The Lonely Trees

En route to Bogmalo, there's a tree in a meadow. Or a field, I'm not sure if "meadow" is tm-ed by Wordsworth and his naturalist ilk. It's a lonely tree, with tattered remains of things flung there by urchins, lovers and old maids - the trifecta of ceremonial littering - hanging down on it.

At Bogmalo, on a rocky outcrop to the North, below the navy base, there's another lonely tree - a palm, it's fronds fluttering in the August torrents, or drooping in the dead heat of April.

Back when campus life was still young, and we were infinitely more stupid and less snobbish, there was a lonely tree in the ground that now sports a sub-standard cricket field. It was surrounded by a field of sun-blanched grass that swayed with every gust of wind. They cut it down - and burned the grass, to boot - so the land could sport, as noted, a sub-standard cricket field.

The owners of this blog, their once and future friends, and no doubt many others, have spent at least a moment reflecting on at least one of those trees. And now, when I think of Goa, of BITS, of the corridor, the images of tattered shoes on blackened boughs, fronds tossing and turning in the breeze, rippling yellow fields of grass, always spring to mind. It's some sort of indefinable parody of the maudlin lives we've led for the past three years, but I can't imagine how.

I'm going right back to Goa, touching down on the 4th of next year. The trees will be waiting - the two that survive, at least. So will all of Goa, but it'll never be the same, will it?
I don't know why I wrote this, but it makes me sad. And nostalgic, which is just "sad" tarted up with memories and rouge. And a little bit hopeful - if the past held this much promise, who's to say the future is bleak?

I'll Get By...

There’s this sudden urge to hurt someone. Not physically, no; but to rip apart into shreds a relationship that has lasted this long and make someone actually feel what they’re talking about. All this talk there is of goodbyes, farewells and whatnots; how they’ll miss you for an eternity and are sad to let you go. Bullshit.

Two days. That’s the amount of time it’ll take to leave you go. Because every change is something new, for you and for them. And so, while they may be sad and may even cry tonight, the weather tomorrow morning will be beautiful and, try as they might, they’ll feel better. Reminiscence is too forced to last before the sheer beauty of a sweet surrender. The day after that, life will move on, as it should; and your name shall be remembered in loving memory for five minutes at a time in increasing intervals. A text message sent, no replies received; on to the next pastime. Once a week, then a month, then every Birthday.

And thus my urge to grab someone, scream at them, shake them senseless, say things that I know will hurt them for decades to come, and leave them with just one certainty: they’re glad I’m leaving, because they’d never like to see my face again. Then maybe they’ll feel the bile rise up every single time they think of me, and know what it is to remember someone. Maybe Sartre will be easier to understand after that.

I don’t mean anyone particular I’m targeting when I say this. I don’t even have a list of possible people in mind. I say this to everyone I know in this place: “I love you, and I know you mean well, but stop saying it’ll be difficult to move on. I know it won’t.”

Honestly, I don’t know if this is true. I don’t even know what to do now that I’ve written this down. But maybe, maybe, now I’ll be able to sleep at night, and not have every single day of the last three and a half years I spent here passing through my head before I wake up.

It goes on and on..

After one of our usual sit-and-talk sessions at Nescafe, where we brandish the spontaneous humour in it's full self, I asked a simple question - Isn't it amazing that we can still go on talking about absolutely nothing for as long as we want, even after two years?

Phunnyness - Part 1

(Pubby's Note: This is something us three muthas wrote on gtalk, one sentence or two (we weren't very particular) at a time. Doodie quit in the middle so the last3-4 paragraphs are me and Bing. The tale shall be continued anon. Hopefully)

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a man named ed. He'd tried all his life to make people call him edward. Little did he know ed was short for edmund this time. He had a horse. The horse often kicked him for obsessing over his name. The memories of accidentally ending up in an enclosure full of horses often haunted him.
To him who hath a stable, what price a horse?

"Thirty four fifty" replied Ed, hearing the dry narration in his head, a voice he had grown used to since his childhood. Being in the desert, what with no water and all, narrations were always dry. Still, it was better than being in Phags-r-us, where mares weren't merely your pets.

Phags-r-us was looking better and better though, now that the invading packs of morlocks were moving closer from the west. Morlocks, however, was the least of his worries. The kingdom in his north, which was also rather far far away, was already taken over by the Thestrals.
Ever since his great gran-nanna had taken her laundry to the white lady of the water, these skinny creatures had had a bone to pick with her.

"Wait, what? Morlocks? Coming this way" he jumped high into the air with shock and ran to the town bell and rang it three times. "Morlocks! The morlocks are coming!" he screamed at the top of his voice. "Another premonition from the great sky-voice?" mocked the villagers
Little did the villagers know, that this was the beginning. The beginning of the era of blood, murder, and tonnes of cookies.

Yes, cookies. A joint venture by the Morlocks and the Thestrals, the big, brown, buttery, circles (available in 3 different sizes!) were their weapon of choice against humans, who were left paralysed for half a minute as the things cleaved pitchforks, knives and swords to come near your face; and explode their thick white, poisonous, fructose-lined fluid on you.

Ed was now resigned to people not listening to his rants about the future though they always came true, except for the odd occassion when I decided to mess with him. So to avoid the saccharine death headed the way of his village, he packed up his gun and some food and rode off into the morning sun

The land was harsh, the sun didn't help. Three months he rode his mare, ever harder, ever onward into the big, undulating terrain, until one night she finally succumbed to his exceedingly abrasive exploitation and passed away into the land of Esprit, the Stallone of the Zimmerman era.
He cursed his fates, for the nag had given way right in the middle of the Dankhe desert, of which so far he had seen only the rim. Harsh sandy razors of wind tore his robes into shreds and stung his eyes all day and all night. He walked on despite the pains, to reach the court of the king across the desert, in the city of Gaan'dit
The king, Jhataka, was an old enemy of his father's, and was known far and wide for his coarse, unwelcome treatment to his guests. Surprising it was, then, that the king welcomed his enemy's battered and decrepit-looking son in his hall with the words, "There has been enough harshness already. Let's put an end to all this"
"He cannot possibly have mended his ways!" Ed thought, as he was carried into a chamber. The aroma of the Myrrh was a welcome change from the erstwhile odour of the horse

Guess Who's Here Now!

The true adventurer is not defined by the amount of danger he's been in, or his motive and whatnot. A true adventurer, dear reader/s, is defined by the very lack of any such motive. Daring is he, who without cause or purpose, smacks a bull on the horns and, once the chase is on, tries to run it into the fat faggoty hawaldaar standing at the corner swallowing samosas. This is the tale of one of these rare spirits one may perchance get a glimpse of in one's lifetime.

And so it was that one fine day, Khoob Lal was walking down a dark, dusty, green path to his one-room apartment. Walking next to him was his trusty canine companion, Skub. The sky was a nice, confusing opal. On his way he met Beam, the big guy from his school days; who buy the looks of it was going out drinking.
"Kubby!", he yelled. "Chal let's go have a drink."
"No dude" was Khoob Lal's reply. "Some other time maybe."
"Oh c'mon! It's been such a long time since we last went to a Pub." "Be that as it may, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I have a lot of work to do tonight."
"Whoa! Pro!" "Shats ho gayaa hai mera! What pro? Bad situation dude, crisis mode. We might have to cancel the Chubbs this year."
"Are you honestly gonna tell me that the H.L. Chubb awards are not going to be given out this year? But that's the only reason I have for coming to Goa all year! The Waves, Coco-nuts, and whatnot."
"I''m telling you dude, it's real. And they're trying to pin the whole thing on to me. Christ! I've been in the heat of things for so long, I feel like I have Burns all over me!"
"Ah! It's okay, you'll handle it."
"I'll have to! Someone has to fix this thing. Anyway dude, I'll see ya later, gotta go now. C'mon Skubby!"

In case you haven't guessed, it's ME!!!
Thank You

*wipes dust off blog*

So, back here afteh, aft-uh-*cough* *cough* *hack*

*chokes on dust and dies*

My Theory of Music

Before I start the post, a small rant:

Jesus above!!!! A month and a half? Co-author is gonna pay for this. The blog has gathered so much virtual dust and cobwebs that I may just get bitten if I stick my hand in. Soon we'll be seeing a web slinging man made of bits and bytes zooming through your electric lines.

I'm a bit high.
Testament to this being the above paragraph.
Test One of our semester over.
A hindenburgish disaster.
But then again, it IS over.






Comfortably Numb through my headphones fills me with the euphoria I associate with this morbid song (yes I know, a bit odd). I've been hearing it for too long...... Strange how music can fix you or leave you feeling blue. No matter what state of mind you are in, if you listen to a song long enough, your mind molds itself into a shape fitting it's mood. The moods of a song. I've never studied classical music. But I do believe that all ragas are said to have a mood. Happy, sad, melancholy, pensive and so on. This may be hearsay, but on a personal level I do believe that all songs have a mood and a feel. The mood may or may not have to do with the lyrics. And more importantly, everyone sees the mood differently. Even if they both see the song as happy, two people will see it that way for different reasons.

Unwell....a song basically about either schizophrenia or teen misfits....I saw the song as schizophrenic while a friend of mine told me the other meaning she saw. I'm sure there are more, even if Matchbox20 meant for only one of them. Another thing about songs I firmly believe about music is that the meaning to every song is different to everyone. And the meaning, unlike the mood, always depends on the lyrics. Along with the lyrics, also on the way they're sung. That's what I believe distinguishes good lyrics from bad. Not whether they fit with the beat, but whether they fit with the mood of the song.

That's all I have so far....a very vague idea of music. My theory of music. I've avoided putting in sentiments. That would've made the post too long. Do I regret never having studied music as a subject? Sometimes I do, when I see people being able to sing any song they feel like. (and I mean sing, not "sing") But then I see the same people fall back to dissecting the song and it's beat count, I feel glad I didn't study it.
My final postulate in the theory is that music, like all other arts, is to be felt. And that the performer loses the ability to fall in love with his creations, while the listener is always allowed that privilege.
This post may sound like sour grapes to some. And who knows, at some level, it may even be. But as for the level I am on right now...I couldn't care less

Mhamhimahim......
Phashinating?

Why the HELL am I awake?

Didn't think the first post on the venture would come at 8:25 AM when I'm supposed to be in a Probability and Statistics tutorial. The damn net isn't even supposed to be working right now! But what the hell, inspiration comes in accord with my biological clock, which is set quite weirdly, I believe...

So anyway. Why this? To learn. To grow. Bing's style is something I can take quite a few lessons from, and he claims the same about mine. It was a unanimous thing. The blog HAD to be made, considering the recent addiction to blogging in the vacations.

The funny part is, when this idea was conceived, I was in the structured-writing phase. Random rants had fallen behind, so much so that Bing and I made a pact - He'd do the randomness, I'd do the structured. An excellent combination for the blog. Here's the twist - I'm back to randomness again.

Ergo this looks like it's gonna be quite a mess. And speaking of the mess, I'm quite hungry here. Breakfast calls.

More on this later, definitely.

Apathy

Amazing what boredom does to you...

Lethargy coupled with boredom is my cyanide...

On a good day I can get through volumes of reading material and feel like I brushed up on my kindergarten rhymes...

On a good day I can get through mounds of material to be typewritten and feel like I played a soothing game of minesweeper...

On a good day, I'm cheerful.

This is not a good day. Not only am I bored beyond comprehension, I had to resort to the time-tested scrawl method to get it out of my system. I just started off with a random word (College, in this case) and got quite an amazing chain of words.
Scrawling is putting any word onto a piece of paper and jotting down every word that comes to your mind next. People say it's useless, I disagree. Try it out someday, epiphanies strike when your mind is laid out before you...