Father? Not now. Not today.

Father? Not now. Not today.

If you are an Indian and if you are married, you are bound to be asked a particular question way too often. Its hilarious the concoctions conjured as facaded to make the callous intrusion into ones privacy palatable. People assume that the next thing you need is a baby and that like them I tread my life addled. That in this menial existence, primal urges and perceptions are the commandments to abide by. Offended? Feel free to burn my effigy, they do come cheap.

So, do I want a child. Honestly may be, somewhere in future, in a distant future far away enough to not be thinking about it, a future nebulous and fantastical. A lot needs be done, many miles be travelled, mountains be climbed and oceans be crossed, lands be scene and life experienced. I feel nothing but pity to the poor souls who live life mechanically, for those of you who rot as seasons pass by your window. Dreams are to be lived while you still can, they too high a price to be paid for anything. I have seen far too many parents who have condemned their children to the dreams of theirs, burden them with dreams that they failed to purse, wings cut and trimmed before they even taste the liberation of flight. Ultimately it is not fair to oneself not to the child.

The world is full of people anyway, I do not fathom the urge to procreate in the world. The poor planet already harbour more than it can carry. It should be a sin to procreate in this world where the already barely has enough, to create one here is to lay claim to what is someones’ now. When I fetch food for my child, I take it not from the surplus but from a poor child plate. When give my child education it was someone less fortunate who had to part with his. To claim anything of this world is a crime on to the unfortunate.

I will have my child, god forbid. But not today, not now, but when the time is right. When I can be the father that I want to be and not the one I am condemned by the circumstances created by me to be.

Her

Forest of the Pygmies – Isabel Allende

u341fevwh7ngw7nlvxickikw2pmyaglw8rbmsyetkuwfdnw30mcanfzgw4gmrz0e5dffzpffvj8mpeafjygmmb65m9isyjgxo3rswsw1oyzkgsradzgmvyczu

This novel by Isabel Allende is an easy addictive adventure-thriller of superior quality. For the general reader it is the story of a band of completely different people (A missionary, two preteens, a raunchy pilot, a bold photographer in search of his big moment and a journalist) exploring  the unexplored riverines of Ngobe in search of the missionary’s missing colleagues.

But for some others it is the story of the Pygmies, their exploitation, their suffering and their utter de-humanization by those more powerful than them. It is for them the story of slavery, of deception, of oppression and the malice of power. It is in all a melancholic travelogue about the liberation its uncertainties, its inherent hope and that pinch of magic that we all so desperately desire.

The book is a beauty to read, easy to fall in love and amazingly capable of transferring the reader to the darkest deepest most beautiful magical forests. The visual devices takes this journey to another level of addictive ecstasy altogether. Isabel Allende is a marvellous writer, one for the ages.

09d63-sign

Watching you sleep

Watching you sleep

Here sleeps a girl with a head full of magical dreams, a heart full of wonder and hands that will shape the world

– Sleeping Beauty

Damn, you are so beautiful. My angel, my beautiful angel. Heaven only knows how many a hours I have spent beholding your tender face, kissing you in your slender slumber, caressing you with every gaze. I have never seen anything, natural nor divine that sis but half as beautiful as my lovely dear. You are but a little piece of heaven god left with me.

For those among you, who by superiority of your intentions are well on your way to let the authorities know that a certain creepy stalker is on the loose. Stop! I pray. I ain’t no pervert nor a creep (that may be up for debate) . I am but one such rare breed of a guy who is so in love in with his wife that watching her fall asleep in you arms is the one thing he looks forward to most everyday, One who just cant help buy gaze at her face and melt as snow at when the slightest hint of a smile dawns on her face.

Time is a strange thing, when you are in love. One could hardly believe how it flies and how it morphs around you. I can but hardly believe that it has been over 7 years since when I first met her, 6 since I first kissed her and eternities since I started loving her and of course 1 since we married. I have known her forever, from lifetimes before and will for lifetimes hence. Even now, every single day I feel as if it was just yesterday that we first met.

Those moments have become so magnificently romanticised, like the balcony in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet our places are no more just blips on the maps but stuffs of lore and serenades. Our stories have been told so many times that they are are now much myth and some essential fact.

I don’t want to write another ode to my beau, have I not written enough of that already. But then for what avail is this piece written, but for the being another ode to she; my love, my muse.

Her

 

Her

 

Oh I love her

Light of my day, the dark of my night.

Her prowess exonerating my every thought.

I fall pray to her naughty taunts

I feel tendered in her every smile

Like the flower that blooms for the lusty sea winds

She blossoms to my every touch

Her glances falls not on my body

But far deep they etch on my very being.

Her delightful cries ignite me to realms unknown

To lands of the addictive divine.

My soul and I are but unsullied slaves to her every wish

Her ecstasy is the only reward ever desired.

I am in love, yes but hooked I am to her

Like soul does to soul. Rare a event as the divine comets

In love but belongs to her I do

As part does to part to make one whole.

She is the meaning and the being

All that I am and I ever crave to be

In this life and much beyond the grave

Meant to be we are, to be together we are.

Oh my dear heavens. How I love her.

How I wish I could put them all in words

With nothing more ever left to say.

The Lost Art of Words



The world, my world is topsy-turvy that is to say the least. Like most men who have lost much of their ways and ideas that define what the world means to them. I try, I try to both live and define what that is all that is all around me. In this vagueness is my salvation, so I fear I will find. Such damnation like the unlucky stars that burn up in a streak, I fear for my life to be such haphazard ordeal. Aimlessly I wander from existential crisis to consequential crisis, consequential to moral and from moral to back. Crisis after crisis I jump like a well-trained and ill-brained dog that knows not what to do but what it is taught to do.

Feeble is my heart so is my wantonness. Feeble is my thought and the grip that holds my pen. Flows not words but blood strained utterances, feeble cacophonous mutterings. Effortless fluency has ceased to be and in its place has risen a dauding emptiness, an exonerated decadence of mental faculty. Confused and intoxicated, devalued and misguided, all the stark reminders of a lost art and it’s ever the more lost artist.

A search into the dungeons of my soul is all I can. Searching for a muse that might still be wandering in it’s dark alley ways. Lost in the catacomb of lost memories, some forgotten some deliberately wished away, slowly feeling and tumbling his way there about. There in its moss ridden walls I might find the old words that in an ungodly fervour I scratched ages ago. Neither do I have that fervour nor it’s feeble descendants, all that were lost. In this age of impatient discoveries all that is left is hope, life’s one last beacon to desperately cling on to.

The Goa Road Trip – Day 1 : Getting to Bangalore



Hi Guys, I know its been a long time that we have conversed, Its not because I had less to say to you all but because I found it hard to say all those many things I wanted to say. For sometime now, the magic of words had deserted me. I don’t know whether they have come back or not, but I do have something to share and I have decided to share them nevertheless.

Road Trip : Chennai to Goa - Route Map

Just last week, A few very special friends from college and I successfully completed a road trip to Goa and that’s something worth sharing. Isn’t it?

Day 1: October 1, 2014
Journey: Chennai to Bangalore
Pit Stops:
  • Rajiv Gandhi Memorial
  • The Golden Temple at Thirumalaikodi, Vellore

I have been waiting for this day to come for a very long time and yet I was not fully prepared for the day. The morning of the journey I couldn’t find anything. My camera battery was missing, then my mobile phone was missing and then the lonely planet books were missing and once I found all of them my car keys were missing. But at the end of all this I finally started off for Goa, a seven day escape from routine.
The day was nice and ride out of the city was fair, the traffic was manageable and the roads were… hmm lets just say urban. The first pit stop I took was Rajiv Gandhi Memorial near Sriperumbudur. It was a serendipitous discovery of sorts. I found the place as I was driving past I decided to stop over. After it is a place of great national and historical importance.
The Rajiv Gandhi Memorial really surprised me, it was very well kept, neat and tidy and very astutely constructed. Once I finished my half an hour break, walking around the place and taking pictures with my new Canon SX50 HS, I wanted to buy a DSLR and then I thought who am I kidding. Finally I settled for the camera that has an insane optical zoom. Thats quite a nice camera, she helped me capture some of the finest moments of this trip.


Tools for the Trip
//ws-in.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=IN&source=ss&ref=ss_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=pagofflif-21&marketplace=amazon&region=IN&placement=B00AB4C472&asins=B00AB4C472&linkId=5UJGIMREG24TBC7K&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true//ws-in.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=IN&source=ss&ref=ss_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=pagofflif-21&marketplace=amazon&region=IN&placement=1742204120&asins=1742204120&linkId=IRT4GSGZK5BNWQFM&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true//ws-in.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=IN&source=ss&ref=ss_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=pagofflif-21&marketplace=amazon&region=IN&placement=B0001P15CG&asins=B0001P15CG&linkId=WMEZSKCX45GD75SP&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true//ws-in.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?ServiceVersion=20070822&OneJS=1&Operation=GetAdHtml&MarketPlace=IN&source=ss&ref=ss_til&ad_type=product_link&tracking_id=pagofflif-21&marketplace=amazon&region=IN&placement=B00J4RKPUA&asins=B00J4RKPUA&linkId=SYKL5RIDHMJWCCN6&show_border=true&link_opens_in_new_window=true

The drive from there to Vellore was quite easy, The three line express way from Arcot to Vellore was impeccable and I could easily cruise at 100 in my car (Hyundai Verna).
The next stop for the day was at the Golden Temple at Thirumalaikodi in Vellore. I was surprised to find myself in a middle of a totally commercial temple complex, every inch plated with gold. I will be quite frank about this, the place disgusts me and I will say no more for I don’t want to ruin the mood of the narration.
From the Golden Temple I headed to Bangalore or Bengaluru for some. The road till Hosur was just as exquisite as it was from Arcot to Vellore. But once I touched Hosur it was a different story, the whole and part of the road was dug up asp art of construction and the traffic was slow moving most of the time. After much effort I escaped Hosur only to be caught in the nightmarish traffic in Bangalore. Somehow I reached my friends home and that’s the end of Day 1.


Book Review : Bubble Wrap by Kalyani Rao

“A daring attempt to depict an overwhelmingly evil, male chauvinistic society”

The “Bubble Wrap” is more than anything, the author’s way of coping up with a society that refuses to see women as a living-breathing equivalent of its male counterpart. The praise for the book lies for a daring attempt to depict an overwhelmingly evil, male chauvinistic society. This is the story of Krishna and Gudiya as they try to escape a life that the malevolent society imposed on them. She succeeds in reminding us of the dilapidated society that we unfortunately live in.

As Krishna and Gudiya go through one life-changing event after the other, they come to terms with the misnomer that they thought to be the world around them. The whole of their dreams and mental depiction of reality pop with the ease of a bubble wrap as the truth slowly perforates into them. They realize that all that they have is themselves in this world and realize that most people around them have intentions that are seldom benign. As the plot thickens, the noose around them tightens and they decide to sacrifice everything that they have and own in a desperate attempt to escape the world that is coming down on them fast. They risk it all on this one final plight of theirs.

The daring in Miss Kalyani Rao’s intent is but sadly missed in her narration, which for reasons unknown is unfairly biased against the men in this world. Her depiction of men in her universe caters to the hysteria of a world of unruly evil hearted goons. She forgets to feed the reader with reasons for her characters actions and never hints at the provocations for their malevolence, in this unfortunate world of hers the status quo is that all men are by nature sex-adicts, pedophiles or evil pimps. She forgets to support her characters with stories that reinforce their actions.

The huge gap in narration left by Kalyani makes the world of character that she has created act out of character, many times without rationale. Added to this is the obvious grammatical mistakes left out by her editor. Not to mention the fact that some of the major characters in her story makes but only what can be called a passing cameo, for instance the husband of Krishna who makes himself present for hardly a few lines in a few pages. Afterwards he vanishes forever, never to be spoken off again. So happens to be the case with many characters, they are lost or forgotten in the course of narration.

The most bewildering part of this book was the snapshots of Krishna’s diary sprinkled around the book. I for some reason could gain nothing, nor device the reason for its existence in the book. They neither add to nor deduct form the story, they are just there for the sake of them being there. They have made me wonder why they exist many times, they still do long after I have finished the book.

But that being said the book is not half as bad as my last few paragraphs portrays it to be. The narration is good enough to keep you rooted to the story and keep the page turning without much effort. The twists that the story contains were a pleasant surprise most of the time and the ending was the biggest surprise of all. This book is a good companion for one of the many short journeys of yours. You will be fine as long as you shy away from asking questions.