! You are in need of help, it seems. Well, I can give it to you, but I demand my price. And honestly, it will be one that you will not like. I’m not like Brahma, vulnerable to emotional blackmail. There is a monkey who is indestructible because of his weakness, you know. An indestructible monkey! What has the world come to? But I happen to have a reputation to maintain. If you want my help, I’m afraid you will have to work for it. The only reason I am here at all is because you finally gave me Tataki. She’s been avoiding me for centuries. Do you have any idea how many times she was nearly killed? NEARLY! Who cares for nearly when they’re still alive at the end of it? But no matter, she is with me now. So, you would like dominion over the Devas, eh?

Lakshmana had remained far more composed that he’d thought he would, for he’d thought that seeing a god would cause some sort of fainting spell, at the very least.

Of course you do, you’re a kshatriya, after all. Red-blooded and eager for battle and all that. Well. Here’s what I can do for you. I can ask a few friends of mine for their secrets. They all come to me eventually. I’m sure there is a Raghava somewhere who’s had the same problem you’ve had. So he’ll tell me, and I’ll tell you. Simple.

But in return, you have to do me a favour. There are certain individuals spread across Bhulokam, ones that are not unlike Tataki. They refuse to die, because of one boon or another. Now, I can’t directly interfere in the affairs of another god, and I wouldn’t dare! Yama’s grin grew positively evil at this. However, their husbands and wives and children are another matter entirely. And if there were one person who could tell me the whereabouts of a man who hasn’t been seen in centuries, whose appearance seems to change by the decade, well, it would be the spymaster of Ayodhya, wouldn’t it?

Lakshmana’s face had frozen, then. Yama was asking for information on total innocents, for nothing more than a grudge!

Oh dear, it seems I’ve struck a nerve, have I? Don’t forget, young kshatriya, I come for all of you, in the end. And they will be well taken care of. The balance demands it. If they’ve done nothing wrong, I can do no wrong to them. They’ll live like lords in Patalam, completely under my care. Yama’s voice, if it could be called that, seemed to harden. Their relatives up above, on the other hand, well. Perhaps they shall learn that immortality is not as sweet as it seems. And then it lightened again, the pressure that had been building in Lakshmana’s skull mercifully receding. Tell you what, I’ll not even ask you for all of them. Just give me the whereabouts of two of them. Mahabali, once the king of Asuras, and Markandeya, rishi and devotee of Shiva. I’m even fairly sure the Hermit over there knows where Markandeya is. Promise me information on the king and the brahmin, and I will give you control over the Devas.

Think on it, young kshatriya. I have all the time in the world. The question is, do you?

And he had been right. Lakshmana was running out of time, their destination growing ever closer, and while Rama was working double-time to make up for the hours he had lost, Lakshmana was still floundering in the darkness, searching for the right answer.

‘Is there something troubling you, Lakshmana?’ the Hermit said, breaking him out of his reverie. It seemed he had gone through the entire puja, making all of the relevant motions and repeating all the necessary hymns without paying any attention whatsoever.

‘Nothing, Guruji, just a minor philosophical conundrum that I have been grappling with for the past few days’ Lakshmana replied, hoping that the Hermit would be in one of his rare good moods.

‘I hope I am not boring you with my instruction, am I? After all, if you have time to think about minor philosophical conundrums, clearly I am not doing enough to occupy your mind!’ Some hopes were always in vain, it seemed.

‘Of course not Guruji, I apologise for my distraction. It will not happen again.’ He replied smoothly, hoping against hope that the Hermit would leave it at that.

‘Well, if this distraction is so important, why don’t you share it with the rest of us, then?’ Sometimes Lakshmana wondered why the word hope even existed.

‘Yes Guruji. I was merely wondering whether it was acceptable to sacrifice the freedoms and lives of a few innocents so that a greater purpose might be served, and if so, how far should one be willing to compromise one’s principles before it became too far?’ There. He hadn’t even lied about his problem.

The Hermit grinned, an action completely dissonant with his behaviour for the last week or so. Perhaps hope did come through, occasionally.

‘That is neither minor nor a conundrum, my young disciple! What we have here is nothing less than a philosophical debate that has raged since the birth of man. Your own Guru Vashishta and I have been on opposite sides of this debate many times. Suffice it to say that I personally believe that everyone sacrifices something, sooner or later, and it is better to do it for some purpose than for no purpose at all. It is a harsh truth, but valid nonetheless. Everything has a cost, but what truly determines it is whether you remember that cost, or forget the value you once placed on your sacrifices. There is no greater sin than to ignore the burdens you have placed on others so that everyone might live a better life.’

‘But enough of that! I expect you to apply yourself once more to the task at hand, Lakshmana. Time is running out for all of us. We shall be at the puja grounds within three days, and all of us must be ready.’ And with that, he walked away from Lakshmana, to where his brother was meditating on his latest astra. He would not put it past the heir to have listened in to every word of that conversation despite being on the other side of the clearing, and would not have it any other way.

Lakshmana’s face turned stony for a moment, but he accepted the truth of the Hermit’s words. If the kingdom were to prosper, the only way to do it would be to accept Yama’s help, and the strings that came with it. After all, one did not become immortal without some degree of cunning. He had no doubt that Markandeya and Mahabali had other means of fighting Death. Any information that he might give Yama would only be one piece of a giant puzzle, and would certainly not be very reliable.

His decision made, his resolve strengthened, he turned towards the fire, ready to turn in for the night. In the distance, he saw a dark man with a grim smile on his face, and just for a moment he looked like exactly like Lakshmana.

____________________________________________

bala and atibala, the twin power of the astras of the gods. now that both of our heroes have some semblance of power, maybe it's finally time for some action!

Forests - Three

2011-01-15T18:07:00.000+05:30

Bala

It was as if a fog had come upon him. For those few seconds, when Rama had unleashed the power of a god, everything was clear, obvious, simple. He knew what his purpose was, wondered in its complexity, was sure of his place in the world. Now that power was gone. That inspiration, brought about by desperation and dumb luck, was no longer his guiding light.

Now he summoned his powers through science. He called the gods with method, with practice. It was no fun anymore.

‘Fun? You are calling down the beings that watch over our mortal realm, and you’re asking for fun? Vishnu and Shiva, may the world never cease to amaze me. I’m not teaching you this so you can play with it, young rajkumar! This is not a game! Fun, he says. I wonder if you were better or worse when my dear old friend Vashista was teaching you. Why I gave up my lands and throne in favour of your ancestors, I’ll never know.’

Vishwamitra fumed silently in the distance. They had taken over a glade somewhere deep in the Southwoods, one of dozens that all looked the same, their only guide the Hermit who never let them put a foot wrong. He was not happy with their lack of progress over the last three days. Every failure was met with derision, every success with a sneer, their only motivation that they had already done everything they could, and succeeded to boot. Vishwamitra had given them no little power, conducting arcane rituals in languages that sounded alien even to Rama’s ears. Each day he felt his strength increase, saw his brother’s strides grow longer and quicker, and yet the Hermit’s temper would not abate. He had given them the physical strength, but any advice on mental strength was not forthcoming. He just told them to meditate on the gods, and chant the hymns he gave them. They started with Indra, and when the King of the Gods hadn’t come down, Vishwamitra kept giving them new hymns and new Devas, and silently seethed every time they failed. Today’s Deva was Death, and it seemed that despite their best efforts, Yama was not impressed by either of their entreaties.

‘For what it’s worth, I agree with you’, Lakshmana said, breaking him out of his reverie. There was a small smile on his face, the kind that he used to smile before the Announcement. Rama couldn’t help but think of it in those terms, an unconscious stress on the thing that had changed their lives so drastically. ‘That look on your face when you did it the first time was you having fun. So maybe you don’t get it the Hermit’s way. Whoever said there was only one way to summon Devas? I’m certainly not going to bother with this anymore. If it was going to work, it would have by now. We’re the best Ayodhya has, and if one method isn’t right, then we can always use another.’

‘And what other method would you suggest, Lakshmana?’ Rama said wearily.

‘I have absolutely no idea. As the one with the experience, I think you should be the one to experiment with how to summon gods. I am merely going to contemplate the nature of death. Who knows, maybe Yama will find it in his heart to pity me’ Lakshmana replied wryly.

Rama raised an eyebrow at that. Lakshmana had already told Vishwamitra and him of his vision, and though he believed his brother completely, the Hermit remained sceptical. Lakshmana would not be daunted in his pursuit, Rama knew, but he would now be much more circumspect about it that he would have been otherwise.

So, he settled down next to his brother, their feet crossed and their brows wrinkled, as they struggled with their hearts and souls to find it within themselves to command the wind and the fire and the oceans.

Rama went back to that day, his mind turning over that memory as it had done so many times before. He knew what had triggered his release. It had been a sort of arrogance, that nothing could be hidden from him. Guruji’s wisdom always had far reaching consequences. So perhaps, then, what would do would be to follow his Guruji’s teachings once more. He ran through every single piece of advice Guruji had ever given him.

‘Always remember that a scared warrior is a true warrior. Fear is a soldier’s best friend. The only soldiers without it are either did, or will be shortly. Fear keeps the pride in check, and pride is what kills all of us, in the end.’ Useful, perhaps, but he had learnt that in his battle with Tataki. But it had been fear of dying that had ignited his pride in the first place, which made everything more confusing.

‘A man’s motives are his own, even if that man is a woman. Men come to me, and say “Guruji, what goes on in a woman’s mind?” Women come to me to ask the same thing about men. The truth, Rama, is that all of us are as complicated as we want to be. And when you ask “Why did he do this, why did she say that?” you are asking the most difficult question of them all.’ Well, the Hermit had certainly proved that, with his wild mood swings. The man was more temperamental than the monsoons, and as unfathomable as the deep blue sea.

‘When in doubt, ask for help. Ask from whoever will give it to you, even if it seems ridiculous, because the worst that can happen is that they will say no.’ That was an interesting thought. Who would he ask for help? Who would give it to him? There were no men here to ask; his brother and he were equally clueless when it came to this, and Vishwamitra unwilling to give them any help whatsoever. Maybe Lakshmana did have the right idea, however far-fetched it sounded at first.

So ask the Devas, then. How hard can it be? Just ask, and hope that they listened. But ask whom? Indra, the king of them all? No, he was as temperamental as Vishwamitra. Vayu, the strong one? He was just as changeable as the rains, just as unreliable. Agni, the fierce one? He would burn you if you got too close. He needed to think in a different path, but what other path was there? Not Kubera, not Chandra, and certainly not Surya. A small voice in the back of his head told him his forefather had helped him once, under duress. He would not do so again. So who, then? Kartikeya, who leads the armies of the Devas? Almost, almost. But there was one who was better fitted to this, one who was tricky and mischievous and knew exactly what needed to be done and where. Not Kartikeya, but Vighneshwara, The Remover Of Obstacles, The Lord Of The Mouse, He Who Knows The Secret Places. Rama grinned. Yes, it all seemed so easy. Just ask Gajanana, He Who Has The Face Of An Elephant, for help. Just a small favour, that’s all. Only how to summon gods and make them do his bidding. Not very much, really. He knew what to do; now he just had to figure out how to do it.

Rama opened his eyes, and for a moment it seemed that they would pop out of his skull. There he was, in front of him, seated on a mouse far too small for one of his gait. Behind that trunk of his, he was smiling too, Rama was sure of it. It showed in the crinkling around the eyes, the playful swinging of his snout.

So, Rama, it seems you have need of help.

Rama continued to be dumbstruck, his mouth unable to make sounds of any sort.

Yes, don’t worry that you cannot follow the Hermit’s formulae, his dull scripture and rigid mathematics. Those are well and good, but you and your brother are cut from a different cloth. The same one that I come from, I suspect. And what am I here for, except to remove these petty obstacles from your path, just as you princes exist to remove the obstacles from the paths of your subjects?

Ganesha seemed to lean in, even as he stayed exactly where he was.

One piece of advice, Rama. The Seven are dangerous folk indeed. Be wary of them, as you should be wary of me. Nothing they do is without consequence, however much it seems insignificant. The curse the Priest cast an era ago affects the princes of Ayodhya today, and the actions of Vasishta and Vishwamitra today will reverberate for millennia to come.

Merely say my name before your every endeavour, rajkumar. We shall have fun, you and I, and never you mind the mutterings of Vishwamitra.

Rama came out of his trance, gasping for breath as if he had just run a thousand kilometres in a single second. In some ways, he had.

Lakshmana looked at him, his eyes clouded by worry and fear. His brow was slick with sweat, and the smile he offered was weaker than it had been scant half an hour before.

‘I don’t know about you, Rama, but Death scares the shit out of me.’

Forests - Two

2011-01-08T18:07:00.000+05:30

Tataki

She looked at Rama. The expression on her face was one he was accustomed to seeing, just not on a bloodthirsty demon intent on killing him. It spoke of untold weariness, and sheer exhaustion, and a very tiny amount of grim determination that was fuelling her even now. Usually it was one that his father wore, at the end of a particularly long day. It was one that veterans of the last war wore, at the beginning of the anniversary. And it was that expression that the rakshasi that he had come to slay had on her face.

'You, little boy? You will defeat me? Brahma blessed me with power and speed and wit beyond compare. Agastya cursed me into this form for all eternity. I have survived more than you can imagine. The passing of Time does not affect me. I cannot drown, cannot burn, cannot be poisoned. There is only one thing I live for. I will avenge my husband, and remove this curse from my body. But you will end me? A snivelling little brat barely out of his teens? I wish you luck, for all the good it will do you', she said in little more than a whisper, though it seemed to carry for miles.

Then another voice spoke; one that was supposed to be chanting hymns, but had stopped abruptly when Tataki had started speaking. With one hand motion he paused the world. All tension seemed to leave it, all hostility disappearing like so much water in desert heat. 'You do not know who this boy is, Tataki. He is your downfall.'

‘Hermit, do not disrespect your senior. I was old in this form before you were a thought in Brahma's mind. Death shall have no dominion over me. The noose of one as pathetic as Yama will never encircle my neck.'

'Really, rakshasi? None can best Death. He bows only to Shiva, the Destroyer, and even then under great duress. Taint the name of a son of Surya, and a son of Surya will claim restitution.'

'Hn. I would like to see him try', she said, in the softest of tones. Her manner shifted, her eyes hardened as she fought the maya of the Hermit with her own, and the battle was joined again. Gone was the tired warrior; in her place was a rakshasi eager for bloodshed.

Rama's bow was strung, his fingers ready for action, his mind calling to the memories of the Hermit's teachings. Next to him Lakshmana had a sword in hand, ready to fend off any attacks on his brother. They had both agreed that Rama was best suited for the bow; that Lakshmana's quick swordwork would come to both their advantages in a tight spot.

Rama's mind calmed. Vishwamitra's voice echoed in his skull. 'To call the Devas is not an easy task, young princes. They do not bow to just anyone. They are proud, stubborn, and wilful. And yet we know it is possible for them to aid us. I myself have done it, in times of need. And so we come to the how. How is it that kshatriyas can do what brahmins cannot, to make the Devas do one's bidding? The priests speak to them; they ask them for favours, bind them with hymns. But they cannot control the gods. That is the power of the warriors alone. And to do so, one must accept one simple fact. The gods are not people. They are ideas. And all you need to call an idea is to name it. An elephant king once called down Narayana himself, simply by naming him. And that is what you must do. Name the gods, their characters, their very being, and they will have no choice but to descend. They do not do this willingly. They do not take kindly to being summoned, whether it be by a street sweeper or Vasistha himself. And to withstand their force, you must learn Bala and Atibala. You must fortify your minds and your bodies. Do this, and the astras of the gods shall be yours.'

‘But you have not yet proved yourselves worthy of the astras of the Devas. Defeat Tataki own your own merit, and then I shall teach you to wield Bala and Atibala. Show me the power of the Line of Surya.’

Tataki swung wildly at the two princes, her reach far longer than any normal woman’s. As Lakshmana tried to defend his brother, jumping over the demoness’ arm before landing awkwardly a few feet away, Rama was already pulling back his bowstring, launching one arrow, then another, then a third, all at the most vital points he could find. And yet, despite the skill of Ayodhya’s best, despite the fact that Rama knew that he was aiming for the eyes, that arrows should have hit the eyes, they missed. Every single one of them.

He had already been separated from his brother. Lakshmana was behind the rakshasi, trying to regain lost ground, but she was moving too fast for either of the princes to find purchase. He continued to fire arrows at her, but to no avail. Rama’s mind, always fast, always fluid, always flexible, could come to only one conclusion. They were not good enough. The crown princes of Ayodhya, descendents of the Sun, sons of Dasaratha, grandsons of Aja, the best in the realm, were not good enough. And that was not acceptable. Rama refused to bow in the face of adharma. The sun brooked no defeat, brooked no insults. The demoness had insulted his family, for was not Yama the son of Surya? And for that, she would pay.

With a final gasp of breath, Rama nocked his very last arrow. He poured all his might, all of his very being into it, as he tracked the demoness’ chest and the beating heart that lay underneath it. And, just as he was about to loose, a single unbidden thought came to him.

'Some things are hidden even from the one from whom nothing is hidden'

He was a Suryaputra! He destroyed secrets and shadows and left nothing but light! THERE WOULD BE NOTHING HIDDEN FROM HIM!

Just for the briefest of moments, when it mattered the most, the meaning of the most powerful hymns of flickered in his mind. A spark that grew into a flame that became an inferno of four simple lines praising none other than his own grandfather many times over. He named his patron, Savitr-called-Surya, and beckoned him into his last weapon. And then he loosed.

That single arrow was transformed. Once it might have been wood and metal and nothing more. Now it was a golden missile, bent on destroying anything that came in its path, demoness or no demoness. He saw Tataki’s eyes widen, he felt Lakshmana dive out of its path, and he just knew that back in Ayodhya Guruji was meditating in his ashram, the ghost of a proud smile dancing on his lips.

Tataki’s death was a conflagration of light. As it struck her breast, it burned through blood and bone, lungs and heart dissipating in its wake. The utter disbelief in Tataki’s eyes might have been comical had she not been about to skewer him with her claws. And so the deed was done. He had killed Tataki, and he had not needed anyone’s strength but his own. Surya could still hold his head high, secure in the knowledge that his descendants were still the most powerful of them all.

In those precious moments of reflection, when he was trying to recover from that one instant of sheer clarity, he missed a single detail. One that his brother managed to catch. Lakshmana, while diving out of the path of the astra, had for once seen something that his brother did not. A dark man, with a noose in one hand, an iron rod in the other, seated on a buffalo, trying desperately to encircle Tataki’s neck. One who, after Rama’s arrow pierced the heart of the demoness, finally succeeded. One who then winked at Lakshmana, as if to say ‘You cannot avoid me forever’, before disappearing with his prize.

There would be much discussion after the fact, of how exactly Rama had managed to call down Surya without Bala or Atibala, of whether Lakshmana’s visions of Yama were caused by fatigue, adrenaline, or some combination of the two. But for now, both princes were happy to be alive, to have killed a demoness far older than them, and to know that the other had not died.

___________________________________________________

aaaaaaand cut. i really liked this bit, i thought it came out well.

Forests - One

2011-01-01T21:07:00.000+05:30

this is the sequel to an earlier series i had written called Ayodhya. All parts of my unworthy version of the Ramayana can be found under the label myths.

________________________________________________________________________

Kaama

A forest is full of sounds. This was the first thing that Rama noticed. It was one thing to have keen ears in a palace, where it was only people who talked and walked and made noise. It was quite another in the natural habitat of dozens of different predators and just as many prey. Every noise signified something, but in the time it took to ponder it’s significance, another replaced it. Even Rama’s admittedly superior sense of hearing could not keep up with the sudden increase in information.

'Just a little further, young princes. I imagine after yesterday you need rest, yes?' the Hermit said. Vishwamitra really was unlike Vashista in the most surprising of ways. They had stopped at the Hermitage of Kama the day before, and the things that he had heard still made him blush! The Hermit, on the other hand, did not seem to care. He merely smiled and said something about getting a proper education. And when he spoke to Lakshmana about it, his brother looked at him and said that learning to control one’s urges was all very well, but they had those urges for a reason. It had taken him an entire minute to realise that he had been joking. Perhaps his brother was coming back to them, however slowly the process might be.

However, the visit did prove useful. Vishwamitra used a combination of flattery and seniority to persuade the brahmins to keep the princes occupied, and disappeared into the forest. After listening to several rather embarrassing treatises on various ….. positions inspired by the escapades of God of Love himself (or so the legend went) they had finally come to something useful. The demoness Tataki, devourer of brahmins.

It was one of the elder yogis who told the story. They called him Shanti, though it was likely that his parents had named him something different, a name that he had replaced once he joined the ashram. He intoned the Gayatri mantra first, something that Rama had heard since before his birth, but could never recall. It seemed that whenever he tried, he came up with nothing but a blinding headache. He had once asked Guruji why this was so, and Guruji had smiled at him, and said 'Some things are hidden even from the one from whom nothing is hidden'. Guruji really did take a delight in being obtuse, sometimes.

'Listen well, Daasarathi, for this story has its beginnings in the very dawn of time'. Just like many of the priests sitting around them, he thought, before he batted it away. Next to him, Lakshmana restrained himself from letting out a loud guffaw, no doubt from having entertained a view along similar lines. Rama frowned. It seemed the Hermit was rubbing off on both of them, and not always in a good way. He shook his head and continued to listen to the yogi, who now seemed to be extolling the virtues of Ganesha, though for what reason Rama could have guessed. In an extremely roundabout manner, the yogi finally arrived at what Rama assumed was the crux of the matter.

'-and that is why we do not anger any of the Seven, for their wrath can be, and often is, great and terrible indeed. This is a lesson that Tataki learned a very long time ago, in the Satya Yuga itself. In those days much that we take to be fixed was mutable, and much that we now know to be mutable was fixed. Some laws, much more lenient then, have now become harsh, while others, which are now guidelines at best were then rules that no one broke. One such law was brahmahatya.'

'I would imagine killing in general would have been condemned then, much as it is now, Shantiji’, Lakshmana interjected, a little harshly in Rama’s opinion.

The yogi only smirked at Lakshmana. 'In those days, young prince, death was not as permanent as it is now. To be reborn after dying was a certainty, not a hope. Indeed, many souls could and did remember their past lives, and sought out their past parents or children, though that action always had terrible consequences. But killing a brahmin meant making all of his tapas null and void. All of the restraint poured into a lifetime's worth of rigour, gone in the instant it took for Yama's noose to encircle a brahmin's neck. The loss of such tapas could only be balanced by the punishment meted to those responsible for such a heinous act. As a result, brahmins themselves used their tapas to administer harsh punishments on those foolish enough to harm one of their own.'

'So the brahmins were unrestrained in their punishment of otherwise defenceless people?' Lakshmana interrupted again. What was wrong with him? He was never this rude to any of the palace brahmins.

'I think it would be very hard to attack someone and not have any defences, prince. And I think you fail to understand, that in the Satya Yuga there was no reason for anyone to attack anyone else. Food was plentiful, there was no shortage of space, and no one's desires outmatched their needs. Any violence was rare. Violence inflicted upon brahmins was thus even rarer. Our ancestors merely strove to keep it that way.'

Strangely, neither the yogi nor his brother seemed to be at any unease. A smile played on his brother's lips, while the yogi was still smirking, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

'At any rate, whether or not it was, in fact, a bad thing', and upon saying this he raised an eyebrow at Lakshmana, 'the fact remains that brahmahatya was punishable by whatever the attacked brahmin deemed appropriate.'

Then, having explained in great detail the whys and wherefores of brahmahatya, the yogi did something that should really not have surprised Rama. He changed the topic to something completely unconnected to his previous subject.

'Once, there were Yakshas on Bhulokam. In the days before the advent of Ravanasura, the isle of Lanka belonged to Kubera, the god of wealth, and the guardian of the North. It was he who ruled the Yakshas, the Gandharvas, the Kinnaras, and a host of other beings. These beings frequently travelled outside their lord's realm, and settled in many places far removed from his influence. One such Yaksha was called Suketu.'

'Suketu was a Yaksha of no mean power. He had won the right to leave his lord's realm through many trials of wit and combat, and settled himself in a wealthy forest kingdom which he ruled for many centuries. However, despite his loyalty to his king, and his respect of his people, there was one thing that Suketu lacked. He desired a child, someone to carry on his name and bring it even more glory. And so he began a penance great and terrible, fasting and chanting hymns continuously, so that Brahmadeva might bless him. Eventually, Brahmadeva did take notice of the Yaksha king, and blessed him with a beautiful daughter. This daughter Suketu named Tataki.'

'Tataki was a joy to her father and her people. Her beauty was renowned far and wide, and many princes from great kingdoms sought her hand in marriage. In the end, Tataki married Sumali, the son of an ancient Daitya called Sukesh. Unlike his wife, and his wife's father, Sumali was not the most humble of men. His propensity to insult those above his station would prove his undoing.'

'Tataki bore Sumali two sons, Mareecha and Subahu, and one daughter, Kaikesi. These sons would often walk for hours with their father, conversing on a wide variety of topics. It so happened that on one of these walks, they walked past a man. As Daityas, they stood no less than ten feet tall, and this man was perhaps five feet at most. And so Sumali called out to his sons, saying 'Look at this puny man, who does not even reach my knees! Who is this worthless being who dares to walk upon the lands of Sumali the Great? I shall have his head for my dinner table tonight!'

'That man was no other than the Sage Agastya. As you are no doubt aware, the Seven are capable of hearing and seeing things that would normally be hidden from mere mortals.’ A sardonic grin appeared on Lakshmana’s face, mirroring Rama’s own. ‘Upon hearing this threat to his person, Agastya was fearful of his life. It is not a small thing when someone threatens one of the Seven.’

‘And so he used this law of brahmahatya to visit some terrible punishment on an arrogant Daitya prince.’ Lakshmana finished for him coldly.

‘That is indeed what he did, young prince. He ended the poor Daitya’s life, and confined him to the lowest levels of Patalam for all eternity, for only then could he be sure that the Daitya would not come upon him to take his revenge.’

Then Shanti smiled at Rama, and said ‘So, rajkumar, what do you think happened next?’

And, strange as it was, Rama did know what happened next. ‘Mareecha and Subahu were enraged by this action. As princes of their kingdom, as sons of their father, they were honour bound to retaliate. Along with their mother, a powerful warrior in her own right, they tracked down Agastya and attacked him. At this time, however, Agastya was more prepared, more in control of his emotions. The fact that this attack was brought upon by the love they held for Sumali meant that any retribution he might bring upon them had to be at least slightly mitigated. And so he cursed them. He cursed them, not to Patalam and the ministrations of the Asuras who reside there, but to live the life of Rakshasas in Bhulokam. In sparing them from death, he gave them a small sliver of a chance of salvation. But they spurned it. Even today, they prey upon all brahmins who dare enter their territory, their anger dulled not in the least by the passing of a Yuga, always seeking their one true enemy, the one who cursed them into their pitiful states.’

The fire was guttering out, its reflection in the eyes of those around him slowly dying. Lakshmana looked at him dumbstruck, while the yogi continued that to smile that infuriating smile, the rest of his face blurred by the darkness.

____________________________________________

wilkommen to my next bit. hopefully i am deviating enough from whatever other versions you have read, and i am not boring you. the next bit will have fighting in it, i promise!

Slumber

2010-12-11T01:48:00.000+05:30

I have interest in naught but sleep
To sail away to where the butterflies weep
Close my eyes and leave this Earth
There is nothing here of any worth

I wish for rest till the last Day dawns
Then shall I awaken to the song of swans
Christ our Saviour may judge me then
I, the slumbering last of men

And so I'll succumb to sleep and slumber
My days not small enough to number
No more my eyes will bleed and ache
I'll give up nothing for my respite's sake

Dreams will take me to lands unknown
Make me a king on a broken throne
Satan himself will not me tempt
And only God will know of what I've dreamt

In this way I'll pass my days
Lost in visions of heavenly ways
Never to stop of life to think
And at the end, into oblivion sink

2010-11-25T21:58:00.000+05:30

My last story will be about how they died. They walked, each of them, all in different directions, all into the twilight. Easy to do, when that's all that surrounds you. Their shapes were all different, multivariate like their characters, their genres, their inspirations. Here was a one eyed Cyclops, taller than a dozen skyscrapers, a spiked club in one hand, resting on his shoulder. There was a pirate captain, who rode black holes into other realities, who whisked a small boy into adventures none would ever imagine. A band of thieves, the first murderer, a doctor whose dreams finally came true, even a man who time-travels into his future to give testimony at his own divorce proceedings, they are all there, walking away from me.

This is a eulogy, a poorly written one, for the stories that are dead, and the ones that will never be alive. It shall have to do. I shall think about them, often. I will see scenes in my head, of an orphan trying to learn how to survive in space, of another court of Haroun-al-Raschid and its wacky hijinks. Maybe one day I'll learn how to bring them back, coax them with words and carrots and sticks. Maybe it'll work.

Until then, I'll write about what I have been writing about so far. Another version of the story of the seventh avatar of Vishnu, where many details are forgotten or written over, in the hope of creating something new.

Rama + Ayana

The Journey of the Prince of Ayodhya

Ayodhya - Five

2010-10-25T03:46:00.000+05:30

Emperor

Dasaratha woke every day at four. It was a habit he was never able to break, his body trained by war to wake early and sleep late, and as a result he'd had to find something to occupy him in the times in between. During peacetime his life took on a predictable routine. A typical day would consist of him walking in Kausalya's gardens with her and her hangers on, eating in Kaikeyi's dining rooms with her and her hangers on, and playing shatranj with Sumitra and thankfully no hangers on, because most nobles in court hated it. They preferred games of chance, but Sumitra had always scoffed at them, and Dasaratha was happy to spend time with her learning how to strategise and think ahead in a game that was pitifully divorced from the realities of war.

He would spend time with each of his sons, collect reports from Pranjal, discuss ethics with Guruji, and solve any problems that came up at court. A king with a good administration had very little to worry about, and his administration was the best. He then spent his nights either alone or with one of his concubines, and so his day would end. This routine had served him faithfully in the past, and it would continue to serve him in the future. Unless an emergency came up. An emergency along the lines of what was happening today. The Hermit had come to Ayodhya, and he had a request.

Guruji had already gotten Pranjal's reports, and he'd told him what he would ask. He needed protection, and Ayodhya would give him protection. But there was always protocol. Vishwamitra would ask in a certain manner, and Dasaratha would give in a certain manner. At the end of the day, it ensured no surprises, no misunderstandings. It was a system, and it had worked since before his grandfather's time.

Which was why his entire court was assembled this morning, wondering why the Hermit had arrived. They didn't have the advantage of the intelligence corps of Ayodhya, did they. He'd heard that the Hermit and Guruji had had an argument the previous day. An argument! Between two of the Seven! And he'd missed it! Having spies was no good if they didn't find out these things. It was incidents like this one that brightened up his days.

He was looking forward watching to the two yogis meet again. The few histories that he'd read about Kaushik's kingdom had described it as the sort of utopia he'd always imagined Kosala as, with him at its head. On the other hand, there were more than a few allusions to the king's eccentricities, of how he had been influenced by stories of rulers of far off lands who went out into their cities disguised as peasants, and felt the need to know exactly what was going on in their capital. It was probably these same eccentricities that got him into trouble with Guruji, both originally when he committed his first offence and yesterday when they had argued.

Guruji had been second into the throne room; the first was always the king. But he'd insisted on following him and giving him advice and suggestions and instructions about how to handle the Hermit. Guruji seemed nervous, as much as any great swami of his stature could feel nervousness. Perhaps the entire point of ordaining not one but Seven Seers was to have them feel ordinary emotions like nervousness and embarrassment every now and again.

His sons and Queens had also been one of the first into the hall, Rama looking confident as ever, Bharatha's face betraying no emotion, Lakshmana and Shatrughna sharing the look of polite boredom that their mother had perfected in her years at court. Kausalya was seated to his left, more pleased than was proper that Kaikeyi no longer sat to his right, but had instead been relegated to her own official seat. Kaikeyi was busy discussing something with her head advisor, Manthara, and Sumitra was leaning back comfortably, still refusing to meet his eyes.

Vishwamitra was due to make his appearance any time now, but until then Dasaratha was content to try and imagine the look on Guruji's face yesterday when Vishwamitra had called him boring. He chuckled silently to himself. After fighting hordes of rakshasas and facing off against not only Ravana the Ten Headed, but also his brother Kumbhakarna the Sleeping Giant, very little amused him anymore, but the sight of a shocked Sage was one of them.

Dasaratha felt, more than saw, the approach of the Hermit. The nobles at the far end suddenly tensed, the announcer began shuffling nervously, and Guruji's eyebrows drew close together.

'The Venerable Hermit, Friend To All Men, Maharishi Brahmarishi Shri Vishwamitra has graced the court of Ayodhya, the capital of Kosala with his presence! May his knowledge be venerated forevermore!'

Dasaratha felt a smile tugging at his lips as he heard the announcer's slip in using the same word twice. He had done remarkably well, but that slip would probably cause endless amounts of ribbing from his fellow announcers, not to mention the royal messengers, the servant maids, the undercooks, and pretty much everyone else who worked in the palace.

And then he began the careful ritual, the give-and-take that he'd practiced once before deciding that if anything went wrong, he'd just wing it.

'Greetings, honoured brahmin! What can a humble kshatriya offer you on this fine wintry morning?'

Perhaps he was winging it earlier than he'd planned, but he had heard from Bharatha that Vishwamitra enjoyed a good joke.

'Not so humble, dear king. After all, no one else in this room has warred against a ten headed demon and won.' Maybe he did enjoy a joke a bit too much than was proper for a man of his stature, then.

'I suspect that is the reason you are here and not in any other court, great Sage.'

Vishwamitra chuckled. 'It is indeed an encouraging sign of your kingdom that your suspicions are well-founded, Emperor of the Line of the Sun. At any rate, I assume you've been informed of my purpose here. Ayodhya knows more than is good for her even at the best of times, and these are not the best of times. But for those who do not know, I am conducting a puja in the woods of Tataki, precisely for the purpose of driving her out. I am afraid I am in need of professional help from those best suited to give it, as I can no longer wield a weapon without putting the entire realm in danger. I am here to ask for your best.'

'And you shall have my best. Ayodhya is a centre for all innovations, military or otherwise. Perhaps elephants and horses would not be suited for treading around holy ground, but I can offer you nine of the finest warriors Ayodhya has ever seen, headed by my own nephew Sharanyan. With the might of Surya's line on your side, you cannot lose.'

'I agree that I cannot lose with Surya's might on my side, but I was thinking along different lines. I am here for your best, King Dasaratha, and however worthy a warrior young Sharanyan is, he is not the best.'

It was at this that Guruji interrupted. 'You are not taking-'

'This is not a matter for old men, would you not agree, Suryaputra? This is a conversation between those who still possess their wits, and interruptions by codgers who do not know when their time has come are not appreciated by young men intent on changing the world.'

Guruji was seething. 'I am Guru of Ayodhya. I am it's spiritual advisor. You are nothing more than an arrogant little upstart who bludgeoned his way into a holy brotherhood, too arrogant to be denied and too stupid to realise it.'

'I am not speaking to you, old man! Dasaratha, you know what I ask. Are you willing to do what is necessary, or shall I seek aid elsewhere? At the kingdom of the descendants of the Moon, perhaps?'

The king was dumbfounded. Surprising things happened around the youngest of the Seven with alarming frequency, it seemed. But he did indeed know what the brahmin was asking. He wanted the best, and the best were his sons. And when it came down to it, Rama and Lakshmana were daggers to their brothers' maces. Bharatha and Shatrughna strategised battles and marshalled armies; they did not have the soft touch required for leading elite units of warriors. Vishwamitra was asking for his heir and his spymaster-in-training. If either one of them fell, Kosala's strength would halve. If both of them died, he was not sure Ayodhya could recover.

And yet, to refuse one of the Seven would forever be a black mark against him and his people. If there was one thing that Aja taught his son, it was that there was nothing more important than the pride of the kingdom. He knew what he had to do, but he didn't have to like it.

He held his hand up, preventing Guruji from speaking. 'I know what you ask. And I have no doubt that you do as well. You are asking for two of my sons. Ayodhya's strength has always lied with it's children, and the royal line has always been the best of the best. You ask for Rama and Lakshmana.' It was not a question, merely a statement of fact.

'Yes. I will take them with me, train them in the arts of summoning the gods to fight for them, and perhaps show them a little bit of the world while I'm at it.' Suddenly the Hermit was mischievous again. 'When was the last time these boys were allowed out into the world without chaperones, hmmm? Royalty should always know what every subject in the kingdom feels, yes? I would take your other sons as well, but I fear that would cause the old fogey to keel over with shock. He can train your other sons in Bala and Atibala. I'm sure they are up to the challenge. Give me your sons, little king, and I will give you back demi-gods.'

'VISHWAMITRA!' The Hermit shot Guruji a dark look, but kept his peace, knowing that anything he said would only add fuel to the fire.

He'd said what he needed to say. Now he needed to leave, and so he did, so that the court to absorb this, gossip and whisper to each other about the consequences of it, play their little games. Vishwamitra had ruled a court, a very long time ago. Dasaratha had no doubt he still remembered what went on in them. He stayed silent for a moment, suddenly feeling that what had seemed interesting in the morning now seemed extremely troublesome. He raised his hand, and gave his official consent for the debate to begin, and at the same time sent his sons out of the room. The ones who were being discussed could not remain in the room, and the king knew Rama and Lakshmana well enough to know what would happen, in the end. They would go, and then they would come back, victorious, having faced rakshasas and relished it, yet eager to be back home. The might of Surya could not be denied.

This was all just a formality, just something to hammer out the details. In three weeks, his sons would return more mature than they'd ever need to be again.

_______________________________________________

and that's that, then. i have plans for a sequel, detailing how Rama gets exiled and all that, but first i shall take a break from writing for a bit. i hope you've enjoyed it so far, and if you haven't, well, i have, so bully for you.

sequel is now up: Forests. Read from bottom to top.

Ayodhya - Four

2010-10-18T16:39:00.000+05:30

Guide

It was only a few days after Father's announcement that Vishwamitra was on his way that he arrived in Ayodhya. While Bharatha knew that Sumitra was welcoming the Hermit, and as such it would be her sons who would greet him at the gates, he nonetheless felt it would be a good idea to get a glimpse of one of the great sages. It also gave him to go over the events of the past few days in more detail, hoping that this time they would make more sense.

First Father appointed Lakshmana spymaster. That in itself was nonsensical. Lakshmana, who couldn't hide anything from anyone if his life depended on it. Whose bond with Rama meant that he'd never be able to keep secrets from him. Whose hate of the court led to the natural conclusion that he'd be tied for the rest of his life to an institution he despised.

Then Lakshmana shut himself off from everyone. Lakshmana refusing to speak to Father was understandable. Him refusing to utter a word to Shatrughna was puzzling, but even that could be explained. But he had not spoken to Rama, or Rani Sumitra, or even Guruji! And whenever Bharatha confronted any of them, all he received were stony looks and vague nondescript mutters. And when he asked Guruji, in the most respectful tone he could muster, he had received a complicated sloka in high Sanskrit about the qualities of perseverance and sacrifice. It was all extremely frustrating.

But Bharatha knew one thing, that whatever troubles Lakshmana had, even he wouldn't miss greeting Vishwamitra, the youngest of the Seven Sages. Today Bharatha would confront Lakshmana, and knock some sense into him.

When he reached the outer gates, he was surprised to find that both Shatrughna and Lakshmana were wearing the exact same thing. They had played this game a few times when they were younger, trading places when Lakshmana was not interested in performing yet another sword drill, and Shatrughna didn't want to be locked up inside the palace for the third week in a row. It had been one of the few times Bharatha had spent with Lakshmana, before they had all been taken off to Guruji's ashram and any idea of playing any sort of game was pounded out of their minds.

While he could not be sure at this distance, the one he tentatively identified as Shatrughna was looking about, searching for their esteemed guest, while the one who may or may not have been Lakshmana was resting his back comfortably on the wooden gate, seemingly much more at peace with the world than the rumours would suggest. Then he jumped, looking at a man in the distance. Shatrughna did not seem to pay any attention, he continued to look around, and as Bharatha finally reached them he walked towards him and greeted him with a friendly hug.

'A very good morning to you, dear brother! What a surprise to see you here!' Shatrughna said with both mirth and irritation.

'How is he?' There was no reason to specify who he meant by 'he'.

'As well as can be expected. At any rate, pay him no mind. What has the esteemed Second Queen of Ayodhya have planned for us this afternoon, in joyful celebration at having not one but two of the Seven underneath our roofs?'

There it was again, the obfuscation that he would not have recognised if he had not been looking for it.

'I wish I knew, but Mother did not think it was important to tell me. She just said it would be something the First Queen would be jealous of, and then sent me on my way here. Which is probably why I am even awake in the first place. That, and I'm interested in meeting one of the Seven, of course.'

'Because Guruji isn't Sage enough for you, you mean?'

'Rather because I'm hoping not all of them are as Sage-y as Guruji seems to be'

Shatrughna smiled broadly at him, but he was cut off when he realised his twin was speaking to someone, probably for the first time in days.

As they both strained their ears, they both had the exact same thought. Namely, that Rama would never have to strain his ears, because he could be on the other side of the world and still be able to hear you talk. And they looked at each other and grinned, each knowing the other had thought it too.

What was curious, though, was that the man to whom he was speaking didn't look the least like a Sage. He was clean shaven, his face more solemn than a hangman at his own funeral, his head balder than a shined egg. And yet, Lakshmana seemed to be talking to him in what had to be old high Sanskrit. They all had a passable knowledge of the subject, but Lakshmana was having a full-blown conversation with him, complete with sixteen syllable lines! And then they both looked in the direction of Shatrughna, whose face turned momentarily contrite before going up to the Hermit and speaking in a fairly functional form of the same tongue.

Immediately the Sage called out to Bharatha, switching from an ancient language dead for millennia to the gutter dialect spoken by slumrats in the city with ease.

'Oy, little prince! You don't need to stand on ceremony for little old me! Come and join us. I'm sure your brothers will be willing to lie and tell everyone that they did in fact receive me in a proper fashion. There is no reason for you remain at a distance when we can all have a conversation instead, no?'

All three of them whipped their heads to look at Vishwamitra at that. A Sage not looking like a Sage was one thing, but to hear that language on the lips of one reputed to have written parts of the Vedas themselves was almost blasphemy.

If the Hermit had been Guruji, he would have only raised an eyebrow at them, and there would have been no other reaction. But the Hermit was the Hermit, and he burst out laughing, a laughter that continued unabated for more than a few minutes.

'Oh, the looks on your faces', he continued on that same gutterspeak, 'I bet you never even considered the possibility that I might know how the poorest of you talk. At least your little spymaster here', he indicated Lakshmana with a jerk of his head, 'recognised me for who I was, but even he looked shocked at my switch. I haven't played such a good trick in years.'

This threw all previous notions Bharatha had about Vishwamitra, and indeed any of the Seven, right out the window. He knew gutterspeak, didn't seem to like cultivating a long beard and a topknot, and actually laughed out loud! The casual throwing around of information he wasn't supposed to know was still the same, though. How had he known Lakshmana had been appointed spymaster, when it had only occurred days ago?

'Well then, my princes, I hope you've learnt your lessons about preconceptions and their flaws? Now that we've dealt with that, why don't you give me a tour of your city, and tell me a little bit about yourselves while you're at it?' the Hermit said with more than a bit of mischief in his eyes.

Bharatha was pretty sure that if anyone had told him fifteen minutes ago that the Hermit was a prankster, and a good one at that, he would not have even have hesitated for a second before throwing him in the palace dungeons for his disrespect to one of the Seven. And yet here was a man who could not be anyone else other that the Hermit, joyfully speaking in a tongue that even the princes shouldn't've known, who had hijacked their formal welcome and turned it into some sort of sightseeing trip!

But that was not the only surprise in store. As they walked from the outer slums to the markets, and from there to the army headquarters, and from there to the Palace of Poets, the Hermit seemed to take delight in changing his persona at the drop of a dhoti. At the markets he was suddenly a businessman from the southern kingdoms, sprinkling his common sanskrit with words that didn't belong, mispronouncing words and doing it so masterfully that not even Rama could have guessed it was an act.

As they reached the army he was suddenly an old veteran from Kekeya, a northern twang entering his cadence, his stride slowing to a world-wearied pace, and his left arm shaking with the phantom pain of an injury long since healed. He made bawdy jokes at the new recruits' expense, asked the old timers about arcane battle formations, and wished them a traditional Kekeyan soldier's prayer that Bharatha knew was only known by the elite royal bodyguards.

And then there had been the Palace of Poets. The closer they had gotten to it, the more energised the Hermit seemed. He and Lakshmana had suddenly restarted their conversation in high Sanskrit. Lakshmana was more upbeat and jolly than he had been since before his appointment. Shatrughna and Bharatha would try to have a conversation, only to stop when their companions started laughing about a joke that only the two of them understood. When they had finally reached, Vishwamitra had decided that he'd not needed to come to see the poets after all, for he'd had one walking next to him all this time.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the palace, after dining in an inn near the theatres of Ayodhya, and Guruji was not happy. And an unhappy Guruji was a dangerous Guruji. Both Lakshmana and Shatrughna were standing stock-still, waiting for him to start his tirade, when suddenly the Hermit spoke.

'Greetings, brother. I hope you and yours have been well?'

'Fine, and the same to you too, brother. Would you care to come in, or perhaps you would like to continue horsing around and distracting the princes?'

'If conducting reconnaissance on a city that has the stench of rakshasas in it is distraction, then I shudder to think what real work would be, dear brother.'

The three princes and one Queen of Ayodhya watched, stunned, as Vishwamitra seemed to insult Guruji on his own home ground, and Guruji responded in kind.

'Your senses have clearly dulled, Vishwamitra, for the only stench of rakshasas here is what you've brought in with you. But this is all trivial, is it not?'

'If you say that it is, who am I to disagree? And look, the Third Queen of Ayodhya is here. I knew her great-grandfather well, her company will certainly be superior to the slim pickings offered in this hall.'

'Gurudev Vishwamitra, it gives me great honour and pleasure to invite me into our humble home', Sumitra interrupted, as she offered him the traditional blessed water and bowed to him.

Vishwamitra merely smiled, put his hand on her head, and said 'Tomorrow, dear Queen. Tomorrow you can tell me whether my visit brings you honour and pleasure. Until then, I give you all the blessings I can, of long life and good health, and more than your fair share of happiness'

He walked off, in the direction of the Third Queen's wing, Sumitra hurrying behind him, leaving one very vexed Guruji and three equally bewildered princes to stare in their direction, wondering just what the next day would bring.

___________________________________________________

this was easily the weakest of the lot, but it was fun to write nonetheless. despite setting out on this endeavour to write Lakshmana, Vishwamitra as a character is now my favourite.

Ayodhya - Omake Two

2010-10-15T03:18:00.000+05:30

The Entrance of Sumitra

When Sumitra first entered into the court, she was a little slip of a girl, with no idea how to deal with the cutthroat world of Ayodhyan politics. When it became obvious that the continual political war between the First and Second Queens might actually enter into a lull as they both tried to deal with this newcomer, she quickly capitulated to both sides. As tongues began to wag and it came out that she had pledged loyalty not just to Kausalya, but also to Kaikeyi, she played the part of a confused princess from the small, insignificant kingdom of Kashi to perfection. Both Queens dismissed her as airheaded, and continued their war on each other with renewed vigour. It certainly helped that Dasaratha spent perhaps three weeks with Sumitra before deciding that she, too, would not be able to help him sire an heir.

And so she watched Kausalya and Kaikeyi plot and machinate against one another, saw rumours spread and saw them crushed, learned to read the spaces between lines and the gaps between words. She learned from not one, but two masters.

It was a fine day in the spring, about five years before the birth of the princes, when she proved to the court of Ayodhya that she was not to be underestimated. It was two weeks before Holi, which was traditionally when new members of the court would be given lands and titles, which meant that it was wartime for the First and Second Queen. The resources and political standing of both sides were used most quickly during this period, for the induction of new houses into the ranks of the court would provide them with new advantages with which to wage their battles. But while they were busy strategising, Sumitra made her move. Although her sister-queens prided themselves on subtlety and misdirection, Sumitra preferred the attributes of clarity and straightforwardness. The most powerful of the new houses, intimidated by the power and wealth on display, were quickly drawn to Sumitra and her seemingly nonchalant approach to politics. But Sumitra saved her best for last, she made her most explosive move in the same fashion as Kaikeyi had when she first entered the court: in full view of all concerned.

As the king and Queens watched, the former amused, the latter aghast, Sumitra performed the arghya ritual for the three most powerful houses to enter the court that spring, drawing them under the formal protection of the Third Queen of Ayodhya. Just hours later, rumours of the Third Queen's aims began circulating. She did not wish to engage in the political war, nor did she plan on joining one of the other Queens. She would simply better the standing of any house that came to her, in a way that ensured the ruffling of no feathers. They would not enjoy the massive advantages that one Queen would give them, but they would also not reap the wrath of the houses on the side of the other. And so, every spring, those houses which did not know or want to care about the politics of Ayodhya's court joined the side of Queen Sumitra. While most major houses continued to ally themselves with either Kausalya or Kaikeyi, there were always one or two who thought their best interests lay with the minimalistic yet dignified approach perfected by the Third Queen.

She had no wish to be a real power. The fact that she was, in fact, a princess from a small, insignificant kingdom meant that any truly weighty political capital she gathered would quickly dissipate in the face of one or the other of the Queens. But she made it very obvious that she would not be trivialised, and she would not tolerate anyone taking advantage of her. Gurudev had been very impressed, and so had the king. Things in the court would never be the same again.

________________________________________________

if the first omake was my favourite, this is easily my second favourite. according to the legend, Sumitra was in fact the wisest of the three queens, which is why she got two servings of whatever prasadam that makes women pregnant, while Kausalya and Kaikeyi got only one. while this kind of classification is exactly what makes the myth so appealing, it is also what makes it so open to reinterpretation.

Ayodhya - Three

2010-10-13T23:55:00.000+05:30

Heir

Rama had always been precocious. Perhaps it had something to do with him being the eldest, or the fact that his wet-nurses read him the vedas where his brothers' had read them nursery rhymes, or maybe it was just genetic chance. At any rate, he knew the scriptures as well as any kshatriya could want to know them, his bow and sword-work put the best in the army to shame, and he drew conclusions from things that no one else could imagine using as evidence.

Take this morning, for example, and a fine one it was. He was up early, as he was every morning, a habit he shared with Lakshmana, and was walking towards his mother's apartments when it occurred to him that his mother was already awake, and had been awake for quite a while. It was obvious, from the way the hallways were freshly scented with rosewater, the pleasant smell of puja incense, the slightly strained stances of the maids and bodyguards at the doors. As he left her rooms he had met the messenger who informed him of the announcement, and he knew she was probably already in the throne room, but had left her bodyguards behind. As he told the messenger the First Queen was no longer in her chambers, the almost unnoticeable release in tension in the boy's neck told him that the news was very important. Pages always knew things they were not supposed to know. That was how they survived the numerous sackings that they were given on an almost daily basis.

But even Rama, first prince of Ayodhya, champion of a dozen sword tournaments and archery competitions and poetry contests, even he got things wrong on occasion. In this case, he assumed that the only news that could be important enough to summon the Queens of Ayodhya and their sons in informal wear, given that no one else was attending, was that Father was finally going to unofficially announce Rama as heir to the throne. Anticipating an explosion worthy of Agni and Vayu, he made his way to the throne room, dreading Kaikeyi's reaction.

Which was why even he was caught off-guard, if only momentarily, when Father announced that Pranjal Da was no longer spy master, and that he had decided on a successor. The reactions of Sumitra and Guruji both made crystal clear sense. Lakshmana was going to be named successor. He would dwell on the ramifications of that later. What disturbed him now was Lakshmana. He knew his brother as well as the back of his hand, scarred with the whiplash from bowstrings. One look at him screamed that something was wrong. The official declaration should have made him feel betrayed, even if he had known to expect it. He should have been feeling confusion, fury, grief.

Lakshmana's face was acceptance, relief, and wistfulness. Rama's first reaction had been to go to his brother at once, to comfort him and reassure him of his place in the court. But both he and Bharatha had been drafted by their mothers, and for once found himself on the same side as his brother as he tried to convince his father that Sumitra did not deserve to welcome such an august personage as Vishwamitra, and he should instead -

And that was where it broke down. They were united on the point of replacing Sumitra, but not on the point of who should do it. The Queens were not fools, and they knew that it was imperative to get the king to agree to the replacement in the first place. Rama and Bharatha, on the other hand, had other ideas. They were quite happy to let Sumitra welcome the Hermit, even though they both suspected she did not much care for that honour. And so the brothers devolved into an old argument, one that both knew almost by heart. It began with Bharatha calling Rama the son of a stuck-up stick in the mud, and continued with Rama wondering how Bharatha knew words of more than one syllable in the first place, and things only got worse from there.

Rama knew that in their heart of hearts, both he and his brother enjoyed these verbal sparring matches. The words themselves were highly inflammatory, and neither of them meant what they were saying, but they enjoyed the thrust and parry, the rhythm that these arguments took. It was good to let loose, once in a while, and at least it stopped both his and his brother's mothers from saying the words themselves. As long as they had their sons to do it, any misspoken words could be attributed to the natural boisterousness of the sons of Dasaratha. And it would not do for the Queens of Ayodhya to be engaged in a mud slinging match, however private it might be.

Eventually the king had gotten tired of his sons shouting at each other, and dismissed all of them before retiring to his private chambers. Only then did Rama get the chance to go to Lakshmana, and confront him with what he had seen. But instead he met with a very different scenario. As he walked up the corridor to his brother's rooms, he heard shouts and angry footfalls. With his keen ears, he could almost visualise the scene unfolding.

'DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU ARE SAYING? WHY WOULD YOU EVER ACCUSE MOTHER OF SOMETHING LIKE THAT?' That was Lakshmana. Rama had had the most experience with his brother's temper. He could imagine him now, leaning against the far wall, hands gesticulating wildly, eyebrows furrowed into harsh ridges. He looked like Father most when he was angry.

'I only ask you to consider the possibility! Is it so far out of the reach of logic? Am I mad, to speak of this? Why can you not see what Mother has done?' And that was Shatrughna, his low voice echoing out into the hall. He was the one pacing, his finger probably pointing at his brother, in the direction of their mother's chambers, up at the devas themselves. This was a conversation that Rama should not have been eavesdropping on, and yet he found himself unable to make his presence known, and unable to leave.

'I CANNOT SEE WHAT DOES NOT EXIST, LITTLE BROTHER!' Oh, he had done it now. Shatrughna hated being reminded that he was the smallest of the four, if only by three minutes. He would explode, and then Rama would have no choice but to enter the room.

But the explosion did not come. Almost shocked, Rama heard Shatrughna master his rage, and continue in the same tight tone he had been using so far. 'Really, Lakshmana? Try. Try very hard. You may be being handed the reins of the most powerful intelligence network of all the kingdoms, but I know the court. I have been involved in it ever since I discovered it for what it was. Have you heard the stories? Of how they speak of Father, and Rani Kausalya, and Rani Kaikeyi, and Mother? Of course not! You and Rama despise the court! You stay away from it even more than Rama does! We see neither hide nor hair of you for entire weeks! But some of us do not have that luxury, big brother. Some of us have to survive, and when you try to survive in the court, you hear things. Tell me, big brother. Does your appointment make sense?'

'Sense? This is the court of Ayodhya! Since when does anything make sense?' This had always been a sore point for Lakshmana. Even more than Rama or Bharatha, it was Lakshmana who resented the divisions in the court and their consequences.

'Well, let me explain it to you, big brother. We're not just any princes. We're princes of Ayodhya, of Kosala. Each of us will marry a princess from one of the great kingdoms, we'll become fathers to more children than we can count, and we'll be talked and gossiped about by everyone. This is the court that everyone dreams of coming to. This is where the words are sharpest. And trust me when I say no one, not even Mother, can survive without learning how to be ruthless.'

'There is a difference between being ruthless, and using your own sons as political capital, little brother! Mother is not -'

Rama knew his brother's temper, knew he was prone to putting his foot in his mouth, but Shatrughna was not like that. Everything Shatrughna said was considered carefully. Even if he said it in anger, he had thought it in a moment of peace.

'Not who, Lakshmana? Not Rani Kausalya? Not Rani Kaikeyi? They're all Queens of Ayodhya, big brother! This is not a coincidence!'

Rama could not believe his ears. Was this how they truly saw his mother, saw Rani Kaikeyi? As scheming mothers who would not hesitate to put their sons to use in their war? As ruthless women who could not look past their own squabbles to help the kingdom?

'Tell me, big brother. Why do you think I am so close to Bharatha? Are you and I not twins? Didn't we spend the first ten months of our lives with each other? And yet, aren't you closer to Rama than you are to me?'

Rama was shocked, not only by what Shatrughna seemed to be alleging, but also by Lakshmana's lack of response. Shatrughna was not the only one who had given a thought to this idea.

'You have no idea what you're saying.' Lakshmana hissed.

'Don't I? It's always been clear that the next king would be either Rama or Bharatha. You and I never stood a chance. Give Mother some credit! All she did was divide her resources efficiently. The minute we showed our preferences, she made sure we spent every minute of every day with the one we liked. It was impossible for us to bond with each other! And Mother's secured her place in the court. Whether the next king is Rama or Bharatha, either you or I will be right hand to the king, Mother will certainly be in a better position than she is now, and we will take care of each other.'

'You speak as if whoever does not become king will be exiled!'

'Ah, but that's what they will be, won't they? Either Rani Kaikeyi will go back to Kekeya, or Rani Kausalya will go back to Banglar, and I can't imagine that they won't take their sons with them. They will be exiled. Can you imagine Rama or Bharatha disobeying their mothers on this of all matters? If Mother was not the cleverest of the Queens, you would not have been made spymaster! You and I and Bharatha know that Rama would make the best king. So the logical move for Father to make would have been to make Bharatha spymaster. That would have ensured Rani Kaikeyi had no more pretensions to the throne, that Bharatha would never have a chance of becoming king, and would clear the path for Rama! Even if Father were blind, and thought that Bharatha would make a better king, he would have appointed Rama for the exact same reasons! You are spymaster for a reason, Lakshmana, and Mother is that reason!'

'SHUT UP! SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP! You have no idea what you're talking about! Spymaster isn't something they just throw at someone, Shatrughna, they choose their candidates with more care than that!' Rama's eyebrows rose at that. Lakshmana wouldn't say something like that unless he knew something, something he clearly wasn't willing to tell anyone, something that it sounded like he'd known for a long time.

'You and I both know that any one of us could be spymaster. Any one of us could be king. All of us have been trained for this. No one else expected it, but I would not have been surprised to leave that room to find you king and Rama spymaster under you. We're princes, and we're in the court of Ayodhya, and the sooner you understand that the better, big brother.'

Rama started, knowing that one way or another they had finished their argument, that Shatrughna was going to walk out that door. He walked purposefully towards his brother's outer room, and the door opened just as he was about to knock on it.

'Shatrughna! How is he? Is he alright? I got held up, what with Mother and Rani Kaikeyi being Mother and Rani Kaikeyi-' None of that was technically a lie, but perhaps it didn't convey the whole truth.

'He's not well, and I don't think you should go in to see him. In fact, he shouldn't see anyone for a while. He's got some things to think about, and so have I.' And with that, Shatrughna left his brother's room, his eyes as hard as tempered steel, his gait that of a man far older than Shatrughna's seventeen. And Rama stood there, unsure for the first time in a very long time of what to do and how to do it.

___________________________________________________

it is very easy to imagine Rama as some sort of mini sherlock holmes, no? it is for me, anyway. perhaps his omniscience was merely due to the fact that he had very good logical skills. the science of deduction, as one consulting detective might put it.

Ayodhya - Omake One

2010-10-12T01:32:00.000+05:30

The Man With Three Eyes

Pranjal was called Triambakam, in his time. Triambakam, The Three Eyed One. It was a name for Shiva, the all-seeing, He Who Has An Eye In Each Of The Realms. While Shiva knew all that went on in Swargam, Bhulokam, and Patalam, Pranjal was content with omniscience over Kosala, Videha, and Kekeya. Not a sparrow took flight without word of it reaching the spymaster of Ayodhya. But Triambakam was also Shiva, the destroyer, He Who Possesses A Third Eye. Pranjal was a destroyer, but not in the direct fashion that Shiva favoured. He destroyed using lies, and rumours, and shadows. There was never any evidence that he or Ayodhya ever had anything to do with the several dozen assassinations that he'd recommended, or the five rebellions that he'd toppled. To catch his attention was to risk annihilation. But fear was not Shiva's only aspect. Triambakam also inspired respect. Why else would Ravana be a solemn devotee of Mahadev? And in turn, he respected everyone who showed themselves worthy of it, regardless of their previous associations. Why else would Shiva bless Ravana?

And so, right under the Sage's nose, Pranjal made deals with Ravana's spymaster. He traded secrets, improved on sketchy intelligence, gave away the locations of petty outposts for details about the armies of the southern kings, and while doing so his esteem for the cunning of the rakshasas began to eclipse his fear. Even as his king went to the aid of the Devas, he met personally with the Asuras, and plotted with them, and plotted against them. Their clandestine arrangement stopped only when his king had won a decisive victory, his enemies beaten back to their island kingdom.

In his spare time, he often wondered who his demonic counterpart was. He had received reports of a sect of brahmin rakshasas, ideal for infiltrating the kingdom, but they had never been seen leaving their home. Equally implausible was the idea that it was one of the hulking beasts that were the kumbha rakshasas who was avoiding him so deftly.

He would never find out that Ravana's spymaster was, in fact, his brother Kumbhakarna, the largest of them all. Even the gaze of The Three Eyed One could not pierce that veil, and it would be one secret he would not be privy to until he reached his grave.

__________________________________________

omake is japanese for extra, an aside to a story that has little to do with the main arc, but is useful to distract you while i try to get over my writer's block. this little bit is, inexplicably, my favourite of anything i've written in this series so far!

Ayodhya - Two

2010-10-09T22:54:00.000+05:30

Noble

Shatrughna woke in the morning with a blinding headache. He groaned as he reached for the glass of milk that was normally by his bedside. The glass of milk that Lakshmana would set out for him, a gentle rebuke at being out so late and so drunk, combined with concern at his brother's predicament. Spending the best part of the day with Bharatha necessarily meant joining the Second Queen in whatever revel she had planned for that night. While Shatrughna drank his glass of milk and wondered what news the day would bring, one of his father's errand boys knocked on his outer door.

'My Prince, His Majesty wishes your presence in the throne room within the hour. He does not need you to be formal, merely presentable', he said in an emotionless voice. Of all the various staff in the court, it was the expertly trained pages for whom Shatrughna had a soft spot. It was they who had the unenviable role of rousting everyone in the palace when they overslept, they who delivered bad news that the king had no intention of relating in person, and they who had the least job security of all in the palace. More than a few of them had been fired by the king on a bad morning, and they'd never be allowed to work for him again.

He acknowledged the boy with a grunt, sent him off with a wave of his hand, and set about the task of looking, as his father had put it, presentable. Being a prince meant that presentable still consisted of more finery than most other nobles even owned, though only he and Bharata would be wearing so much. Rama and Lakshmana would follow the example of the First Queen, and wear simple clothes, and look more stunning in them than should have been possible. He grimaced, picked out the first things in his wardrobe, and tried to shake the last remnants of his hangover out of his system.

Forty minutes and a bath later, as he was walking towards the throne room, whistling a tune he was fairly sure was a Bhairavi, he came across his eldest brother.

'Shatrughna! Father's summoned you as well, has he?', he asked, in a tinkling voice that practically made you smile.

'Yes, though the boy he sent for me didn't bother to tell me why', Shatrughna replied.

'It's definitely some sort of important announcement, Mother was awake and ready for battle even before the boy came for us', Rama said, with the sort of irritated amusement only the four princes of Ayodhya would ever hear, let alone understand. Kausalya and Kaikeyi's political battles were the stuff of legend, and an actual physical meeting between the two of them would prove explosive.

'Well, I only hope I'm out of the room before the sparks start flying', Shatrughna said with a wry grin.

'Either you take me with you, or we're both stuck in that room!' Rama threatened, half-seriously, as they both turned the corner, nearly walking into Bharatha.

'You should watch where you're going, my prince.' Bharatha sneered. To all but the most experienced observers, it would seem that Bharatha held nothing but contempt for his elder brother. In reality, the two brothers loved and respected each other, but the ramifications of freely associating with each other were too dangerous for either of them to contemplate. They rarely dropped their guards, only doing so in the privacy of their chambers, when one or the other had been smuggled in under the cover of playing politics for the Queens.

'Well, perhaps I wouldn't need to if you weren't such a blundering oaf!' Rama replied, his face screwed up in a smirk of its own.

As this rather unkind banter continued, Shatrughna intervened, suggesting that they were getting late, and had best be on their way.

'Oh, you need not worry, little brother, I've been invited to this little get-together as well. Can't have the First Queen hog all the limelight, can we?'

The three of them continued down the hall, Bharatha and Shatrughna talking about the carousal that the Second Queen had held the previous night. As they reminded each other of details, and sometimes entire incidents, that the other had forgotten, they eventually reached the throne room.

The throne room itself was a grand affair, typical of any room in the palace that had survived the dozen wars that it had faced, with high vaulted ceilings and painted floors, a throne that could have seated several dozen lions comfortably and windows the size of murals. The First Queen was at her seat, on the left of the king, and the Second Queen had usurped the Chief Minister's seat on the right of the king. They were both glaring daggers at each other, though they spared a glance for their respective sons. At that moment both visages transformed from anger and frustration to looks of pure beauty. Sometimes Shatrughna entertained the notion that if Kausalya and Kaikeyi had ever gotten along, there would never had been a need for his mother to join the court.

Speaking of which, he looked around, wondering where his mother was. He spotted her a third of the hall down. While her sister-queens were extremely territorial about the places of power they occupied, his mother had always been content to remain where she was. Which was not to say she was weak. Third Queen of Ayodhya was still queen of all Ayodhya. She was deep in conversation with his last brother, Lakshmana, who looked unusually pale, and Guruji, who had an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face.

That was always a bad thing. Guruji always, always, always had a smile on his face, a kind word of advice, and a solution to every problem. He wondered what could be so important, that it had disturbed him so much. He glanced about the otherwise empty room, waiting for his father to start.

'Right!', the king said in his booming voice. 'Now that the rest of my sons are here, perhaps it is time to begin with my announcements. Before we start, I will make one thing clear. I will brook no interruptions to what I am about to say. My love for you may be the stuff of legends, but interrupt me, and you will have to deal with a very irate king.' Strangely, he was not looking at the First or Second Queens as he said this, both of whom were the most likely to blow up at any announcement he might make. Instead, he was looking straight at Mother. Quiet, demure Mother, who never got angry, certainly never with her husband and king, and certainly never where anyone else might see, who at that very moment was glaring venomously back at him.

This was very, very bad. What news could possibly induce this reaction in Mother, Guruji, and Lakshmana?

'I have two things to announce today. Firstly, I have received news that the great sage Vishwamitra will be gracing us with his presence in the near future- Let me finish!' he thundered

At the end of that first sentence, the First and Second Queens both starting speaking rapidly, hoping to secure the right to welcome their august guest before the other, but both stopped when it became apparent that the king was serious when he said he would not tolerate disruption.

'Vishwamitra will be arriving, and when he does, he will be welcomed by the Third Queen, Sumitra- THERE WILL BE NO ARGUMENT!' Strangely, while the First and Second Queens were horrified by this development, Mother did not look pleased in the least. She was still glaring daggers at Father, something that baffled Shatrughna to no end.

'Secondly, it appears that my spymaster, Pranjal, is no longer able to carry out his duties. It has now become imperative that I choose someone to replace him.' As he paused for breath, Shatrughna sneaked a glimpse at the faces of the rest of his family. Kausalya and Kaikeyi were both listening raptly, their faces too well trained to give away whatever they were feeling. Bharatha's face was puzzled, wondering what relevance this could have. Rama's face was also puzzled, but that expression was quickly replaced by one of understanding. He had always been the most perceptive of his brothers. Mother was still angry, though it was now tinged with grief, Guruji was determined, though for what Shatrughna didn't know, and Lakshamana, well, Lakshmana's pale face had gone tight for a moment, almost mirroring Rama's, before accepting his fate.

'After many weeks of careful deliberation, I have settled on his successor.' Shatrughna had a very bad feeling about this.

'It gives me great pride to announce that my son, Lakshmana, will now lead the intelligence corps of Ayodhya, and he will be guided in this endeavour by none other than our esteemed Guruji Vashista!'

Shatrughna felt his face go slack with shock, and he was sure Bharatha's face was doing the same. His brother, third-in-line to the throne of Ayodhya, son of Dasaratha and Sumitra, whom they'd always known to be capable of running several kingdoms blindfolded, was consigned to being a spymaster? It defied belief, and rationality, too.

In all the commotion, he never noticed the look on Lakshmana's face, not of shock or betrayal, but of dread and relief at the knowledge that the day he had been fearing for so many years had finally come.

__________________________________________

Shatrughna in the Ramayana is like Nakula and Sahadeva in the Mahabharata. You just don't hear enough about them in the simplified versions of the stories. You have to go digging around to find out things like apparently Sahadeva was a master astrologer and knew exactly what was going to happen in Kurukshetra.

Ayodhya - One

2010-10-09T00:09:00.000+05:30

Spy

The spy master of Ayodhya. That's what he was. Third son of the king, de facto second prince of Ayodhya, he had been roped into his duty before he had even turned seven.

Previous spy-masters had always been bastard sons (and in one very special case, a daughter) of the king. Their continued loyalty was ensured by a mix of the knowledge that while their half-siblings ruled, they would live in comfort, a tacit understanding that their children would somehow be inducted into the minor nobility of the court, and the blue sparks behind the Sage's eyes. The first lesson everyone in Ayodhya learned was not to say his name. To even think his name was to invite his attention, to say it was to court his wrath. While the royal line never saw that side of him, believed him to be a wise old man with a spring in his step and a piece of advice for all, it was a lie. Well, a half-lie. That side existed, no doubt. But there was also a side of the Sage only those in the darkness knew. The ruthlessness with which he would hunt down Asura sympathisers, the barely restrained rage in his eyes when the spy master came to him with a tidbit of information that he, with his mystical powers, had missed, the silky voice with which he made his threats to those who contemplated crossing him. Not that there were many of those, of course.

But while previous spy masters had always been bastards, that had not been possible with Dasaratha's progeny. The famed virility of Surya had not passed on to all of his descendants, it seemed. The king had had to marry thrice to finally sire heirs, and even then he begged for help from the Devas. The man had three titled wives, and only Vishnu knew how many concubines, and he was impotent. If it were not for the sheer amount of loyalty he inspired in his people, he would be a laughingstock.

The spy master knew these things. It was his job to know, to document any and all threats that the ordinary police force either could not or would not investigate, everything from the rumours that emerged from the king's kitchen to the price of rice in Gandahar. He was given free reign, as long as it did not harm the princes, and the royal line. This was neatly done away with, given that he was a prince, and part of the royal line. While others who had headed his organisation in the past had always been viewed with distrust, he could not have been. He was bonded to the heir in a way almost no one understood. Only now, in the dark of the night, behind all of his secret walls, in the most hidden chamber of the palace complex, only now would he contemplate the possibility that the unthinking, unblinking devotion he had for his brother was the Sage's doing. Why else would he have bonded with his half brother, and not his twin? He knew his twin almost as well as he did his heir. But why did he know his heir better? He had shared his womb with his twin, he had spent nine months with him even before they were ever born, and he had bonded with the heir.

He was sitting at his desk, studying the journals of previous masters. There were no details of conspiracies, of assassinations, in these journals. Those were just as important, but he had finished studying them for the night. These were merely day to day journals, of life in the castle as a bastard child, of how their children had learned to walk and talk, of how they would wield a bow and a sword. But even in those, there were hints of something deeper. And it always, always came back to the Sage. The Sage meddling in the education of their children. The Sage choosing their wives and their husbands. The Sage, the Sage, the Sage. Meddler and coercer, dealing in things he should have been too dead to interfere in. Gods-cursed fool!

He looked over the latest reports again, searching, hoping, yearning for a different conclusion. He shook his head. It was unavoidable. Vishwamitra was coming to Ayodhya. He had received reports of a puja being desecrated by Asuras, in the same forest that Vishwamitra was last seen in, nigh on four generations ago. The spymaster who had written it down had added a little note at the end, wondering how long it would be before he surfaced again. To anyone else, the unconnected possible sighting of an old man with a staff a couple of centuries ago, a faint chanting heard by travellers in the distance interrupted by screams, and the complete lack of reports from anywhere along the southern outposts would have implied a dozen other explanations. But he had grown up with a Sage, and he knew how they worked. He was not worried for the lives of his spies in the south, merely for their mental well-being.

Vishwamitra. He turned the name over in his mind. A simplistic interpretation of the name would mean He Who Was Friend To All The World. But dig a little deeper, let your mind twist and blur the meanings of the words, and you'd get He Whose Friend Is The World. A reference to the nature of the brotherhood to which he belonged, and his connection to Brahmadeva. And even deeper, you would get He Who Had A Friend Everywhere In The World. He smiled with grim satisfaction. Language had changed in the three millennia since the king became a hermit and discarded his old name for a new one, but it had not changed too much. The double and triple meanings of old high Sanskrit were always difficult to work out, but they were always there. At it's peak, Vishwamitra's spy organisation rivalled Ayodhya's own. Undoubtedly the king had known how it, and by extension spy networks in general, worked. Vishwamitra was no fool. He knew that the spymaster of Ayodhya would have noticed the pattern, would at least account for the possibility that he was headed their way. Ayodhya would be ready.

The next logical step, then, was to ask why. What aid could Ayodhya possibly offer a three thousand year old king-turned-monk? The Sage, that's what Ayodhya could offer. But despite begging for forgiveness, and being forgiven in turn, relations had never quite normalised between the two brahmins. And if he was only approaching to beg the Sage for aid or advice, he would never have alerted anyone who was watching. So then, he must want something only the king could offer. Military aid, perhaps? But the presence of too many kshatriyas would probably disrupt the balance of whatever delicate puja they were conducting. A cadre of elite warriors, then. Possibly headed by a lesser member of the Suryavansha line, one who had yet to prove himself in open combat. His half-cousin, Sharanyan, would do. Yes, he would recommend it to the Sage in the morning, along with the rest of his reports.

Vishwamitra did, however, inspire a sort of grudging respect in the spymaster. After all, it was he who had come the closest to toppling the Sage from his seat many millennia ago. It had also been Vishwamitra who put paid to the theory that it took complete control of one's emotions to become one of the Seven. Vishwamitra's emotions were famously prone to swinging from wrath to mirth and back again, even after his ascension to brahmarishi. The spymaster's personal theory was that all that it took to become a great yogi was sheer, bloody-minded determination. It just so happened that in the pursuit of such power, it was all one could do to hold on to one's will, let alone any of one's other emotions. This was probably also the reason for the attitudes of the Seven in general. The knowledge that they were, in fact, holier than you, and that they had laid eyes on one or more of the Three, and only six others in the world had the capacity to do so. If they were as lacking in emotion as they claimed, they would certainly not be as sanctimonious as they were in reality.

The spymaster stood up, his work for the night mostly completed. He had yet to finish reading some of the older journals, which had to be copied on to new paper with new ink. The first thing that a spy-master in training was told was the importance of maintaining these journals. They were the only thing remaining of the ones before him, who had spent their lives in the shadows, who would never be recognised.

Secure in the knowledge that the next week would the most interesting for many weeks to come, and that he could do absolutely nothing about it, he left his chamber, through passages and hidden doors opened by secret levers, and eventually made it back to his bedchamber. His absences in the middle of the night were never remarked upon, mostly because no one knew they ever happened. Perhaps his heir had an inkling, he knew his twin had wandered into his room once or twice, drunk, and fallen asleep without realising he was not in his own room. His father could not care less, still under the impression that it was his half-brother who ran the networks. His mother might know, he had never told a lie to her, merely never told her the whole truth.

And with that final thought, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

__________________________________________________

completely, totally, only slightly-ashamedly inspired by sharan. though i am more than slightly biased towards my namesake, much more than he is.

Cities

2010-09-29T18:38:00.000+05:30

I know cities. There is a difference between cities and monsters. London and New York an Los Angeles are monsters. They have no character, they have too many disparate entities within them. How can something have character if the things it is made up of contradict each other? The Lower East Side has character. Piccadilly Circus has character. But not London and New York.

But old hands know this. They don't pretend to know the whole city, merely the parts of it they like. The twenty year old party boy knows a very different London to the sixty year old librarian. In Philadelphia, in Delhi, everyone has an idea. You know it exists, the shadow and the light, in other cities. In the monsters, all that is there is the districts.

I feel the street under my feet. A city-walker knows how to walk in one. There is an easy rhythm, one that people like me know, one that lets you walk for hours without tiring. This is when they speak to you. They speak to you through the soles of your feet, and when the story reaches you, you've already walked past the ghost that inspired it. But it's worth it nonetheless.

City-walker. That's how I've thought of myself. And I know there must be others like me. But would I ever know it, if I met one? Do the others listen like I do? Are they impartial observers like me, or do they go out and affect the city they're in? Do they sing their songs, the ones that I'm too afraid to voice, the ones that I try to drown by listening to cities? Surely mine is the only way to do it, really. I think about it logically, and I can come to no other conclusion. How can you learn a city if you're trying to make it learn you?

But then, cities don't operate on logic, do they? Their songs aren't cold and rational, they're passionate, fiery, sometimes vindictive and sometimes melancholic, and often indecipherable.

So how, then? How?

If you listen, the city will tell you her secrets, her mysteries, her guilty pleasures. But no one listens, to the ghosts and the phantoms of centuries past. If you tried hard enough, you'd probably even hear, faintly, the roar of a sabre-toothed tiger, the crash of a triceratops' tail, the trumpeting of a woolly mammoth. But I don't know how to, and I'll never meet anyone who does. And I am stuck with the question.

How?

__________________________________________________

With much inspiration from Sita. PS, I managed dinosaurs!

TV

2010-09-05T20:45:00.000+05:30

When I was in eighth class, Krishna Chitti bought Thatha the third season of a television show about the White House. It was clear from the back of the box that this was no ordinary television show, in fact it was clear that it was a television show of outstanding quality. Which would explain why it was with more than a little reluctance that I joined Thatha to watch the first episode. But within the first fifteen minutes, I was hooked. Between eighth and tenth classes, usually just as my exams were going on, another box would arrive, and I would forsake any and all pretensions of studying to watch what must be the most realistic portrayal of politics I've ever seen. If you know anything about TV, you'll know that there is only one show about the White House that stands head and shoulders above the rest: The West Wing.

There began a love affair with good television. Good television is much, much better than a good movie, and much, much harder to make. A movie is two and a half, three, even four hours long, at the most. Just one good season of a television program is about 20 episodes in length, each episode being at least 20 minutes long, forty in the longer cases, and thus is at least six hours long, and is usually about twelve hours long. Add to that the fact that good television shows tend to run for several seasons, tend to have smaller budgets and are much more affected by executive meddling, and perhaps you can see why I respect the people who make TV programs so much.

The West Wing was one thing, we watched it and devoured it, and I frequently watch it again and again, but that isn't the only good program I watch. I have waxed poetic about The Wire in a previous post, and I stand by my words. Together they hold, quite easily, first place for best television show ever. They have their weak points, The West Wing drags in the fourth and fifth seasons, and the last season of The Wire is nowhere near as strong as the one before it (or indeed, as happy), but they are nonetheless the best out there.

But there are other TV shows that I watch on a regular basis. Comedy in television is nowhere near as sparse as comedy in cinema. How I Met Your Mother, which is a much, much better written version of Friends, and 30 Rock, a TV show that is about a TV show (have I blown your mind? I think I have), both regularly achieve laugh out loud moments which justify any and all impossible plot problems. The earliest seasons of House were terrific, with Hugh Laurie as Greg House, a sarcastic doctor who, in a nutshell, cannot be arsed. I first watched Scrubs with Sita, in my first long summer holiday after tenth class. It would come on at midnight, after Seinfeld and Friends, and watching Zach Braff be neurotic is a pleasure in life I do not get very often anymore.

On the other hand, there's the drama. And it's just as good. There's Fringe, created by JJ Abrams. JJ Abrams created Lost, which is highly overrated, and made the new version of Star Trek, which was so much fun. Fringe is pretty much (X Files + Lost)/2, but it is very well written, has some great plots, and is worth watching. The first season of Prisonbreak. Just the first season. Rather obviously, it revolves around a prison escape. Genius tries to break his (wrongly accused, on death row) brother out of prison. The first season was so good. Everything after that was rubbish, but the first season was excellent. I've only watched one and a half seasons worth of Damages, and I love it. It revolves around a ruthless lawyer who will do anything to win, and her protege who alternates being clueless and extremely smart. Every episode takes place both in the present and six months in the future, and the knowledge that the seemingly innocent girl who's just been introduced is going to be running around New York City covered in blood makes the entire experience deliciously frightening.

There are also a few shows which fits somewhere in the middle. Specifically, one. Glee. Outrageous song and dance performances set in high school. Bollywood in America. High School Musical done right. SO MUCH FUN!

If you've been paying attention so far, you'll notice one thing. All of the above TV shows are American. This is because I feel British television should have it's own separate slot. It's own separate slot of awesomeness, that is. All I will say is that each of these programs is worth ten of any other show in British television. QI, a quiz show (hosted by Stephen Fry, no less) where contestants get points not for right, but for interesting answers. Mock the Week and Have I Got News For You both lampoon the news and current events, but the cake for this sort of show goes to Charlie Brooker's Newswipe. The award for best general comedy TV show ever in the entire world (BGCTSEEW for short, or not so short as the case may be) goes, of course to Monty Python's Flying Circus. I will not describe it, I will merely ask you to go and watch it. Watch their movies, too, but their TV is much better, in my humble opinion.

No description of British television would ever, ever, ever be complete without a homage to the longest running sci-fi show ever: Doctor Who. In a nutshell, it is about an alien who looks human (though he's a lot older than us, so if anything we look like him) who time travels in his time travel machine. Which, by the way, looks like a blue box. (My summary does not do justice to it. Simply take my word for it, and watch it.)

Despite my best efforts, this isn't an exhaustive list. I know, in the back of my head, that I've forgotten some shows. I also know that I haven't watched a few that I have to watch. The two most glaring examples would be Mad Men and The Sopranos. But for now, this list is basically everything I wanted it to be: a celebration of terrific television.

Secrets

2010-07-21T23:43:00.000+05:30

Sometimes I suspect that everyone in the world knows a secret, and I don't. That there is some sort of newsletter that goes around, and I don't have a subscription. That everyone else has passed through some rite of passage that has completely, totally escaped me. Even in the lesser moments of my cynicism, I know that I have not fully caught on to the way of the world. But sometimes, I wonder whether I am not actually a rakshasi in disguise.

'Rajeev ispice, Rajeev ispice' comes a shrill scream from behind me, followed by a series of loud thumps, as one of the children enthusiastically hits the wall. I wish they would not do that. The paint chips, and falls on the floor, and it is inevitably my duty to clean them. I am supposed to be watching them, but I am not in the mood. Contemplating the nature of secrets has given me a world weariness that does not often come upon me, but if by the ages of six and seven they cannot play in the safety of their own verandah, there is no point in coddling them any further. They will grow up to be the same spoilt brats that their elder brothers and sisters have become, and they will leave for their foreign countries, and I will be lucky if that the last I ever see of them.

There are four of them, behind me. Rajeev and Rajni are cousins. Their fathers are identical twins, and if you did not know better, it would be just as hard to tell their children apart. Born a week from each other, they harass each other as much as any actual siblings do. Naren is Rajeev's younger brother, a bit slow, certainly, but very sharp once he does catch on, and his rather serious eyes make him seem much older than either of the other two. The last is Lakshmi. That is all we ever call her. Her actual name is something far grander, her Madrasi mother's influence, we snigger behind her back. Poor girl, we say, trying rather unsuccessfully to hold back our mean-spirited laughter. Why her mother felt the need to call her something that no one else will, we do not understand. We only know that it makes her the runt of the litter.

Just as I was the runt of my litter. I will not see my siblings in a very long time, probably not until either Ammi or Abba dies. I do not plan on seeing their faces, jealous with the knowledge that I am in Bombay, while they rot in Lucknow. They do not need to know the jeering that I face, of being called a village girl, even though Lucknow is a fairly big town. They called me the runt, and I am now grander than any head dog that I know back home.

And yet, in my blackest moments, I suspect that it is because of this that I do not know it, that which everyone else knows, but refuses to tell me. Lakshmi will be told, her money, and her beauty, apparent even at this age, will ensure it. But no one will tell me, for I have nothing to give them in return.

Sometimes I suspect that everyone else I know has been keeping a secret from me. My twin, whom I have known since before I was born, my wife, who has kept more than one from me in the past, my elder daughter, who lives in New York and does God-knows-what, my younger daughter, who should really be too young to know any secrets, even the servants outside, who watch us all as we live our lives.

It is not as if I have not kept anything from them. I funded Shruti's entire undergraduation with bribes from Arcelor-Mittal. Sirisha's gold habit is only fed because of the offerings from the Reliance people. The land on which my not insignificant house stands was a gift from a man who was very happy that he got the tender for more than one of the many flyovers that dot the city. But to say this to anyone would be to condemn myself. I wonder at their stupidity. Surely they realise that a government post, however high, will never support a family, certainly not one with a penchant for holidays in exotic locations, and yet I know that one wrong word will kill any respect that my children have for me, and will destroy any left in my wife.

It is the same stupidity that makes Shruti ask me for more money every month than can possibly be spent on 'the expensive food here in America'. At least when I asked for money, I had the grace to pretend that it was my friends who kept borrowing it off me, not the environment in which I was placed. She has even picked up an accent, one that is rather fake, of the kind that some boys in college would affect even before they left India, in anticipation of their life there. Undoubtedly it did them a world of good. Whereas I was content to stay in Bombay, the city that raised me, that continues to take care of me.

I never wonder, what would have happened, if I had left my home. It was my home. It is my home. I shall never leave.

I know that people have been keeping secrets from me. Papa takes out the little ball chocolates from nowhere, and gives one to me only when he is happy with me. I think even Rajeev know where they are kept, I've seen him eat them even when Papa was nowhere to be found. He leaves the golden paper on the floor when he's finished.

When I grow up, I shall have my own factory, one that makes nothing but ball chocolates. And there shall be no more secrets.

I know all the secrets. The ones that are important, the ones that aren't important. Even how to tell the difference. In the end, they all come to me, and they bring their secrets with them. Some of them are scared, others are tired, there are even some fools who think they are being wise when they welcome me. I was created so that you would want to live longer, not so that you could wish for me. Even the ones who bring me on themselves are never happy to see me, in the end.

On the other hand, I hate mysteries. Being the starring character in most of them, I've been misrepresented to much of the public as violent, and sometimes even insane. I'd like to think I'm a peaceful sort, and quiet as well. I'm only doing my job.

And even that they're taking away from me. A thousand years ago, forty years would have been a good life. Now fifty, sixty, seventy years are normal. A thousand years from now, who knows? Maybe you'll become immortal. And where does that leave me? My bull needs to be walked every now and then, you know. This is why I hate mysteries. The future is a mystery, and even a god can't see the future.

You can only know a secret by that which it is not. Once you know a secret itself, it stops being a secret, doesn't it? And then it loses all its charm. A good mystery lasts forever, but once it gives up its secret, it ceases to be interesting anymore.

Songs I'm listening to currently

2010-07-14T20:58:00.000+05:30

Another list, though this one the ignorant reader (hopefully) won't find baffling. Does what it says on the tin. Links to youtube and other sites also provided.

Make Me Wanna Die - The Pretty Reckless
Ok, when I first listened to this, it was on the soundtrack of Kick-Ass (totally epic. Eleven year old foul mouthed bad-ass superheroine. I would marry that girl, if she weren't liable to chop my head off. Nicolas Cage is EPIC, for the first time in years). I did not know that the lead singer is the blond girl from Gossip Girl. Now I know who she is though, I'm downloading everything I can find off this band. Which seems to be all of four songs. I'm really hoping I'll like it.

This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us - Sparks
Also on the Kick-Ass soundtrack. Most of it is pretty cool actually. Just go listen to it. According to Wikipedia, they're a really cool band. I will check them out, once I am done with The Pretty Reckless. Good music is such fun. The title itself is a quote from a really old movie, one that Appa likes to say a lot, for any and all occasions.

Gone To Sleep - Moby & Kelli Scarr
This is the kind of music I want to listen to for the rest of my life. Dark and melodic FTW! Apparently 'twas composed in just one day. I wouldn't know if this is a long time or a short one, never having composed one myself. It is also about an intergalactic paedophile.

I am now beginning to sound like one of those people who have blogs with lots of people reading them. Eurgh. /endself-consciousness

We Looked Like Giants - Death Cab For Cutie
This has been a favourite song for a while, but I've been listening to the whole album more and more. I just really like the title, even though the song is about something totally different to (what I think) the title implies.

I Can't Stay - The Killers
Another old obsession. They had me at the first line. Everything else is a good song, but the first line. Oh, what a line.

Thok De Killi - A R Rahman (closest thing I could find to youtube)
The movie is rubbish. Watch Raavan once, for the cinematography, and try to burn Abhishek and Aishwarya out of your mind. Surpanakha is totally the only person worth watching in the film, and the star of this song. Refuses to leave my mind. Rather simplistic, yes. But mind infecting nonetheless. Gets much more exciting once you watch the film.

And when I was on the flight back home, I heard one particular band, and one song from that band, and I remember thinking 'This band is better that I give it, or it's genre, credit for.'

Luckily, I can't remember the band or the song. So clearly they can't have been that good.

Dear Lord

2010-05-24T15:32:00.000+05:30

Dear Lord, I ask not for very much

Not for omniscience, or immortality, or some such

I ask merely for a load of money

To buy a house where the land is sunny

To buy myself a cool red car

So I can drive down, to where the beaches are

To be able to jet off to exotic places

Eat exotic fruit, see exotic faces

All I want is a big TV

And a gigantic safe with a miniscule key
And a load of things that go Bang! and Boom!
From which away I'll quickly zoom
On my fast overpriced bike
A Harley Davidson, or the like
Hey Lord, could you please do me a tiny favour

It's not gigantic, though you'd be a life saver

I've always wanted my own island

Not somewhere in the cold wet highland

Just an islet, minute, small

I hope that's not an order tall

I'd just like to be a little private

Along with an ocean, I'd like to dive it

And Lord, I know, you're a busy guy

But it's not like I'm asking not to die

And before I forget, and my wishes you void

It's what your wife's given me that I've really enjoyed

Not a Tamil Film Romance - Part Two

2010-05-12T19:48:00.000+05:30

Three weeks later, Suresh and Nikhil had just left another of Sathya Sir's endless lectures. The man knew no limits, his endurance for teaching partial differentiation was matched only by his ability to put students to sleep in the hot Madras sun one hour after the canteen lunch. Now, at four in the afternoon, they did what they always did at four in the afternoon; stand outside the university gates and ogle every hot girl that came past. And every day for the last three weeks, Suresh would do what he always did, compare every girl that went past with the idealised version of the Girl in the Coffee Shop, and find that she came up short.

This time though, Nikhil was having none of it. His irritation had been building up ever since Suresh had declared that Ananya Kumar was not worthy of his attention in front of his Girl. Ananya Kumar was the apple of Nikhil's eye, and as far as he was concerned, no one was allowed to say anything that was even vaguely disrespectful of her. Sometime Suresh suspected Nikhil was the more stalkerish of the two. But he knew that look in Suresh's eye, and he was, as has been previously stated, having none of it.

'Ok, no. I don't want to hear about that girl. You remember Anjali? From tenth class? Two years you went on and on about her. Boohoo, she went to Bombay. Every time we went out, you'd have one drink, just one drink, and you'd start your sob story. God, every girl in our class thought you were so cuuuute. And they didn't give you a second look! Not that you cared! But then, they didn't give me a second look either! Just because I was your best friend! And now, you don't even know this girl's name? Dude, spare us. I don't need Ananya discovering my best friend stalks girls in coffee shops. As it is she's not sure about us dating. Macha, if you fuck this up, I will kill you.' His voice during the entire speech had been at a high pitched wail. Despite puberty, Nikhil had always had a higher voice than most, and stress only made it worse. It had been months before anyone in class could talk to him just after the engineering exam, and he would never forget the looks on their faces when they realised the noise in the background who was crying about how he was going to fail was, in fact, a guy.

Suresh looked at Nikhil, knowing that just the admission that he was going out with Ananya was worth hearing the tirade. He wasn't going to be cowed, though. 'Dude, you have no idea! Just to be in her presence, my god! It was like Sita Mahalakshmi herself-'

'- had come down from the heavens,' Nikhil interrupted, 'forsaking Vishnu to come to our mortal abode. We've heard this a dozen times already. At the very least get some new material!'

'Dude, you should have been there. If you'd been there, that stupid coffee shop guy wouldn't have laughed. I mean, we were having like, an actual conversation'

'Yeah, that conversation, it was about marriage. Anjana has been going out with Prashant from section C since seventh class, they're the most irritating lovey-dovey couple on the planet, and they don't talk about marriage. Clearly, your relationship was doomed to fail.'

'You can talk about anything with the girl of your dreams. Not that you would know, of course.' Suresh said, snidely.

'DUDE! I don't need dreams! I have Ananya! Just, don't keep going on about it, ok? The whole class thinks we're big enough geeks as it is. Dude, it's KK! KK! OVER HERE MAN!'

KK, Karan Kohli, was quite possibly the most laid back geek in the entire engineering department. He would spend days on end on his laptop, playing Counterstrike, or Half Life, and suddenly he would decide that he was wasting too much time on the computer, and undergo two intensive days of studying out of some random textbooks he got from shady people he knew. And then he'd give up, and go back to playing Half Life and Counterstrike. KK seemed to live in this perfect world, where playing games most of the time was somehow not only possible, but even conducive to his studying hard and doing well in university exams. Thus, he had the respect and admiration of every boy in the class, and the distaste and contempt of every girl in it.

What neither Nikhil or Suresh knew was that KK would be the one reason Suresh would meet his Girl in the Coffee Shop, and why Nikhil would finally break up with Ananya Kumar.

______________________________________

hello. i am liking this, even if it sounds rather formulaic. how nice it is, to be able to write. how irritating it is, that it is coming at the cost of revision. all things have a price, i suppose. PS, i quite like having inspiration, but i hate having it only when i'm on the internet trying to watch maths lectures.

Not a Tamil Film Romance - Part One

2010-05-07T15:53:00.000+05:30

‘I wouldn’t suppose you’d talk to me if I told you that I’m quite sure you’re the girl I’m supposed to marry?’

That was how it had begun, in a dilapidated old café somewhere on the university campus. They were the only two people in the café, him and the girl who didn’t think it was strange to drink elaichi tea at one in the morning. She didn’t pay attention to him the first time Suresh said it. Probably because he was practicing it, under his breath. He supposed this happened. People met, randomly, in cafes, at odd times in the morning, and went on to spend the rest of their lives with each other.

He said it again, this time louder, and with a smile that hopefully said something like ‘I’m not a stalker; I’m just someone else who happens to be in this broken down excuse for a place to drink coffee.’

This time she looked up from the book she was reading, and gave him a look. It said ‘I can’t believe you just said that, so I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen.’

‘Ok, look, I’m being serious. This can only be fate. It’s just me and you, in the same time and place, at one in the morning. There is someone watching us, and he is trying to tell us something.’ Suddenly Suresh thought of five hundred things he could have said, none of which would have made him sound like a stalker. Top of the list was ‘Hi, I’m Suresh.’

But they had sat in silence for the last hour, and he was going to go mad if he didn’t say something. It looked like she was reading War and Peace, or at the very least a literal translation of the Mahabharata. There was no other book he could think of which could be so huge.

Then she spoke. And the voice that came out could only have dropped down from somewhere in the sky. The words, on the other hand, left much to be desired.

‘I don’t really know where you come from, but here on planet Earth, one doesn’t tell people they’re going to marry them before one gets to know them. In fact, most people marry people who they know really well, and have some sort of relationship prior to that kind of commitment.’ Her voice sang like some sort of unearthly music, but she was clearly not happy.

Still he stuck with it, resisting the temptation to point out that arranged marriages essentially consisted of people who'd never met each other before, and then continued to have perfectly normal and happy lives.

'Arranged marriages are for the desperate and the socially inept', she shot back.

Ah. So he had said it out loud, then. And hadn't impressed her with his traditionalism, either.

'I resent that allegation! Lots of perfectly nice people who are neither desperate nor socially retarded have had arranged marriages!'. Crap, he was getting into an argument about marriage with her. It was too early in their relationship to talk about such things!

The guy behind the counter, who could usually be counted on to be missing at this time of night, had decided today would be a good day to man the front desk and ensure no one was stealing napkins and straws. At that moment, Suresh could have killed him. Luckily, she did it for him, for it was at that moment that he burst out laughing.

'EXCUSE ME! Don't you know that eavesdropping on other people's conversations, however weird or creepy, is extremely rude? What kind of coffee shop is this? Don't you have any respect? I am never coming here again! Chi!'

Suresh's respect for her, already at Sachin Tendulkar levels, went up at least ten times. However, his hate for the coffee shop man also went up by that much, since in her disgust and anger, the girl stood up and stormed out of the shop. Before he knew it, she had gotten into an auto and sped away.

________________________________

many thanks to the person i will only refer to as 'Coffee', perhaps because that will make the writing of this sound more exciting, for semi authoring and semi editing this bit of fiction i wrote about a year ago and found floating around on some part of the internet. will continue once exams are over, which should be in about a month. my first semi decent attempt at fiction since i started this blog. how exciting!

Will Shaxberd

2010-05-06T02:10:00.000+05:30

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

I like this one more than his other really really really famous poem, which starts 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day', maybe because of the way it makes fun of poems like it. Shakespeare's poems read extraordinarily smoothly, probably because of the form he uses. In 'A Wrinkle in Time', Madeleine L'Engle uses the sonnet as a metaphor for lie. It's slightly pretentious, but cool nonetheless.

Mrs Whatsit: 'A sonnet is a very strict form of poetry is it not? There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes? And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?'

Charles: 'You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?'

Mrs Whatsit: 'You are given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.'

Shakespeare's sonnets are incredibly amazing, not only because he manages to write them in that form at all, but also because he manages to do it so brilliantly.

'The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he is really very good — in spite of all the people who say he is very good.' - Robert Graves

Mr Ebert, Your Opinion Sucks

2010-04-30T19:49:00.000+05:30

If you are an internet geek, and read either Roger Ebert, with whom I agree most, if not all, of the time, or know anything about videogames on the internet, you will have come across this article, and much more recently, this article. I, like many, many, many of my brethren who enjoy, love and admire videogames, and are in awe of the people who make them, would like to respectfully disagree. The problem, of course, is that you can't really define what art is. You can identify something as being art or not art, but defining why you think so is rather difficult. Why is the Ode to Joy art? If it is art, why isn't Hit Me Baby One More Time? They're both music.

There is no point in me going on and on about it. I am just here to say, videogames can be art, and have been art, and will be art. Anyone who stereotypes videogames as being about mindlessness, whether about killing, or racing, or solving weird puzzles, has clearly never enjoyed playing a videogame in his or her entire life.

In the end, he asks why gamers care whether games are art or not. While it is true that in the perfect world we wouldn't, we ain't in the perfect world. Saying that we could never belong to that elite club of art people only makes us more infuriated, because we do want to be taken seriously.

Videogames can be art. Play Braid. Braid is art. It is difficult, and thoughtful, and art. Play KotOR. IT has a terrific story, is a great deal of fun, and offers just as much to think about as the Star Wars movies. If they're art, KotOR is definitely art.

In a bit, I shall post my favourite videogames and why I love 'em. Go away, you people who think videogames are sad. You lack intelligence.

Music

2010-04-16T08:30:00.000+05:30

My love of music is exactly as one of my father's friends described his love for music; 'One morning I just woke up, and music was there!'

While it may sound dramatic, or astonishing that one could pass through life without realising music was there, and then to just discover it, it is my truth. All too often, my friends would discuss bands I did not know about, did not really care about. Music to me was the songs we sang in assembly, the carnatic lessons I took from Ravi sir, the folk songs Amma taught me, and the random Disney and Bollywood that Radha would insist on playing. I made a few attempts at Coldplay, at Bon Jovi, at the Beatles, but nothing more than what fell right into my lap. My first real connection came in the summer after tenth class. That was a glorious summer, where I did absolutely no work, and just sat around doing whatever I wanted. Night after night I woud sit in entrenchment road with Sita, watching Seinfeld, and then Friends, and then Scrubs (11.00, 11.30 and 12.00 respectively). And I listened to some truly awful music; lots of Coldplay, and Linkin Park, (chalk this down to beginner's ignorance) Dashboard Confessional, and some nonsense by random people Radha was listening to. All awful. There was also much Rahman, and Dire Straits, and Nirvana and Rush. An eclectic combination of artists.

Now I've grown out of that. I discarded what I didn't like, memorised what I did, and grew intellectually superior about the rest. I went through a period of punk music, which is dead now. If you say Green Day and Avril Lavigne, I will take a stick and beat you. But I listened to the Ramones, the Sex Pistols, The Velvet Underground. Old school punk music that was really basic. The Ramones have only ever written one song, but that song is so amazing that I really don't mind listening to it again, and again, and again. Coldplay, on the other hand, have also only ever written one song, but it's a pretty crap song, so I prefer not to listen to it. Then I moved on to just old music. AC/DC, Guns N Roses, even more Dire Straits and lots of The Who. The entire discography of the Beatles, and a huge load of Queen's best music. Now I listen to what iTunes calls 'alternative', and what I like to call 'vaguely original' (elitist snobbery, anyone?). This is the Arcade Fire, Death Cab for Cutie, Florence + the Machine, Regina Spektor, to name a few. There's always Rahman, and MS, and T M Krishna, and Sanjay.

A question that comes up everytime anyone talks about music is 'What kind of music do you like?', and the answer I keep hearing is, 'All kinds, really'. This is probably true. However, a musical elitist like myself needs some sort of qualification, some standards. Well, more than just 'originality', anyway. By that definition, Lady Gaga is original *coughnoshe'snotcough*.

So I like lots of different music, but the music I like best, the music that I love, and listen to all the time, and can't live without, what I like to think is good music, is music that has two things:

Firstly, I would like a melody. A melody that doesn't rip someone else off (if you tell me all the chords have already been played by Black Sabbath, fuck you. I HATE metal. Like I said, no discernible tune). One that isn't just a 'nice tune', if you will. Something that makes me stop and think.

And secondly, I'd like imaginative lyrics. I'm willing to forgive quite a lot for imaginative lyrics. I mean, lyrics generally would be nice, I like music I can sing along to. Singing along to instrumentals is irritating. But interesting lyrics, fun lyrics, that's the best kind. Which is why I really like Dave Matthews Band's latest album. They've got some terrific lyrics. This is why I don't mind listening to the Hoosiers. The music itself isn't all that new, but their words are quite cool.

I am not a fan of writing about myself on the internet. But it was either this, or more modern poetry. Music is better, nein?

Eddycation

2010-04-10T11:11:00.000+05:30

Learning is a painful process. For one thing, it involves thought. For another, it involves effort. Perhaps the worst combination ever.

I have learnt many things.

Religion is fun.

Poetry makes gods weep and demons smile.

Being angsty on the internet is of no use to man or beast.

Being angsty generally is of no use to man or beast, but can, on specific occasions, make oneself feel better. However, these events are few and far between, and are best avoided.

Sleep is always good.

Food is to be avoided, unless it is with people you like. There are better uses for ones time than to sit and eat.

Facebook is addictive.

So is your mum.

The making of long lists is boring to the ignorant reader, and I don't care. There are no ignorant readers round these parts, which is the way I like it.

The making of long lists is also boring to the knowledgeable reader, but at least they know they can't do anything about it.

To my complete surprise, America is BRILLIANT (more on this later. if i feel like it).

America is wasted on Americans.

The graphic novel is a medium of unparalleled intensity, both visually and narratively.

I love reading inane spiderman comics.

I like rhyming words with words.

Left of centre is always right.

Puns are the lowest form of wit (yeah, riiiiiiight).

Sarcasm comes a close second.

Buying rare books makes me feel much happier than anything else.

Though reading, and looking at, rare books is also quite cool.

The world is a depressing place, and it needs all the humour it can get.

Which is how I justify:

Your mum.

Music is just so exciting. It just is. (Exciting, exciting, exciting).

The Pope is a paedo. This is just the truth.

Endings are easy.

You just,

End.

The Glow of Death

2010-04-04T23:23:00.000+05:30

I hate being
Sentimental.
And I sure dislike
Reminiscing.
But I keep seeing
Your old rental,
It’s black as ever
It’s even been
Dry-cleaned.
I tell myself
I haven’t forgotten,
Your picture stays
On my nightstand.
But so does my
Bad chick-lit, and
Contact lens solution.
I wonder,
I really do,
What actually happened.
Quite often,
I remember
Your smile
(That funny little thing).
I never knew
What made you smile
All I could do
Was wait a while
It always came
Later, not sooner.
And when I called your name
It would disappear.
I try my best
Not to forget you,
But I suspect
This love has died.
All that’s left
Is a glow.
How cold it is,
This glow
Of death.

_________________________________

ok, so i wrote more modern weird poetry. i will admit, this pseudo-intellectual thing is getting to me. PSEUDOOOOOOO. America seems to have kicked my inspiration into overdrive.

Happiness

2010-04-03T09:29:00.000+05:30

Happiness is about being rich. Anyone who thinks otherwise underestimates the value of food, clothing, shelter, ice-cream, a large tv, a blu-ray collection, bose speakers, all seasons of both the west wing and the wire, and access to iplayer. Not to mention hard pillows, a soft bed, a warm rug, an ipod, a book collection larger than mount kilimanjaro, black darjeeling tea, and woolen socks. and let's not even go near the fast internet, the terrific laptop, copies of every single great video-game ever made, the state of the art earphones, and the hard drive that'll never, ever be even half full, even filled with all the music in the entire world. oh, and how about the ability to pay for tickets for david tennant in hamlet, to go see avatar in imax 3D, to fly first class and drive around in a ferrari, and buy the last remaining first edition of harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban?

Oh yes, happiness is about being rich. Friends, family, pets, those are things that you can't really help. People will like me, or they won't. But money? The glistening, glimmering, glint of gold, the shiny yet subtle seduction of silver, the smell of green dollars and the texture of purple pounds and the weight of thousands and thousands of rupees? That is something I can work on. That is happiness.

Or, as Calvin puts it: 'A trillion billion dollars, my own space shuttle, and a private continent!'

God

2010-03-31T05:35:00.000+05:30

Mine is the fury of rivers unbounded

Mine is the grace of the deep red dawn

I am the rage, and I am the rapture

Of the whitest tiger and the blackest swan

I am the death of joyous laughter,

I am the lord of the end of despair

I am the reason the sun and the moon

Do not vanish without a thought or a care

I am the mover, and I am the moved

I am the One who is the All

Within me the worlds survive their turning

Without me the universe into nothing would fall

Now and forever, I am the master

Aeons before me like seconds pass

Mountains of stone are anthills to me

Diamonds as frail as shattered glass

The brightness of stars will perish before me

Leo and Taurus with them shall die

I will be left with dust and oblivion

Then, perhaps, my end will be nigh

___________________________________

inspired by Ralph Waldo Emerson

I like rhyming

2010-03-23T06:31:00.000+05:30

I like rhyming words with words,

It’s fun and entertaining too,

It’s not just for lit’rary nerds

Or just people feeling blue

I like making words say things

They would not never, ever say

Give them fingers and not wings,

Show them work, and not play

I like grammar that’s strangely twisted,

Not killed or mugged but Doctor Who-ed

Phrases only slightly misted

Not mangled by an insane prude

I like phrases that make me think

‘Your author is a genius cool’

They wrap 'round me like fur of mink

And inspire a feckless ugly drool

I like poems that seem crazy,

Lewis Carroll and Ogden Nash

Are my heroes, though I’m lazy

And so my poems read like trash.

I like rhyming words with words,

It’s fun and entertaining too

If you don’t like it, I think you’re turds

You belong back in the loo.

time for a change, methinks

2010-03-22T06:28:00.001+05:30

i have decided i shall try and write more nonsense poetry. less of this stuff about how my life sucks, or why i think that couch is

depressed,

and doesn't really seem to

have a character.

character, that bane

of inspiration.

where is it,

I wonder.

no, none of that weird line-break stuff anymore. i am going to try to enjoy this. hopefully you will too. like:

Who are you, reading my blog?

I want you know you slightly better

If to my face you don't want to talk,

Perhaps you could write me a letter?

See? More fun already!

blehitty blehitty bleh

2010-03-21T01:42:00.000+05:30

Inspiration's a bitch. I'm sure you know this already, but still. Inspiration's a bitch. I've said this many times already, but still. Inspiration's a bitch.

I've been reading a bit over the last couple weeks. Trying to get my mind off all the revision I'm meant to be doing. It hasn't worked too well, but I have had fun reading, nonetheless. There's been a load of fiction, and a load of graphic novels, and a bit of non-fiction, mainly my compulsory polit-theory reading but also some general econ stuff.

Firstly, the fiction:

In the middle of my third or fourth attempt at Catch-22. 'Tis hilarious, but still doesn't grip me. I like it's cynicism, and the characters are quirky and weir,d which is never a bad thing. But it just seems like a joke book, with one gag after another. Maybe I'll like it more once I've actually finished it. Maybe they'll figure out what to do with the dead man in Yossarian's tent.

First time in a while I picked up a random book because I thought it looked nice and bought it. I don't tend to do that, mostly because I don't trust new authors. But C J Sansom's Sovereign was terrific. It's the third of a series, set in Tudor England, round the time of Cromwell and people. He makes the world very, very believable, and makes the mystery mysterious without you having to have an in-depth knowledge of British history. Though some knowledge would probably not be a bad thing. It follows Matthew Shardlake, someone I was drawn to simply because I really like his name, who is a hunchback lawyer. Much loved it.

Then there was this rather short book; The Reluctant Fundamentalist, by Mohsin Hamid. It started off well enough, the way he writes the book is quite interesting. But it soon devolved into what can only be called a bleh of a novel. The main story grows dull, the lead character never really develops into someone we can relate to. Bleh, I say. Bleh bleh bleh bleh bleh. Bleh.

Also read The Immortals, by Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell. It's the tenth book in the Edge Chronicles, a series that's a) fantastically imagined, b) fantastically illustrated, and c) never ever gets old. Amma gave me the first book when i was ten or something, and I've never quite grown out of it. There's als a version of Neil Gaiman's Graveyard Book that's illustrated by Chris Riddell which is also rather well drawn, but the fantastic creatures of The Edge can't really be compared to anything else.

Secondly, the graphic novels:

I bought volume four of Planetary. Wow. The previous three volumes are really random, one issue is very rarely connected to the next, and the weirdness of the whole script is what keeps you wondering. In the concluding volume, however, the script is tight and focused, and there is no mistaking the fact that this is the end. We're not about to see any more adventures of the people who keep the world strange. The one thing I regret about the series is that it's so damn short. But it's better to go out when you're on top, nein?

There's also Fables, by Bill Willingham. Sure, the artwork isn't anything to write home about, but by the hammer of Thor, the story is the most gripping I've read in a very long time. It's a rather simple premise. What if fairy tale characters actually existed? But with that one supposition, Willingham creates an entire mythology of folk, from the Big Bad Wolf to Little Jack Horner, from Sinbad the Sailor to Prince Charming.'Tis a must read. If you're into graphic novels, anyway. Which I suspect you aren't.

And lastly, there's a little series by a man called Garth Ennis, called Preacher. You shouldn't let small children near it, you shouldn't let teenagers near it, you should probably not read it. It contains some of the most graphic, most offensive, most vulgar text and pictures you will ever read. But boy, is it good.

I find I'm a very irritating reviewer. I've just gone on about these things without telling you what they're about. But if you wanted to find out, you could very easily google them. This is just me recommending that you google them (In the case of Preacher, do so in some sort of sneaky way so that no one can recognise it's you doing it. Possibly in the same you way searched for other unsavoury items on the internet).

i hate you, GeoIP

2010-03-18T06:37:00.000+05:30

as you may or may not know, there are some very small things that i find very irritating. things like bad spelling, or unfunny attempts at being politically incorrect, or the fact that my laptop only ever seems to act up when in my room in halls. today, i shall be ranting about one of these rather inconsequential things.

ok, look, you may think that sidebar on your website is exciting. woo fucking hoo, you get visitors from all over the world, you have friends both sides of the suez canal. how bloody exciting. but let me tell you this, you little fuck, there is a reason that i don't comment on your blog, there is a reason i don't tell you who i am, or where i come from, or what i do with my life. there is a reason all of this information is kept from you. it is not so that you can install some fancy GeoIP gadget thing to figure out where i am. colour me paranoid, but i like being anonymous. london is a big place, you say? there is no way of telling who i actually am, you say? well, i don't care! half the bloody point of the internet is being anonymous (the other half is, of course, porn). i like my privacy, or what little is left of it, anyway. if i wanted to talk to you and leave comments, i would.

you like comments, you say. comments are good things, you say. i don't disagree. i find that comments brighten up my day considerably. but that does not mean i stalk you in the hopes of getting a comment, now does it?

i suppose this has more to do with how i think people should think about their blogs. why would you have a sidebar thing unless you wanted people to go 'how exciting is this blog, people from all over the world visit it'. um, HELLO! blogs are exciting because of what's written in them! not because of who visits them! it is designed for people who stumble onto the blog, because why would people who already read the blog care about who else reads the blog? so if this anonymous person stumbles onto your blog and goes 'hey look, he gets visits from new york!', that should be the first of many, many signs that this person is probably not worth it. using simply the fact that someone is from a particular place to make assumptions about them is terrifically stupid. i'm going to be mean here, and say if you're like that, you should've left round about five sentences ago. i'm not saying i'm not shallow. i'm incredibly shallow. i'll judge you based on name, age, race, sexuality, creed, gender, political views, theological views, general appearance, taste in music, and even *gasp* whether you seem to have taken a shower that morning or not.

but with that one little sidebar, you have given my extremely shallow side a very good excuse to hate you. when you're trying to attract anonymous people to come see your blog, it is probably not a good idea to alienate them. content over form, substance over style, and that little sidebar has just made sure that i will remember your URL so that i can make fun of you. you probably will not know, but that only makes it funnier.

so, either you want shallow people on your blog, or you don't. if you do, you're an idiot, and i will probably laugh at you. if you don't, why do you have that stupid sidebar?

PS, if i know you and you have a sidebar, don't worry, i will still read you. probably. erm. i will make an effort, i promise. and if i know you and someone you know really well has a sidebar, you should make them get rid of it. and apologise for ever having cared so much about the opinions of people they don't know. and while i'm at it, i'd like a pony.

2010-03-13T23:26:00.000+05:30

I'm currently reading morbid poetry. I quite like morbid poetry. Morbidity is the emotion I feel now. I like morbidity. But then I saw Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland (a must-watch. Very beautiful, not to mention stellar performances by Stephen Fry and Johnny Depp. If you went to see Avatar just for the visuals, watch this, and you'll be delighted both visually and intellectually. The only gripe I have is the slightly unoriginal action movie ending, but that I can very easily forgive.) and having watched it, I reread the Jabberwocky. The actual novel I shall save for another time, but the poetry is brilliant. There are a huge number of words that just don't make sense, but one reads them as if they do.

So this week I've been reading the Jabberwocky and the rather longer Hunting of the Snark. They're meant to be read aloud, even if the words don't make any sense at all. You should do it.

2010-03-11T22:07:00.000+05:30

Have you heard about the reservations? Here is what an elitist, spoilt, upper middle-class Indian boy who is now in England thinks about the bill, which is undoubtedly a paragon of virtue, passed by people who have the milk of human kindness poring from every vein.

I suspect the reservations will make little to no difference to the actual political makeup of the system, but they will change our democracy for the worse.

The status quo is that politicians can only run for power if they are approved by the party, and once they are actually in power, they tend not to act for the good of their people. If in the very unlikely scenario the politician is actually purely altruistic, he has no credibility with the rest of the politicians, meaning that he has no real power. Power is given to those who are willing to compromise, and compromising effectively means you are no longer altruistic, and then you just become another politician.

What is the change here? That one in three seats will be filled by a woman, and not a man. That doesn't change the nature of politics, because whether you're male or female, getting to Parliament means that you become a politician. So more women will get power, certainly, but the entry requirements to get to power effectively mean that they will be just like the women MP's that already exist.

The proposition does not effect an actual change in the system, it merely makes it look different.

The women in this country who are marginalised, who are in need of help, are very unlikely to be the ones who want to run for parliament. By running for parliament, that woman is exhibiting a level of empowerment that we want all women to get to, but we're not enabling those women, are we?

But what are the negative effects of the proposition?

Never mind that this kind of legislation is unprecedented in our democracy. Never mind that reservations for women makes them seem unable to run for parliament otherwise. Never mind the administrative costs and the decisions we will have to make about which districts are to be represented in this way. That can be chalked down to the thinking of a well-off boy from Hyderabad who doesn't know the ground reality of how India actually works.

But the fact of the matter is that after today, when someone says nothing is going on in India, people will point to this bill and say 'Look, India is changing!', when in reality it is not. Passing this bill will appease those of us who want to believe that things are getting better, but won't actually help the women who need it. It will give a lot of political capital to all the parties in the Lok Sabha, but will not actually make, say, female foeticide ratios any better. Explaining to women that their lot is getting better because one is now guaranteed more women in parliament will not be easy (By the logic that this will help women, UP by now should have become the land of milk and honey for OBC's. But all Mayawati does is build statues of herself, (and also pass bills to create a special police force for defending them)).

This bill gives the government a stamp of legitimacy it has done nothing to deserve. Itgives the Congress, the BJP, the SP, the BSP, the DMK, the AIADMK, and any number of other political acronyms the right to say 'We are changing', when they aren't. We are giving them the license to lie.

Which would explain why I, personally, am not a fan.

Mediocrity is depressing

2010-03-04T02:24:00.001+05:30

Mediocrity is depressing

There are no voices in my head

There are no women in my bed

No words on these lacklustre pages

No wisdom from no sanguine sages

No colors of the rainbow’s hues

Just the taxman and his dues

Despite the flowers of spring so gay

I do not know what I’m meant to say.

Black and white and endless gray

Are all I see though try I may.

Mediocrity is depressing,

No hope for my spendthrift hands

No joy for my liar’s tongue

No rain on my infertile lands

I stand on the world’s midmost rung.

And though I hear the ‘Yes we can’s

They sting me like a bee has stung

They have their best-laid mousey plans

About which nothing can be done.

Mediocrity is depressing,

My muses flee like moths from rain

They look at me like a man insane

I write my verses but in vain

Still better than curses dripping with disdain.

2010-03-01T04:32:00.000+05:30

this weeks poetrical (is that even a word?) discovery is John Betjeman. Having awoken at nine in the morning in the living room of a house i'd never been to before, i naturally did the first thing that came to mind and found myself something to read. At first, it was a book by orhan pamuk about istanbul, but really not being in the mood for stories, i picked up the collected works of john betjeman.

Five o clock shadow

This is the time of day when we in the Mens's ward
Think "one more surge of the pain and I give up the fight."
When he who struggles for breath can struggle less strongly
This is the time of day which is worse than night.

A haze of thunder hangs on the hospital rose-beds,
A doctors' foursome out on the links is played,
Safe in her sitting-room Sister is putting her feet up:
This is the time of day when we feel betrayed.

Below the windows, loads of loving relations
Rev in the car park, changing gear at the bend,
Making for home and a nice big tea and the telly:
"Well, we've done what we can. It can't be long till the end."

This is the time of day when the weight of bedclothes
Is harder to bear than a sharp incision of steel.
The endless anonymous croak of a cheap transistor
Intensifies the lonely terror I feel.

- John Betjeman

2010-02-26T05:20:00.000+05:30

schadenfreude. what a delectable word. never mind its origins, gruesome as they are. but still, what a word. it's an evil little word, that finds the darkest parts in us calls them its own. it's like a sort of a visceral red, but it's also a jealous orange, an envious green, a deep, deep black, and even an intellectually superior, philosophically cool blue. there is something about humanity that makes is feel schadenfreude, something about the way we think. do monkeys have it? maybe they do. but it really comes out in humans.

it's what keeps me interested in the internet, sometimes. when i read the blog of an emo teen and think 'you know, this kid seems to think his life has ended. thank god i'm not him. i mean, i might not be the most exciting person ever, but at least i'm not him'. perhaps despite my earlier rant about personal blogs i do have a need for them. i may not like them, but they do serve a purpose. they're like bendy buses, in that way. terribly irritating, but useful to have around, nonetheless.

perhaps my life isn't as exciting as some of my friends', but at least i'm (relatively) on top of my work, and i (sortof) eat well. just think, i could be one of the people on jeremy kyle. while terrifically hilarious, it would also be terrifyingly depressing. india works, on some level, on the feeling of schadenfreude. ok, i didn't top the state, but at least i'm not last in class. ok, i'm last in class, but at least i'm in a good school. ok, i'm not from a rich family, but at least i'm not down in the dumps. that's what keeps everyone going, the knowledge that there is someone else, out there, who has it worse than you.

it's a funny thing to feel, is schadenfreude. you feel guilty when you feel it, but not enough that you don't feel it anymore. for folk like mr emo boy down the (cyber) corridor, it's probably the only thing that keeps him going. what a weird thing it is, to feel schadenfreude.

2010-02-25T21:44:00.001+05:30

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

- Dylan Thomas

genius.

2010-02-22T04:39:00.000+05:30

There is a certain joy in reading something you've never read before, and being blown away by it.

like reading the poems of Dylan Thomas. specifically, 'Do not go gentle into that good night', or 'And death shall have no dominion'.

i've never understood why i like poetry, or why it's specifically better than prose, especially when poetry like the kind i like writing seems to have no real rules to it.

maybe one day i will figure it out. that would be cool.

2010-02-12T23:43:00.000+05:30

So what does one do, with a blog? I've been here two and a half years, and I have no idea. I really don't. Other people write, or talk about their life, or crack awful jokes, or post pictures, or theorise about world politics, or give advice on how to write a blog, even.

I mean, what the heck happens here? Some mediocre-to-good fiction. Some faintly humorous theories of life. A bit of economics. Some vague irritated-about-life rants that I really am not sure about. And some poetry, which I am actually pretty proud of. I quite like reading my poetry. But then, I quite like reading most poetry. Though there was this poetry reading I went to in January by this girl who wrote the most vapid unoriginal rubbish that even my haiku was good by comparison. But we're getting off track here.

I know what a blog can be for. I know what one shouldn't do. But seriously, what am I doing here? This cybernetic space where I have total control means what to me?

Who are these people, on the internet, who talk about their lives? Innit just a tad weird to be spilling your innermost secrets on the internet? Innit just a tad weird to be talking about yourself at all on the internet? Don't we get told, about how the internet is full of these awful people who will try to use the most vague clues you give them to try to track you down and then stalk you or something? And here we are, talking about it out in the open? Hello Mr Stalker Man, come find me, this is where I live!

Sometimes I read the blogs of complete strangers. I can never remember quite how I get there. I just keep clicking, link after link, and suddenly, I find myself somewhere I really don't want to be anymore. And here they are, telling me their deepest darkest secrets. Sure, they name no names and use pseudonyms like 'That Guy' of 'Mr Y' but I'm still being told about what he did to your best friend. In morbidly excruciating detail. HELLO! If you want to tell the internet your secrets, at least take the care to make your blog private or something? PLEASE?

I'm sure the people who write these blogs are perfectly nice, but every now and again they get some small thing wrong that will get me really, really irritated. Like, ONE CANNOT WRITE AN ODE TO SOMETHING IN THE FORM OF AN ESSAY! AN ODE, BY DEFINITION, IS A FUCKING POEM! IF YOU CALL IT AN ODE, AT LEAST MAKE SURE IT FUCKING RHYMES! (Can you tell I did a fifteen hundred word project on odes back in tenth class?)

Ok, glad I got that off my chest. Sorry about that little outburst. Sometimes the bit of my brain that controls the amount of pure rage I feel decides to go on a holiday. I never get invited, which only increases the amount of rage I feel. Anyway, moving on.

All things have an aim, in life. Aristotle said that. Maybe the aim of my blog is to find the aim of my life! That sounds terribly convenient! Erm, maybe not, then.

So, having talked about god-knows-what for a bit, we are still no closer to figuring out what is going on here. I leave you, then, with a list of the music I've been listening to recently ( I have still not gotten around to Rahman's new album, but i will eventually, I promise.)

Lungs - Florence and The Machine (Specifically: Rabbit Heart, My Boy Builds Coffins and Hurricane Drunk)

Window to the Past - John Williams (from the third Harry Potter movie)

Mother - Pink Floyd (shame on you if you don't know which album)

Jack's Lament - Danny Elfman (The Nightmare Before Christmas)

The Time of Your Life - Randy Newman (A Bug's Life)

A Great Big Load of Carnatic Music Stuff - T M Krishna

2010-02-07T13:30:00.000+05:30

some photos i planned to put up a long, long time ago, that i'm only just getting around to now.

i remember sreya and mukunda being here. i remember laughing hysterically about...... oh, there was a phrase we thought was terrifically funny. postmodern? something like that. that was fun.

as sreya has indeed pointed out, the phrase was pseudo. PSEUDO!!!!!

The Wire

2010-02-06T01:44:00.000+05:30

I don't know how to write reviews (This is my last poor attempt). I certainly don't know how anyone manages the courage to write them. In my mind, there are two types of reviewers; those that are famous, and those that aren't. The ones that are, do so for a gigantic audience every day. I could do a few things in front of large amount of people. Acting isn't really a problem. Public speaking I can handle. Perhaps I could even write a book that might be read a load of people. But reviewing? Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit*. I couldn't handle that if you threatened me at gunpoint. And the ones that aren't famous, like me, well how can I say anything that the famous ones haven't already? What is the point of my voice? And it is for these reasons I don't review things. I don't see the point. But every once in a while something comes along that makes even me want to scream from the rooftops unto high heaven, and that is what is happening here. I want to shout out to you, whoever you are, family, close friend or complete stranger, the brilliance of The Wire.

I spent a good amount of time, over the holidays, and while in London, watching The Wire. Time that I could have spent in bookshops, in libraries, I spent sitting in front of my laptop and furiously trying to figure out what was going on. Every once in a while, I would swear, loudly and extravagantly, using the same phrases I heard being used on the screen in front of me. I was addicted, start to finish. I have no idea what cold turkey is going to be like. And it is that kind of storytelling that swept me off my feet.

At this point, I would not blame you if you asked me the question; what is The Wire actually about? The answer to that is I don't really know. Is it about drugs, and the effect that it has on its users and ultimately society? Is it about politics, and the effect of all the bullshit that politicians speak to us has on the streets? Is it about the police department? Is it about crime? I think it's about all of these things, but most of all, it's about the city of Baltimore. Situated not more than half an hour from the capital of the United States of America, The Wire shows us what the city of Baltimore has become. And it is that vision, more than anything else, that makes this a TV show more compelling than anything that has ever come before it. I wrote only yesterday of how no medium could capture the kind of brilliance literature can. I am willing, on this one occasion, to make an exception for The Wire.

The series tells us many stories; it hops, skips and jumps between them perfectly, and decorates them with characters that don't seem like they could belong anywhere else. The first season, which is really where you should start, is about a drug lord, one Avon Barksdale, and the police unit working to catch him. It is a thing of beauty.

They introduce us to the major players, not slowly, not smoothly, but in a jarring pilot where one just happens to take a peek into the world of these people. There's a huge cast, but by the time you're hooked, you'll know and love (or hate, as the case may be) each one of them. The main lead, played by Dominic West, is a cop by name of Jimmy McNulty, who complains about a murder trial he's lost to the judge presiding in that case. The main defendant is D'Angelo Barksdale, Avon's nephew. The judge demands to superiors in the police department that they assemble a unit to take Barksdale down, which they do, though reluctantly.

At the same time, the defendant in the murder trial is set free, and moves back into the streets. He's given charge of dealing drugs to a neighbourhood in west Baltimore, and his story of drug dealing and avoiding the cops is in chilling counterpoint to the story of those very same cops who try to catch him. The series' title comes from the the essential tool used by the cops in catching the criminals: the wiretap.

Some characters are lovable, others aren't, but all of them are amazing. There's Omar, the gangster armed with a shotgun and a code; he will not kill anyone not involved in 'the game'. There's Bubbles, the heroin addict who brings a smile to everyone's face with his easy humour and disarming charm. There's Jimmy McNulty, who doesn't bow to any authority except his own. There's Stringer Bell, Avon's lieutenant, who behaves more like a businessman than a gangster. But my personal favourite is Officer Pryzbylewski, a cop who is seemingly ineffectual at terrifically simple things, and manages to fire his gun into a wall and is thus kept off the streets.

The Wire also keeps you guessing, and second guessing. The script is so well written that you feel it every time a major character is killed, which is pretty often. And watching it will make you love characters you thought you hated, and hate characters you never cared about. It's complexity in unmatched, and you won;t get into it until atleast the third or fourth episode. They aren't the normal forty minute episodes, either. Each episode is almost an hour long, and is guaranteed it keep you on the edge of your seat.

I end with a video clip, from the first episode of the last season. It contains no spoilers, but is certainly one of the best scenes in the entire show. You will fall off your chair laughing.

* I take this directly from the show. see this

2010-02-04T19:24:00.000+05:30

why do i read? i've always been reading. amma used to get very irritated about me reading. she'd say i paid no attention to the outside world. i wouldn't offer help or take part in a conversation because i was too busy with the world inside my books (i still remember her snatching an archie comic, of all the things to be reading, out of my hand. we were on a train, and she demanded i go help with some luggage carrying somewhere. i was not happy). but why? i get so absorbed, so enmeshed into the lives of these fictional characters. a good book will keep me up all night even though i know i have a class in the morning, that i have work to be doing. i forget that there can be other things to do. when i watch movies, however exciting they may be, i never forget that i am watching a movie. a good book makes me feel like a part of a different world.

i'd sit in the middle of a room, full of people talking, and be completely oblivious. a good book is a pleasure of its own. i don't think about reading anymore. it just happens. sometimes i'm not even paying attention to the words, i'm too busy imagining the scene in my head, replaying what i've just read, thinking about how it could have been different and the whole book would change. the best books make me want to be in them, not just to be reading them.

music isn't like that. as much as i could drown in a song, i couldn't forget the world. too often i forget the song, and focus on the work i'm meant to be doing. movies aren't like that. however much they stimulate my mind, i can't think about movie characters in quite the same way i do book characters. games aren't like that. however well they simulate a world, this one or another, they don't do it nearly well enough. there is no artificial vision that can come close to competing with my mind's eye.

i thought i knew what hagrid looked like, and then robbie coltrane came and ruined it. i don't even remember what the gollum in my head looked like. peter, edmund, susan and lucy aren't nearly as exciting as they used to be. but i know what boo radley looks like. i'm told the movie is terrific. i'm sure it is. but the boo in my head will disappear once i watch it, and i'm too terrified of that.

i used to read kamala subramaniam's mahabharata every day. i'd just pick out a chapter and read. i still remember the smell of that book, it was old and musty, and reminds me of home. it feels like such a small book now, with such large type, but then it was a behemoth. when i was ten, it was as big as the lord of the rings and fifty times more important. sharan, having finished it much before me, would regale all of us with stories recalled from memory. that kind of deep and abiding love can't really be duplicated by any other art form. sure, you can memorise every line from casablanca, you can have long discussions about rahman, but a good book will be the best friend i will ever have.

this is probably why i do stupid things, like buying multiple versions of the same book (you can always give it off to someone) or buying the really expensive hardback as soon as it comes out (who knows, it might become collectible one day). i did both just last week. i bought a signed and numbered hardback version of the northern lights. why, i cannot say. i saw it and i thought 'it's been a while since i read it, maybe i should buy it'. and i really don't regret it. most things i don't buy. my inner-miser is too strong. but for books, he disappears, and the rest of me doesn't really care. when i think 'this dvd looks exciting', or 'that game is meant to be terrific', i won't buy it. i'll carry it around the shop, and then just before i leave i'll stick it in a shelf somewhere and pretend i've never seen it. but even bad books, even unoriginal fantasy or crap children's fiction will have me forking out my life savings just for that rush of speechlessness.

And so i shall take my leave, with this thought that i saw painted on the wall of a bookshop. oxford bookstore in madras, i think it was.

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

- John Luis Borges

2010-01-29T05:43:00.000+05:30

He fell from heaven,
From the greatest dizzying height.

His master was omnipotent,

Does that make it right?

He fell to the depths,

Of darkness down below

His sorrow was his own

His pride had nothing to show.

He will remain there

Till the reckoning of time

He was chosen to be the Devil

That was his only crime.

He will not buy your soul,

For with it he has no use.

He waits only for his judgement

His hangman, and his noose.

Pity him, and fear him,

He was the brightest of them all.

Let him serve as a lesson,

How hard the mighty doth fall.

2010-01-29T04:27:00.000+05:30

bewilderment. to become wilder? that seems the most obvious interpretation. it's not being puzzled, it's not being shocked. bewilderment is simply being so blindsided by recent events that all one can to is stand and stare and wonder 'what the fuck just happened? no, really. what the fuck?'. It is an interesting expression, especially on a drunk man's face, which lacks the coordination that a sober man would. bewilderment is a sort of psychedelic pink and green. It isn't meant to last, but those few moments in which it is is so totally weird, so out of any other experience that one really can't categorise it.

It's a sort of WTF moment without the anger. The best way of putting it, really, is that expression you got on your face the first time your eighth class physics teacher tried, in a fit of madness, to teach you relativity. Heh? Whaaaaaat? You remember that feeling? That's bewilderment.

It's a really interesting emotion. By the time you recognise it it's gone. And if you've felt it sometime while you were reading this post, I've succeeded.

A soliloquy

2010-01-28T02:20:00.000+05:30

(A court. A judge, middle-aged, tired from overwork. A policeman, fat and bored because he is not paid to care. Clerks whizzing about doing clerky things. The defendant, well-dressed, but bruised.)

The defendant is brought to the stand. He does not sit, but remains upright, and starts speaking

The defendant: Your Honour, as I am sure you know by now, I am a thief. But I wouldn’t like you to get caught up in everything that that word implies. I am not a burglar, who forces his way into a stranger’s house in the middle of the night, and steals the family silver. I am not a pickpocket, whose light, nimble fingers ease the passing traveler of their burdensome wallets. I do not steal the materialistic goods that appeal to these people, who I’m sure have a very good reason for doing so. Not for me, your honour, the pocketbook and wristwatch, the gold ring and diamond necklace. I deal, your honour, in those that have been deemed priceless since the beginning of time, and as such are worthless to the common pilferer. My domain is immaterial; it is the sphere of stolen kisses, of unsure smiles, of red, tear-stained cheeks. My currency does not contain miniatures of Gandhi, or Lincoln, or Mandela. It is far more basic than that. My currency is that of trust, love, joy, and sorrow. I do not deal, your honor, in things. I deal in thoughts, which are far, far more important.

Let me tell you, your honour, that in fact, there is indeed a going rate for love. It is rather easy to find out what the average man is willing to pay for a wife, as long as you go about it the right way. All one needs to do is find out the current amount paid, on average, as alimony in a divorce. Let us first discount, you honour, those millionaires whom we know to be nothing more than thieves such as I. Then one must estimate how much is paid in closed settlements, the results of which are not given out to the public. From there, you honour, it is easy to extrapolate the amount paid by one spouse to another, in the event, the terrible, tragic event, that their love has disappeared like the first snow in winter, gone, but remembered to be far more than it ever really was. But then there is very little, your honour, which one can do to sell one’s love.

Trust, on the other hand, is far more difficult to quantify. Who can say, your honour, how much a friendship is worth? This is, after all, what I am being charged with. The betrayal of trust. I wonder, your honour, how one sets bail on such a matter. Who can say that someone’s trust is worth five, not ten, not three, but five thousand dollars? Surely trust is priceless! But we, as a nation, break that trust every day, do we not? We send spies to infiltrate foreign nations, spies who are us in different clothes, to lie, to cheat, to steal if that is what needs to be done, to safeguard our nation. But in doing so, do they not break the trust of the nation they are in? But they are sanctioned by the government, you honour, to break the trust of not one individual, or three, or ten, but the trust given to them by an entire nation, in the belief, justified or not, that this will help their country. Who are these spies, your honour? Men and women who believe that in some way, they are being James Bond? James Bond is dead, your honour, I know it, and now you do, too. The age of the intrepid secret agent who did things his way are over. Now, spies are carefully told what to do by their superiors, lest they make a mistake, and let slip years of work. There is nothing romantic in spying, your honour, and there is not much in life, either.

We talk of trust, your honour, and the breaking of trust, but the biggest perpetrators of that crime are running this country. Your honour, politicians abuse their people’s trust on a daily basis. We have come to expect it of them. Any politician who doesn’t act like a backstabbing rattlesnake is treated with more suspicion than any other ten politicians combined. Corruption is now a part of the system; there is no point in trying to change it. The people have simply learned to work with it. They decry it at every opportunity, but the truth, your honour, the truth is that there is not one person in this country willing to take the trouble to change it. That is a fact, and there are no two ways about it. While I certainly do not know how I came to be here, I can be certain of one thing: I am not here because of the law. I pay the law well to look the other way, it is one of the first things those in my line of business learn.

All this talk of why I’m standing here leads us to the reason I was arrested, your honour. I was arrested because I happened to have on my person pictures of a certain lady kissing a certain man. This lady, as you undoubtedly know, your honour, happens to be the wife of one of the senior most ministers of the state. She happened to be kissing, not two hours after she professed her love to me, the head gardener. I would ask you not to doubt me on this, you honour, but simply believe me when I say I was witness to that fact. You will remember, you honour, that I said there is very little one can do to sell one’s love. I happen to be an expert on those rare methods. I have done in many, many times in my life, and I have never felt proud of it. But it is the truth, your honour, and I shall not shy away from it.

I do not pretend to be innocent, your honour. I am who I am, and that is who I am. But before you sentence me, your honour, I would ask you to consider one thing. Am I here because the law was doing its job? Or am I here because the politicians decided it didn’t need to be done unless it affected them personally?

Thank you for your time.

The Grand Theory of Slackerism

2010-01-19T22:07:00.000+05:30

The top physicists in the world, the ones who've won nobel prizes, and work at centres of nuclear research, work, in their spare time (of which there is not much) on their own personal version of the Grand Unified Theory, which attempts to explain all four fundamental forces in terms of each other when there's a heck of a lot of energy around.

The top slackers in the world, in their spare time (of which there is a lot) do as much as possible trying to do as little as possible, and stay as far away as possible from anything even remotely linked to research of any kind.

And from the joining of two completely opposite things comes the Grand Theory of Slackerism.

The GTS (as it will be called from now on) explains a very basic fact of life, one that all slackers and indeed, most human beings know.

The productivity of a person increases exponentially in time, i.e the closer you get to a deadline, the more work you do on it.

Pr(x)=n*p*k^t

Here, the productivity of a person x is given by the product of his base level of productivity n, the pressure being applied on the person to do that piece of work p, and the difficulty factor of the piece of work k raised to the power t, which is the amount of time left.

Corollaries

-The productivity of a person n can theoretically never be greater than one, though in practice it is highly improbable to see a productivity of 0.6 or more. Productivity can be measured in all sorts of different units, depending on what work is being done. Broadly, the amount of 'work', whatever it may be, divided by the average time that person usually takes to do that work is the productivity of that person.

University students, on the other hand, tend to measure amount of work not done, by dividing pints of beer downed per minute (Harder alcohol can be converted into pints of beer via conversion tables, see J. Daniel, A.P. Smirnov et al.)

-The pressure being applied depends both on the importance of the work and the amount of nagging that goes on about it. Much work was done about this by Antoinette Pascal, mother of the famous mathematician philosopher Blaise Pascal

-The difficulty factor is the most tricky term in the entire equation, and generations of slacker-physicists have been unable to solve the problem of how to define it. In 1995, however a prodigy by the name of Ander Wile proposed a genius solution; he postulated that the solving of this problem have a factor of one thousand 'wiles', and all other tasks are simply designated as easier or harder than this task. For example, climbing Mount Everest has been assigned a value of roughly fifteen thousand wiles, or a 'long wile', while encountering yet another immigrant in London trying to hawk you a free newspaper is roughly 0.25345 wiles, or a 'short wile'. Trying to get the number of that one pretty girl at the party you were at last night will take a very very long wile, and as such everyone has pretty much given up on it.

It is interesting to note that this theorem does not seem to work at three thirty in the morning of the day that any piece of work is due. The abrupt increase in productivity caused in this time remains an inexplicable anomaly to this day.

2010-01-18T04:00:00.000+05:30

I am perhaps the best liar in creation. I do not lie, though you may not believe me. I do not even exaggerate. For once in my life, I simply state the pure, unembellished truth. And what an experience it is. My life, admittedly, is not very exciting in itself, but I am able to spin the wildest of tales for the silliest of reasons, and put on elaborate costumes for random encounters. If you were to meet me on the road somewhere, you would not know me. But if you were to take the time and the effort, you would soon find out that I am the assistant of several popular authors, or that the reason Her Majesty's government does not throw me in jail is because I keep myself very well hidden. You may even discover that actually, while you may think I work at a bakery, the truth is that I am a full time inventor, and have patented many things that if revealed to the world, could break a small nation's economy.

I am a liar, though I look quiet, and unassuming. You cannot know me, for like an onion, I have many layers, but unlike an onion, none of them actually belong to me. My core is spent in creating my layers, and in denying them reality. I love being alone, for that gives me time to construct even more exciting incidents that could never have happened to anyone, if you stopped to think about it.

I tell the truth, sometimes. To ease my conscience, though I've almost forgotten it exists. To persuade myself that what I truly am is not the result of a deranged psychopath.

Not surprisingly, no one believes me when I tell them this. Perhaps you doubt me even now. But the fact of the matter is that I do lie, because telling the truth is much too difficult, and not any fun at all.

Elpis

2009-12-24T00:28:00.001+05:30

(or, The Bitch)

Lined with silver,
Are clouds.
But only
If you look.

They exist solely when
You want them to.
Clearly,
This is not always.

Inevitably, with them
Arrives hope.
She springs eternal.
A misfortune, that.
Hope is a cruel mistress.

She is not faithful,
Anyone can have her, if
They like.
She takes you in, she
Promises you the world.
She does that with everyone,
You know.

I live with her,
Nonetheless.
Her expressions are my daily bread.
Half smiles, chance conversations,
Small joys.
Hope.

How I detest that
I have no choice, but
To rely
On hope.

________________________

PS, You weren't meant to be reading the text at the top. For that matter, this bit is meant to be hidden, too.

2009-12-10T06:54:00.000+05:30

melancholy. what a nice word. perfect for gloomily lit rooms that have exactly the wrong amount of sunlight in them. exactly the right sound for the feeling you get after walking for fifteen minutes and feeling completely, totally alone. it's not sadness. sadness is too broad, too vague. melancholy is the recognition of sadness, and loneliness.

it is also the feeling of defeat. melancholic describes a grey drizzly afternoon, when only the important things have gone wrong for you, when only the interesting things have not worked out. melancholy is just enough to keep you going, but not enough to keep you smiling. it's a friend being optimistic when you are convinced it's really not worth it. a bluish grey, a sad smile, a light rain, these are the things that the word melancholy evokes. it is a perfect emotion for poetry, of which I shall attempt none. of all the things that poetry is best suited for, it is melancholy that comes at the top of the list. it should only be tried by masters. apprentices like me have very little chance of capturing that fine balance, of creating that moment of joy in the midst of gloom.

two parts sadness, one part regret, a couple of memories of happier days, a pinch of despondency, a few spoons of desolation, a perfectly wistful smile, and a dash of simply being out of place and you're in the same zip code as melancholy, the most beautiful emotion of them all.

2009-12-04T22:21:00.000+05:30

They said he was dead. He had not been seen in a week, and he had even missed an audience with the king. Not that he had ever considered an audience with the king to be of any importance; it was common knowledge that it was he who held most of the power in the court. The only thing stopping him from claiming the kingship as his own was the myth. No one but those descended from the gods could be King of Japan. He was a nobleman, a high-ranking one, at that, but he was not descended from the gods.

He had thought to himself, on more than one occasion, about how having the gods as ancestors only proved that you were inbred, and that the weakness of the current monarchy was probably a consequence of Izanagi marrying his younger sister, Izanami. How in the world could anyone contemplate that? Even the most degenerate of peasants would not marry their own sister, but the gods themselves engaged in incest.

Of course, even for a nobleman of his stature, the public revealing of these views would necessitate all the other powers in the land banding together to destroy him. They just needed an excuse, and this would be a very good one. So he kept these thoughts carefully hidden, revealing them only to himself in his most private moments.

Only last month he had stood up in front of all his vassals and their samurai and declared that he would not contest the power of the Emperor of Japan. The only ones who believed him were the ones without consequence, the ones who only came so that they could return to their small estates and boast about their audience with him. But even they were important. Without the support of the rural peasants, the might of the cities was nothing. He needed them to be on his side, or at the very least not to be on anyone else’s side. It was the rural villagers who suffered the most in every war; it was they he needed as soldiers.

And now he had disappeared. No one knew where he was, not the spies in his household, belonging to all of the great powers in Kyoto, not his most trusted advisors, not the samurai who were honor bound to guard him till their death. Even his wives were caught unawares when they were told he was missing.

He had a reputation as a shrewd calculator, any move he made would have been carefully thought about for many nights, and they were watched and observed as such. But this one baffled everyone. By not being seen, he only weakened his position. By disappearing, he increased the rumours about his death, allowing his enemies to take advantage. And even a momentary advantage could prove decisive in the political battle he was fighting.

Where was he, they wondered. And all the while, he watched, and waited.

2009-11-23T05:52:00.000+05:30

it's the stories, isn't it? the sense of community, the belief in something greater than us, the weird rituals that evoke memories of a younger time, they can all be replaced.

but without religion, the stuff you really wouldn't have is the culture. it is religion that gives us myth. mythology has always interested me. whether of cultures of dead civilisations, like the norse and the greek, or of cultures that exist both now and then, like christianity and hinduism, or those of imaginary worlds, like batman and spiderman. it is that that would be a true loss. no more mahabharata, or sigurd and fafnir. not thinking about whether zeus is a dick for banishing hades to the underworld. no more sermonising about lucifer being a victim, not a criminal.

the stories of yesterday are what inspire the stories of tomorrow. without the stories of yesterday, there would be no stories of tomorrow.

they say the world would be a better place without religion. surely, there would be less conflict. there would certainly be less resources wasted on seemingly meaningless rituals. but there's a good chance they'll just find different excuses. and rituals only mean something if you want them to.

without religion, i couldn't climb tirupati. without religion, i couldn't look at the sistine chapel. without religion, gandhi might never have been inspired.

it's the music, really. never mind the intricate parables. it's the music. it's in the beauty of kabir. it's about asking him whether he really has any equals. it's about telling people gods are only what we think they are. it's about telling people the only thing you learned from love was how to shoot someone who outdrew you.

music and myth are the only reasons i can see for justifying religion. religion inspires people. and lest we forget, much beauty is inspired from other things we agree are not good. buddhism was the result of a man who today would be judged as clinically depressed. without madness, van gogh would never have painted the view outside his sanatorium window.

i wish i had a clever quote to end with. but i don't.

The Courts of the Caliph, or, The Tigers That Roam Baghdad

2009-09-29T16:11:00.000+05:30

The court, or courts, for there were several, of Haroun Al Raschid, king of Arabia, were magical. They were the jewels of the city of Baghdad, and they received visitors from far and wide, from the frigid wastes of Russia to the deserts of the Sahara. Haroun, known to the white Europeans as Aaron, and the dark Indians as Arun, was a great king, and his kingdom was greater still. There was little in the world to match the wonders of Arabia in the times of the fifth Caliph.

This is a story, one of many, of but one of the courts of Haroun, and may Allah strike me down if it is not the truth.

_____________________________________________________________

Walk down one of the many promenades of Baghdad, into one of thousands of gullies, past the butcher and the small time bookkeeper, and you just might see one. They are not very common, but most who come to Baghdad catch a glimpse, enough to keep the tales of their existence alive. Stories of the tigers that roam the city. They had started six months ago, just after the month of fasting, and they grew only more fantastic by the day. Perhaps, on the first day, there had only been one or two. By now, there was an entire family of fourteen, hungry for human flesh. Of course, everyone in the city had a cousin or an uncle whose neighbor knew a man eaten alive by these evil beasts, and all decried the sad state of affairs perpetuated by the city guard’s inefficiencies.

Ask a guard about it, and he will tell you ‘Good citizen, pay no heed to the mutterings of these fools. They will swindle you without a thought, and slip a dagger in your back without a warning. Break no laws, keep to the main roads, and ask no dangerous questions, and you will not be troubled in the fine city that is Baghdad’

Ask a merchant on one of the city’s dingier lanes, and he will tell you ‘Friend, be very careful. Just last night there was a sighting of a large male. They say he is the king of them all, and that he has been brought to our holy city by Azazel-called-Iblis himself. Take care, for the Devil is allied with these brutes. Peace be with you.’

And, of course, if you were to ask a noble who frequented the Court of Wagers, he would give you a smile, and nod in a knowing manner, and say he knew absolutely nothing about it.

The Court of Wagers was one of the more affluent courts of Baghdad. Not that any Court was poor, but the richest could buy the rest of the city and treat the cost as nothing more than the loss of spare change. And if one wanted to know the truth of this particular story, there would be no better time than five days after Eid, and no place better than the main hall of the Court, where a very peculiar argument was taking place.

‘ORDER! ORDER, I say! By the beard of the Prophet, STOP SHOUTING!’ said the man in what must have been the most colourful robe in all Persia, ostensibly the leader of the Court in the Caliph’s absence. While it wasn’t immediately obvious, the man was called Omar, and more importantly, he was one of Haroun’s most trusted confidantes. While he gave brilliant advice, and his view on political situations was very nearly always invaluable to the ruler of Arabia, he was incapable of getting the attention of any group of people, large or small.

‘Respected Leader, I only ask my good friend Zakir whether his chickens have hatched.’ This was Shahid, the most popular noble in the Court. His often-indifferent manner hid a most vicious wit, and few, if any, challenged him in a war of words any more.

‘Exalted Chairman, I merely bring to your attention the matter of my eggs, all of which seem to be broken, and all of which were in the care of my dear ally Shahid.’ This was Zakir, newly elevated to noble status, who had still not learned not to cross Shahid, though that would be corrected very soon.

‘Revered Arbiter, I simply must declare my consternation at both my associates, who refuse to let a poor man like me speak simply because of a trivial matter concerning poultry.’ This was Abbas, who simply liked to make a racket, but almost always ended up winning any argument he faced, having an uncanny knack for choosing the right side.

‘SILENCE, OR I’LL BEHEAD THE LOT OF YOU!’ thundered Omar. This tended to get the attention of most mobs, but it had little effect on the nobles, who knew that the most he could do to them was lock them in jail for a night.

But something else happened, and it was this that caught everyone’s attention. The Caliph entered the Court of Wagers.

Immediately all five hundred nobles knelt in obeisance to their king, and immediately the Caliph gestured them to rise again. He walked to the throne, which was always empty, and sat next to Omar, and watched as if expecting something.

Zakir had a grin on his face. With the Caliph in attendance, Shahid would not be able to fool around and would have to concede the argument. Abbas, on the other hand, was disgruntled. There would be no frivolous wagers today, no trivial matters to be concerned with. Today they would be serious.

Then the Caliph spoke. ‘Tell me, then, for I could not help hearing and my curiosity was awakened. What is the matter concerning Zakir’s eggs, which I understand to be in the possession of Shahid Hassan? But wait, this tale cannot be told by one who is involved in this matter. Hmm. I believe Orhan the poet is here today, is he not? Orhan! Come forward, and recite this tale as best you can, and mind you do not choose sides!’

Orhan the poet was, in fact, a terrible poet. He could not rhyme to save his life, and his grasp of meter and rhythm was almost non-existent. But by luck or fate, every other noble called Orhan in the various Courts of Baghdad wrote poetry that made one shiver. There were four others, and all had, at one time or another, been personal scribe to the Caliph. Not Orhan the poet. Which was why, in a display of supreme irony, it was Orhan who could not rhyme whom they called Orhan the poet, and he had had that name for five years.

And so, a tall man with a grin that spread from ear to ear, presented himself to the Caliph and his friends in the Court of Wagers, and spoke thus:

‘Dear Friends, and Ruler of our Baghdad

I will endeavour to speak the truth, lest I be called a cad

And end my lyric quickly, for I do not want to start a fad

Of long winded verse, to which a meaning cannot be had.

My friend Zakir, two weeks ago, declared to the world

News of his joy unbounding, of his happiness unfurled

And his smiles lit up our cosmos, on our Court he twirled

But on his joyous moment, a spot of bad was hurled.

For when Zakir told us of a fortune he made from eggs

Shahid, who of humanity must be the lowliest dregs,

Said if he were a poultry merchant, he would run away on the fastest legs,

From the hatchlings of his product, which would surely taste of pegs

Thus this wager began, a fortnight ago, in this very exalted hall

Zakir gave Shahid the best of the eggs in his thrall

And said the chicks hatched from these eggs will be able to fight in a brawl

And even perhaps fifteen lions maul.

Today it came to light

That the eggs were out of sight

Shahid alleged they’d go home without a fight

But Zakir never saw them, which brings us to tonight!’

The brows of most nobles in the audience were furrowed as they tried to sort out the maze that Orhan had constructed and a few groans erupted from those who had never heard such a butchery of language, but Haroun was not the Caliph for nothing.

‘So Shahid insulted the quality of Zakir’s eggs, and the chickens hatched from these eggs, and wanted proof. But two weeks later, these eggs have gone missing. Perhaps the chicks have hatched, perhaps they have not. But they are now missing, which is what the argument is about, yes? Very well. Shahid, what do you have to say for yourself?’

‘Oh Awesome Ruler of all Arabia, I must now speak the truth. I was afraid this matter would come to this, but it seems that I must bare all.’, Shahid said in the gravest tone he could muster.

‘The truth is, my lord, there is a tiger loose in the city. I am afraid it is indeed this same tiger that has eaten poor Zakir’s chicks, and that we will never see the quality of them’

A hush followed these words. No one dared lie to the Caliph, not even Shahid. But any mention of a tiger in the city was surely jest? Shahid’s face was as solemn as a judge at a murder trial, and the king himself looked troubled by this news.

‘Leaving the matter of the tiger aside,’ the Caliph said, ‘Surely Zakir can just supply a fresh batch of eggs, and end this matter?’

It was Omar who spoke next; he knew the rules of the Court better than anyone else. ‘Any new batch of eggs will come from chickens different from the ones who laid the first batch, for Ramadan was a week ago, and the chickens have all been eaten. It is not a fair wager anymore, which is what I was trying to tell these fools. What must now be determined is whether Shahid is responsible or not, if he is, he must pay triple the original wager, and not enter this Court for a period of no less than three months.’

‘Very well,’ the king said, ‘I suppose it is a matter of whether there is indeed a tiger in the city and if it did indeed penetrate the house of Shahid Hassan, and whether it did indeed kill and eat the chicks of Zakir the eggseller. Very well. I do not believe that Shahid would lie to his king, whatever the reason. Of course, this means there is a tiger loose in the city. Something will be done about it, of course. If that is all, I declare this Court finished for the day.’

And the king rose, and the entire Court rose with him. As the king walked out, he said, in a whisper heard only by the ones standing next to him ‘I do believe lying to the king is punishable by death, but not before the eyes are plucked out and fed to the one who is guilty.’

To his right, walking with him was Omar. To his left, standing, was Shahid Hassan.

_____________________________________________________________

Baghdad is a city of much splendour. If you were to walk down from the Court of Wagers, past the large camel emporium on your right, and turn left at the building that used to be the Court of Jesters, you will come to the most famous inn in all of Arabia, the Sea of Stories. If you were to enter this inn, and ask for a pitcher of wine, you would be directed to a table not far from the entrance. At this table would be sitting the few men in that inn who partake of alcohol, for has not the Prophet spoken out against it? And of that number, one bearded heavyset man would be called Sohail.

If you were to buy Sohail a few drinks, he would tell you his profession, that of zookeeper at the largest zoo in Baghdad, one of the city's most attractive spots. And if you were to buy him a few more, and ask him specifically about the tiger exhibit, he would confess that for fifteen thousand dinars, he sold one of the three tigers he was planning to introduce to the city the next week. But if you pressed him, he would not tell you to whom, for he himself would not know.

And that is the tale of the tigers that roam Baghdad, and may I never know the peace of the Prophet if it is not true.

2009-09-15T23:35:00.000+05:30

There are different sizes of infinity, yes? Infinity means huge, by definition the largest thing in the universe. But there are things bigger than infinity. Namely, infinity.

Think of the number of numbers between one and two. Infinite. Now think of the number of numbers between two and three. Infinite. So how many numbers between one and three? Infinite. But logically, the infinity between one and three is twice as large as the one between one and two, or two and three.

Each person is an innumerable number of people. This is true. Each person has millions and millions of facets, each distinct from the last. But some people are more innumerable than others. Some people have a larger infinity of people in them, some people seem to have no infinity within them at all. There are some who are more complex than any string theory you've come across, who don't seem to make any sort of sense. There are none who operate purely on logic. Despite what the TV shows tell you. Despite anything you hear about Asperger's, or any other syndrome. They are all us. We and they, we are the same, only different.

So does the size of the infinity we are make us different? Of course. Does it make us unequal? Does diversity imply inequality?

But then, doesn't it? The circumstances of my birth affords to me certain privileges that others are not given. It is the very existence of these inequalities that drives the human endeavour.

But the aim of the human endeavour is to end these inequalities. Given enough time, one assumes it will happen eventually. Eventually, we will be equal. Think about it. They will wake up in the morning without fear of discrimination. They will go to sleep not worrying about race or caste or creed. A world which is much more perfect than ours will exist, and they will live in it. Am I painting you a picture of heaven, or hell? A world where there is no war. No violence. In its logical extreme, no sadness. There is a webcomic, somewhere on the internet, that goes something like this: 'With one pill we cured sadness. And art.'

Is perfection that terrifying?

There is, somewhere in the definition of perfection, a clause about infinity. Like the guy said, perfection does not have limits. Perfection is being there.

There are moments, rare and not often recognised by me, when one feels the perfection of creation. When physics and mathematics come together to show me something I'd never have suspected. When Sanjay Subramanyam sings a Ritigowla that stuns me. Whenever I hear MS sing Jo Achyutananda. Perfection is there. We just can't reach it as often as we'd like to.

What we obtain too cheaply we esteem too lightly. If perfection were not impossible, it would not be worth the effort.

Perfection is truth is beauty. Perfection has no limits, is infinite in its scope, and pretty much does what it likes.

2009-08-31T00:47:00.000+05:30

What is inspiration?

Inspiration is the chase of the indefinable. It is when someone produces something he is not normally capable of producing. It is when, out of the ether, one shouts ‘Eureka’. It is when circumstances, when all the little things and the big things, culminate a moment of clarity. It is a thing of beauty. Like all things of beauty, if you don’t take care, you will lose it. And like all things of beauty, its value triples when it is lost.

It seems easy. To tell a story, to hum a tune, to paint a picture. All that one needs to do is to do it. Big deal. Except when it comes down to writing, the words aren’t there. The music sounds awful. There is no perspective in the lines, the car and the passenger are the same size. It isn’t easy.

And when those moments do come, they boggle us. What is one meant to do? I have a phrase, just a phrase in my mind that is my so-called inspiration. All I know is that it has the potential to be brilliant. But potential doesn’t do it alone. I know I can tell the story, it sounds brilliant in my head, but writing it seems impossible. Where have the words gone? I’ve been saying this for a long time. Where have the words gone?

the words have left
but there is a memory
and an itch, in the back of my skull,
in the place they should be.

Lakshman

2009-08-11T20:42:00.000+05:30

Sumitra apathyam bhumaan Soumithri

I've spent the last two three weeks of my summer reading, or rather rereading the Ramayana. The version at home is Ashok Banker's, so it isn't the most classical version, but it holds true to the story very well, and manages some fresh interpretations at the same time.

But that is not the point of this post. The point is the tragedy of my namesake, Lakshman. Lakshman, the most underrated hero of the epic.

Lakshman makes the biggest decision of his life when he decides he will go live in the forest with Rama and Sita. He's been married, depending on what account you read, between four days and a week. Let's say a week. So, having been married a week, his stepmother sends his brother into exile, for fourteen years. Our man, being the supremely devoted brother he is, leaves with Rama and Rama's wife. He never once looks back.

He leaves at the age of sixteen, and comes back at the age of thirty. I mean, that is a long time to be away from your family. He goes to live in the forest, away from his mother, away from his wife, and lives with his brother and his sister-in-law. In the entire fourteen years, he makes only two mistakes. Two mistakes in fourteen years seems very close to no mistakes in fourteen years. But these mistakes aren't normal ones, they form a good part of the story.

First, he cuts off Surpanakha's nose and ears. The reason seems simple. She's a rakshasi. She's obsessed with Rama. She doesn't take the hint when offered to her. So he resorts to force. BIG mistake. She comes back, howling for revenge, with her two brothers and an army fourteen thousand strong. But this being an epic, they are easily dealt with. A few devastras, and the army becomes just so many piles of dust.

But this brings the matter to Ravana's attention. And Ravana takes one look at Sita, and he wants her. So he sends Mareecha in the form of a golden deer, and Rama goes after it, but not before telling Lakshman to stay with Sita. So, when Lakshman hears the asura cry 'Help' in his fake Rama voice, he doesn't want to go. But Sita tells him to go. Mistake number two. Lakshman rekha and everything aside, he still left on a wild deer chase. And Sita gets kidnapped. War starts. Thousands of vanars and bears die. Almost the entire rakshasa race is wiped out.

And what happens in the war? Lakshman gets taken down by Meghnath. He defeats him later, but he didn't get it right first time, did he?

Lakshman's main role in the Ramayana is as an example of unswerving loyalty. He never questions his decision to stay by his brother at all times, regardless of the cost. But on the way, he also serves as a foil to Rama, emphasizing his perfection by being imperfect.

I know that in the story, he doesn't mind. But I, who am named after him, mind.

2009-07-31T23:35:00.001+05:30

Vampires and werewolves
Sitting in a tree
If only, if only
They couldn’t see me

I can see them clearly now
In the clouded, gloomy night
With their fangs and their claws
Tis a terrifying sight

I will die, this night, this dawn
I will not see another day
They will take my blood and life
And after that, I cannot say.

random scrawlings

2009-06-22T00:25:00.000+05:30

click in the highly unlikely event that you want to see these enlarged

the lack of hands is due to lack of motivation, nothing more.

Bad Poem of the Day

2009-06-18T22:59:00.000+05:30

See the kite, in the sky
Merrily, merrily flying by
Wouldn't it be nice, to be just as high
We're only human, we can but try

2009-05-13T11:27:00.000+05:30

i just think its interesting how any word, noun, verb, or adjective, if put in the past tense, becomes a euphemism for drunk.

he was tabled last night.

it was not funny how boarded they were.

im going to see how personal computered i can possibly become

*

I've been watching much monty python recently, possibly because my half hour of internet a day does not allow more in depth viewing (all the shows i watch are about forty minutes long, and theyre mostly over, anyway) but i think it has helped to cement the place that english schoolboy humor has won in my heart. its brilliant for the dark, dark humor, the way they just fling obscenities around, the incredible way they refuse to acknowledge the notion of the punchline, the satire of culture, and, of course, the song and dance routine they just break into every now and then.

i still havent managed to watch the meaning of life in its entirety, but i have watched most of it, and it is one of the most disturbing things ive ever seen. the middle of the film, where youre supposed to find the fish, just freaked me out, but i have no idea why. but it IS hilarious, and you should watch it, though whether you want to do it in the company of your parents is another issue.

*

i came up with my very own pj yesterday
whats the difference between a zipper in the front of your pants, and one in the back of your pants?
one's for easy access, and the other's for easy- wait, i think i shall stop there.

*

i am also severely disturbed by the lack of creativity in my head, though exams may have something to do with this. perhaps it shall return to me in the summer.

*

apparently, becoming juvenile sometimes does have its downsides. i was arguing with a friend about whether it is possible to shed skin by rubbing vigorously. in the spirit of scientific enquiry, we tried to find out. now, my hand has some sort of artificial burn on it.

*

and, before you leave, i have more bad haiku

leaves falling in autumn
free for about ten seconds
before they hit the ground

2009-04-19T20:14:00.000+05:30

there is a new hitchikers guide to the galaxy book coming out.

Douglas Adams is dead

WTF?

i say again

W T F???

on the deaths of stories

2009-04-14T20:43:00.000+05:30

the death of a story
is pretty pathetic actually.
i mean, after multiple attempts
one just stops bothering
and then, it's dead.
gone.
finished.
finito.
and, in the words of salman rushdie,
khattam-shud.

and one thinks,
how bloody amazing
that it could have been.
quite frankly, no one in the
world
could have written
like i would have written.
but the half remembered dream
that inspired it
and the half written draft
that survived it
are both forgotten,
and collect dust,
somewhere in my mind
somewhere on the internet
somewhere that's not here, anyway.

gods, the melodrama, i hear you say.
but even stories deserve a eulogy.
however badly written
however badly said.
it was a good story, and it died
before anyone heard it
before anyone told it
before anyone but me
managed to forget it.

2009-04-14T20:38:00.000+05:30

doing maths is like
walking through a maze, hoping
to find the answer

2009-03-17T02:45:00.000+05:30

Today, i tried to make some mushroom risotto type thing, not least inspired by swaroop

so, it said,

(bold bits are actually what it said. plain bits are commmentary.)

1) Chop mushrooms of various kinds (dried, button and chestnut) and soak in hot water for fifteen minutes. Read to understand "Chop whatever mushrooms you have and dump in a bowl of hot water." (I briefly considered putting the mushrooms in the kettle and turning it on, but decided this does not fall under experimentation, but rather ways to demolish your kitchen)

2) Chop one onion and two cloves of garlic finely. Interpreted as chop half an onion, because one is too much work. No garlic in the house, so dumped garlic powder instead.

3) Heat olive oil in a large saucepan, and add onions and garlic. Again, no olive oil in the house, so in goes sunflower oil instead. Our one large saucepan was used yesterday to make aloo curry by k chitti, so i am now using a smallish saucepan instead. Fry gently for ten minutes. Too busy sorting out my ipod and laptop configuration, so i just put it on lowest flame and jiggled my ipod wire until the laptop recognised it. Simon and Garfunkel now starts on impossibly soft laptop speakers.

4) Add rice, and cook for five minutes. This goes smoothly, and then my itunes suddenly decides my ipod does not exist. Loud swearing occurs, and delhi 6 cd is now used as replacement music.

5) Strain and add mushrooms, but do not throw away the water. Add vegetable stock. Much hunting occurs, first for strainer, then for mystical vegetable stock. Strainer is finally found in random cupboard. Several cubes of unopened vegetable stock are found in dark corner of fridge. Itunes dies. More loud swearing, this time in several languages. Finally decide to open windows media player and play the cd through that.

6) Add half the mushroom liquor, and stir until absorption.Then add the other half, and wait for that to be absorbed. Not too difficult, one might think. One would be right. But once the water got over, i was left with lots of hard rice that hadnt been cooked. So i used all my cunning, and put my extra boiling water from my kettle into the pan. Stir.

7) This is the point where i took initiative. because what the instructions don't tell you is that it takes bloody forever for the rice to cook. empires have risen and fallen in less time. so the flame is now on high, and water is being added as fast as it possibly can. I eventually give up, turn my music off, and go report to higher authorities (k chitti). I am told to make it cook more.

8) I begin to realise that the rice began to burn and stick to the sides of the pan about ten minutes ago, 'round about step 6. Not as easy as i thought, then.

9) Vigorous mixing occurs. Suddenly realise, that official instructions have not actually ended yet. Add grated Parmesan cheese and butter. Stir until these are absorbed. Gosh, a lot of absorption seems to be happening. Typically, i find that there is no parmesan cheese at home, grated or otherwise. I settle for random red cheese slices, torn and thrown in to the mix. also half a tsp of butter.

10) salt is added, though the instructions don't actually say it. everything needs salt, period.

finally mixed it again, and discovered that the burnt bits mixed with the non burnt bits to make everything look brownish, which is the way mushroom risotto is supposed to look.

by this point i am so hungry i will eat anything, which is probably why i actually ate it. on the other hand, the other ~~nutters~~ people at home thought it was fabulous. ~~It's amazing i have not gone mad yet~~. yay me.

2009-03-12T18:29:00.000+05:30

HOPE!

hopehopehopehopehope
hope

hopehope
help/hope/help.
hope.
help.

results are today.
along with flute exam.
and parent teacher meeting.

hope

2009-02-17T22:55:00.000+05:30

dreams live, and dreams die. maybe not in the classical sense of the word. they don't breathe, they don't eat, they don't sleep. but they grow. the more you think about them, the bigger they get. dreams affect who we are. people have dreams, and those dreams have the potential to change lives, changes nations, change the world. but on a much smaller scale, dreams can be extremely personal. and, if you choose, they change who you are.

i had a dream. i watched it pop into my head, fully formed. i watch it now, apparently being beaten into submission by logic, by reason, that i cannot deny. it is dying, and i suppose, this is something that happens to everybody. in the words of the philosopher Jagger, 'you can't always get what you want. but if you try sometimes, you get what you need'. this is a eulogy, maybe, for a dream that inspired me, and got me to work hard without people constantly telling me to, and, in the end, didn't come true.

maybe this would be a good time to quote the godfather. every man has but one destiny. i like that one. makes me feel slightly better, somewhere inside.

I've always had this extremely strange and totally unjustifiable conviction, that second wasn't as good as, it was damn well better than first. i have no idea why i feel this. at all. at all, at all, at all. maybe it was just preparation for this moment. maybe this moment came about just to see what I'd do. who knows?

i suppose, really, that if i give in, i don't have proof. and im scientific enough to want proof. all the evidence is not in favour. all the evidence says : nope, you're not good enough. and no matter how many people tell me i am, i'll never know.

according to parallel universes theory, there is, somewhere out there, an alternate version of me who is disappointed because he got into cambridge and not into LSE, and LSE is where he really wanted to go.

if i accept what has just happened, i'll make my life much easier for myself. and sometimes, what is easy happens to be what is right, making it not very difficult to choose. what i have to find out, is whether this is one of those times or not.

at least i wrote it down.

and this might be why i do an MA in oxford.

2009-02-08T17:16:00.000+05:30

nannu vidachi kadalakuraaa (segues off into complicated ritigowla tune)
constantly listening to it now...

2009-01-24T15:18:00.000+05:30

Time’s an interesting thing, isn’t it? There are so many things you can do with it. You can spend it and buy it, kill it and waste it, use it and lose it, and it’s always there. One of the most important things to learn about life is how to manage it (that’s what I’ve been told, anyway. As far as I know, the only thing time is, is irritating. You close your eyes for three seconds, and eight hours just disappear. They call it “sleep”. I call it an international conspiracy, probably concocted by the CIA/FBI/aliens from Mars/Xenu). If I had a penny for every time I got shouted at for “wasting valuable time” I’d be rich enough to bribe Cambridge into giving me an offer. I’ve never wasted a day in my life. Sure, there was the forty eight hours spent hunched over the same laptop, pausing in the middle only for sleep, food and bathroom breaks, but would you call watching seasons one and two of prison break a waste of time?

Free- I mean, study periods are brilliant examples of how each and every one of us uses time to our benefit. The last time I had free periods, they were at the end of the day, so I took the opportunity to engage in some physical exercise. Does it matter that the exercise consisted of walking home? (The answer, out of interest, is ‘Of course not!’).

But in essence, time is only one thing. Time is change. It represents stuff becoming different. Most of the important things in our lives happen because of time, like death, decay, war, the release of yet another iPod, and the latest issue of OK! magazine.

The difference between now and a few moments ago is exactly that, a few moments. But in those few moments, a lot could happen. I don’t need to tell you what, you’ll probably find out in a few moments anyway. And in months, or years, the amount of stuff that will go on will boggle your mind. Will Rafael Nadal win Wimbledon again? Is there a chance Israel and Palestine will work out a treaty this time around? Are they producing another season of Scrubs? All pressing questions, and they’ll all be answered in about a year.

In twelve months, most of the people in my year will be in university. And some of the people in my year will go on a gap year. About this time last year, I was thinking to myself ‘A gap year’s got to be the biggest waste of time anyone’s ever come up with. Who wants to spend a year doing work experience or something when you could be in university, where you’re planning on going anyway?’ Now, I’m thinking ‘Hmmm, I’m really desperate. I really want to get an offer from Cambridge. So maybe I’ll go on a gap year, and everything will work out for the best!’ So yes, it’s taken me a year to get to that decision, but other decisions don’t take nearly as long to be made. Deciding to wake up this morning, that took you about fifteen seconds, didn’t it? (It took me five, but that’s because I got up late. Again).

Time is the difference between life and death, you and the university student across the street, a respectable sixth form newsletter-thing that gets published when it’s supposed to and a really late eight page spread that is good quality, but not on time at all. I was told that I’m responsible for this. All I can say is “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” (that was actually a line from Douglas Adams, but you can say I thought of it if you like. I won’t mind). It’s what makes life exasperating, because it never goes fast enough between 3.30 and 3.45. It’s what makes it enjoyable, because there’s nothing like getting up at seven o clock, realising it’s Saturday, and sleeping until ten. Some uses of time might be better than others, but no use of time is actually a bad one. That is, of course, only my opinion, and the next time I get told off for making a paper aeroplane there will be a little murmur in the back of my head, and I won’t actually say anything.

And if you’ve learnt nothing else from this article, I leave you with this: You’ve decided to read this article. And you’ve even finished it. And you can rest easy, knowing that is will be the worst use of your time today, and the study period that you have today, that you do nothing in will probably be more productive that the time you spend processing the last 800 words.

2009-01-14T22:49:00.000+05:30

writing poetry
had always been a mystery
to me

writing prose, though
that always seemed to flow
i wrote prose like a pro

but its really strange
there's been some awkward change
to my writing range

my mind now fills with verse
when i write stories i curse
that ability is now in a hearse

i can quite easily rhyme
ive adapted to another clime
but i long for a younger time

i was once able to stories write
once i was an author bright
but i will compose verse this starry night

and maybe one day it will return
reason not rhyme will my mind outchurn
i wait for it with deep concern

will then my verses die away
unable to compose will i stay
what will happen i cannot say

but it is still my sincere dream
to compose stories that do not seem
to make people with agony scream

2009-01-11T18:27:00.000+05:30

Dear child, understand
If life were to be
All it's cracked up to be
We wouldn't have to work,
We'd just sit around and shirk
Our responsibilities.
And the philosophies
that make us able
to sit at a table
and workworkwork
and fight the thoughts that lurk
in our heads that say
Oh go away
those philosophies would never exist,
if life were grand.

Dear boy, you must know
If life were not
a watch forgot
in the middle
of an arid wasteland,
if one never suffered
the disappointments that work
hand in glove
with mistakes that shove
one's train off its ideal path,
one would never grow.

Dear girl, as you sit
and contemplate
visions of a future date
of a life fulfilled
without water spilled
from the cup of life,
know that there will be strife
I will be brief
but cause you grief
the happy ending
is still pending
it must be put together
bit by bit

I tell you this now
keep the promises
that you've made
do not let your resolve fade
and when the time comes
you can open the door
and walk to the shore
there will be a boat
to avalon

2009-01-03T17:09:00.000+05:30

as if i needed more proof that my life continues to be a soap opera for the entertainment of whichever deva is responsible for me. not for me clean breaks and fresh starts. oh no. just when you think the villain is dead, up he comes again with a new face and the same gun that he never fires. he just threatens to. holds it up and says, 'i am going to fire this gun', at which point the serial ends and one has to wait for the next instalment. in this case, that will probably be a week from now. stay tuned for more exciting plot twists, and see you next week roughly the same time but not the same place.

i haven't been given an offer from cambridge.

but neither can they be bothered to say 'you're crap. we don't want you'.

i have to live in tension for the next week (what's new, eh?) and then go for my exams. this new torture is called 'the pool'. highly imaginative, no? the english called the tank that because they pretended they were working on a water tank, and the name stuck. i wonder what this 'pool' does.

just
bloody
brilliant

2008-12-30T15:16:00.000+05:30

one of the things about reading the blogs of family (by this, of course, i mean cousins), i have found, is the tendency to think about the same types of things. there was a post by sita on missing hyderabad, one by swaroop on the madras season that i really liked, and one by suhas on the perils of eating alone that i only fully understood the day before yesterday. despite this, i am still going to write about my experience in madras so far.

the automen who fleece you in broad daylight are now part of the landscape. i'm slowly beginning to learn the art of haggling with them, but the emphasis is on slowly. i got off the train and i just couldn't be bothered. ended up paying 150 rupees for an auto from egmore to alwarpet. seriously sad.

beginning to love the admittedly ~~bad~~ horrible tea at the academy. especially in the middle of a not very exciting concert. appa got season tickets this year, so the waiting in queue for the tickets is eliminated. i still have to wait in line for the actual concert, though.

bookshops have not changed. still just as gigantic as the day i first walked into them.

went to both the t m krishna and the sanjay subramaniam concerts at the academy. i dont know about better, but i definitely like sanjay's style more. it's obvious he has fun. tm krishna sings seriously. it wouldn't kill him to smile just for the heck of it. really liked the ritigowla kriti he sang yesterday. perhaps because i actually understood the words this time.

to understand the taniavartanam one must first learn the language of the mridangam. swaroop pointed out to me yesterday that the guy was playing the same thing again and again, only he was playing it faster each time. i didn't understand it at all until he told me, and only a little bit after he did. oh well, i'm sure i willl understand more given lots of listens.

Kacheris, food, and
bookshops galore, but still, no
sign of a result.

2008-12-24T08:22:00.000+05:30

it's a small, continuous whine in the back of my head, like an ambulance or a fire truck siren three roads away but getting closer. you know that it'll get here, you're just waiting for it to happen. to rush past you, while you get just a glimpse of the terrific speed and energy contained within it. i'm going to madras, to listen to some kacheris, to dash madly from one sabha to another, and hopefully immeres myself fully enough in carnatic music that i will, for once in my life, be able to recongnise the raga without someone having to tell me. but before i go, there is all this random studying i have to do. bah.

2008-12-15T23:58:00.000+05:30

Exams in a month
Cambridge results in three weeks
The work starts right now

2008-12-11T02:59:00.000+05:30

I've never been so nervous. In my entire sixteen years on this planet, I have never been so bloody nervous as I was yesterday. Fuck, I was scared shitless. After school, on the train, the butterflies in my stomach probably caused an existential storm somewhere out there. Then, I got off the train. And it all disappeared. There was a smile on my lips. Somehow, I was feeling better.

I walked to the college, and managed to find some quite nice people. It's really nice, is Cambridge. People are nice, and the place is really quite beautiful.

And the interviews went well. And so did the TSA. All that's left is luck.

Fuck. I have never wanted something as much as I want this.

I fell out of love today. I left Cambridge, and slowly, but surely, I got nervous again. More bloody butterflies. And for the first time, the Tube was slow. It takes three, maybe four minutes between stops on average. That's never changed. But today was the first day that I felt all of the three minutes between one stop and the next. Maybe the butterflies will go away. I sure hope so. But coming to London won't be the same anymore. It'll still be cool. It'll be where all the bookshops are. It'll be where I had my sixteenth birthday. It's just not Cambridge.

Oh come on. Please, people who live in the sky, give me a seat. I will be forever grateful.

2008-12-09T03:27:00.000+05:30

"twenty twenty twenty four hours to go
i wanna be sedated
nothin to do nowhere to go
i wanna be sedated"

i wanna be sedated
the ramones

2008-11-30T13:48:00.000+05:30

sore throats suck. every time you breathe, or swallow, or talk, or do anything involving your throat, it hurts.

Just

2008-11-17T00:42:00.001+05:30

I just want to

Go home, and forget.

Not have to think about exams,

Or university,

Or the rest of my life.

Just go home.

And maybe sleep.

On the terrace, on the veranda,

On the swing,

Sleep, and not worry.

Not care about life.

Just forget

About economics

(Seriously, who cares about money?

No one this, or in fact any,

Side of the Suez Canal)

Just leave.

Go for a walk,

And not have to go anywhere,

To go for a walk, and,

At the end of it,

Arrive at my destination

Not having accomplished anything.

Just sit, and stare into space.

Make up bad stories

About 2-D characters

Who crack even worse jokes,

And lead non-existent,

Easy, and perfectly fixable lives.
Just dream,
And not have to realise
That they will, actually,
Never ever happen.
Just stop,
And not have to start,
Forever.

Just.

2008-11-15T17:20:00.000+05:30

Contrast: Our world has
Children, smiling and laughing,
And mass starvation