explanations that I think are due to you

I made some changes to the appearance of the Front page of my Log. You must have noticed that you cannot see your URL anymore, the Blogroll only features Paul, Ian and the WP standard.

I also pasted the Blue Ribbon Movement logo right at the top as I support the movement from my university days and feel all right thinking individuals and organizations ought too, if content and right to expression is important to them. I do believe these are crucial to the survival of a ‘people friendly’ world order and must not needlessly be politicized or stuck in grooves of petty, narrow domestic, regional interests.

I recently learned to use the text box in the side bar feature on WP, where you can embed widgets. I used to stare at the lovely little things on people’s blogs and wonder how they do it, when I chanced upon it by accident (with a bit of nudging by Sushant) although, as you can see, I could not embed “where you come from” Map of the world. But I was very happy to see how little alphabet like signs transformed themselves into fun little pictures that moved and danced.

I played around with it for a bit 🙂 like a child with a new toy – it still doesn’t fail to excite and amaze me how that little blue button down at the bottom of the page ‘knows’ how many people are reading the page! How does it do it? It is so tiny and only a colored button!!! I wish I knew.

Anyway, I recently got some query about my favorite subject for discussions – Bangla Bands, regional ‘rock’ (well not all of this contemporary stuff is that, but the kids like to call it that 🙂 ) music. I realized am supposed to keep people posted. So, like Ashok who writes the absolutely hilariously serious blog called “Doing Jalsa Showing Jilpa”, I made space for the Bands in the side bar – as you might have noticed, so you can easily find them all at one place, now, the links to the website of all the Major Bands.

Artist like, most of these guys are not bothered about such things as beating their own drums. They are too happy to be able to make music and live on their own rocking terms. So these sites suffer from neglect – they need a vigilant secretary – someone like me to keep at it I guess 😉 but I don’t think any of them are listening…

At least, for those that are interested, now, you would get ‘some’ information about them in their own words, their album listings, labels, press, band members names with their email ID and contact numbers from the sites.

To make space for these guys, and fit in all the links of my own friends, I created a whole fresh new page for my Blogroll separately. The list of people I wanted to be able to view and go read at will, was expanding by the day anyway, the space had to be bigger.

I made a new blogfriend called Mike lately, a wonderfully grounded, amazingly affectionate and warm and family and life oriented geek, that is so much fun to read and get to know. He just loves his life so much, it is a pleasure to hear him talk, in his blog. When I had said I wish to understand why men go crazy about Linux Ubuntu, he went and did a whole post about it and made sure it was NOT geeky at all so I could ‘read’ it!

He is a bit like Priyank and Vee and Alok and Crazy Sam and Sunny and all these bright young people I happen to know, who light up your world with their zest for life and freshness of being.

I also discovered Anchal Tyagi, a feisty woman of my age, who thinks the world is her oyster when she is in a good mood – love the way she thinks and writes and loves her beau 😀 and writes her blog, recently she was into the pink chaddi movement in a prominent way too.
And found Doug at Open Salon and discovered Open Salon. I had stumbled upon Doug Moran on EBlogger last year, when he had done that spit-out-at-the-world post on “why bloody should it matter to the State if my friend is a Gay or Lesbian and how does their marriage affect mine”. Now he has moved to OS, I have updated his link. I like OS by the way – you could check it out when you have time.

Through Rambodoc I discovered a great ex Army man that does ‘cool’ posts on exercise regimens and diet, would have to link him up here for you, but I would like to ask him first, feel a little shy right now…but would get him here for you sometime, so you can sometimes enjoy his blog too, if you are curious about such things, that is…

Also, read a wonderful piece at unaccustomedwriting@blogspot.com dated Navratri…she says, one has to go away sometimes, to come back stronger! Really loved that. It is as poignant as Priyank’s post about that nine year old alter-ego of his had been…

With no TV, stereo and the VDO drive on computer not working, no friends or family or boy friend here in this strange city of Ahmedabad (feel uncomfortable socializing with ‘colleagues’ being basically a shy person), I blog surf like crazy these days. So that list of fav-reads continues to grow. Some of you are such amazing writers, you take my breath away. I am very fond of words. Even now that am grown up, they still conjure sound, sight, dreams for me and transport me the way nothing else but only love can!

So, then, hope you would let me know if there is any other way I can shift things around to make my space a little more roomy. Haven’t heard from Odzer, Vee, Alok, Priyank, Ashes, Lakshmi in a long, long time. I really miss you guys. I know I haven’t posted anything nice to draw you here, but am sure we are friends enough, now, for you to come and say a virtual “hi” now and then?

Bangla Bands – Part 2

This section would feature more information about your favourite Bangla bands and for those that are curious about this genre. For the present, please refer to the posts that I had moved here:

A Few of the most Popular bands based in Kolkata

Bangla Bands are not just Aping the West

an unfinished song

The strains of “Subah, Subah, yeh kya hua…” played in a loop inside her head. She smiled. The cool early morning air felt good. She lifted her arms and flexed her wings. She spread them wide letting the wind play with them. Her eyes watched the black vees floating calmly against the azure blue sky. She kicked off on her course.

Sumit stood speechless while she held the baby…baby didn’t register yet. He watched her: Aditi…that is Aditi. …my Aditi. Is that her? The afternoon sun burned a part of her face as she sat with eyes downcast, tired hands weakly holding on to a piece of knitting. Her hair shone like a halo around her face where the sun caught the silver of her loose curls. So very, very beautiful – still. His breath caught in his chest. He had never wanted a child. It had been her wish.

Clutching at his left side he eased himself into an old cane chair across from her. She looked up then. He followed her eyes to the front gate. It swung open as the thin, wasted form of a young man walked in without turning to put the clasp back on.

The sight of the slightly built young man with a shock of black rumpled hair stirred a vision in his mind – of an excited man rushing, half carrying, half pulling a frail young woman hugging a bundle of swaddle and smiling, all the way to the house. Almost the age of this young man that walked into their strange life right now.

Strange life, because he could still not fathom it. This morning they had had a child. At six thirty p.m. they are here with a little mud pot sitting in a corner near the staircase, somewhere inside the empty house, holding the ashes of a child.

“Did you call him?” Aditi turned her eyes in his direction. “Have you?” She seemed to have forgotten why she had turned to look at him. She looked away abruptly, as if he hadn’t spoken. The curtain in a door behind them fluttered slightly. He raised himself and very slowly walked indoors stopping by a door that looked into a lovely little room. Lyric had been like her mother. There has always been so much rhythm in her. Everything about her space – from the little potted gardenia on the windowsill to the Japanese painting of a monastery standing on top of a hill to the shiny Tanpura and all her belongings arranged on the white marble floor in the way she liked was proof – of how much in love she had been, with her life.

There was a seat arranged near the window so Anurag could sit there and watch the changing colours of the sky while she did her riyaz. It rang in his head, her clear young voice caressing the sombre notes of Purvi as she released them one by one into the air like little pet birds. So much love!

These two had been inseparable from their childhood days: fatherless Anurag and Lyric. He sat on the floor now with his head resting on the bed that had been hers. The letter lay at his feet. There was a little breeze and it caught the piece of paper which floated up at him. Sumit reached out for it and started to read, for the hundredth time, for he just could not think of a way to deal with this yet. How could he have not known? Or seen? How could they have all done this together? And why could she not talk about this?

No, that she could not. He realized that at least. Talking wasn’t going to make a difference. This would take action and that is what she has done!

“It is love: yours and mine. I like Shamik. I hope he and you are both happy together. Papa taught you and me to respect choices people made. I hope you would respect mine. This isn’t about anger or sorrow or like the man on the street might call it – frustration.

I loved you as the man in my life, you loved me like your favourite tee-shirt, I guess. You wore me – to shield yourself from harsh weather, of hatred and fear and doubts and suspicion directed at your love.

This is my way of asserting my rights – not giving in to a life that needs be bound by choices other people make in the name of protecting us from ourselves, so that you and I, Anu, cannot make ours.

I exercised my choice rather than live a life as prisoner of a homophobic society’s misguided whims. I chose to be free. Will you please, always, remember this about your wife, Anurag?”

Sumit and Aditi had met at a concert. His lyrics and his music had drawn Aditi into his life and one day Lyric was born out of music they had created together in their life. Their child had been born of a song, and had lived like a song, lovely while it played, lovelier in its cadence heard in thought in the silence after it was sung. Only, Anurag sat there like a question mark, like the incomplete arc of an unfinished song, that Sumit could not yet hope to right.

a Spring evening in Kolkata

She looked around. Could not see him.

The couple sitting on the table across from theirs caught her attention. The woman wore a lovely red-yellow-brown Shantiniketani batik silk saree,  her hair was pulled up casually in a loose bun behind her shapely head.  Strands of black curls that just wouldn’t stay tied-in, framed her face. It was a typical Bengali face, slightly heart shaped, with dreamy large black eyes that made one think of the bottom of a dark inky black well. She had creamy olive-brown complexion and a very straight, slightly oily,  shiny nose, the end of which resembled the chiselled tip of a bamboo flute.  A large maroon dot adorned her little forehead. It was a tired but kind face that looked like it could break into a smile any moment.

Her mate looked pensive and he had a face that was hard around the edges, but it shared the same quality of easy gentleness with hers. These people looked like they had never ever slapped anyone or screamed or uttered a word of profanity ever in their lives…they made a fascinating stareable picture together – like a Subrato Gangopadhyay illustration…

But where is he?

Ever since her divorce years back, she hardly ever saw anyone. Reason being, her profession.  She was naturally prevented from meeting unattached  men.  The people she met on a typical day would be parents, teachers, computer professionals and domain experts. They came, they did what they had to do, called her “Madam” and then they left and that was it. She never ever saw any of these people again.

He had been a different story. The first day they had met in the library, she had been excited, they had discussed Contact, a Jodie Foster film she had watched the night before. Turns out that’s his favourite actress too.

She had talked – he had listened quietly. Later, he had asked, “Have you read Atlas Shrugged?” That had seemed to her to be irrelevant and absurd at that time. No, Fountainhead. “Well, you would like this one, I would get it for you”. With that he had disappeared from her space.

She had seen him again six months later. One cool dry spring morning as she walked into the staffroom, she had seen – no, not seen, she isn’t good at seeing people, she senses them or at best perceives their presence with her peripheral vision, so, she had sensed this young man there, and  had raised her eyes to give him the customary polite good morning. He had silently handed her a battered copy of the classic with an almost inaudible “your book” in English.  What?

She had frowned….

Is he making the ice-cream or buying it?

It has been a year since then. Phone calls had followed, but were rare and far between, they hardly ever spoke at work – he was extremely careful not to push, or break into her (sense of) privacy.  This is what had endeared this young person to her. Eventually, they had had a few long silent hours together, so comfortable that he had blurted out one day that hearing her over the phone felt like being wrapped up in a cozy warm kaantha on a holiday winter morning! She had laughed to hide her confusion.

Then she saw him, walking tall, striding easily across the grounds of the Nandan Film Complex, towards her, with a couple of cones in each hand. He held her for a couple of minutes with his eyes even as he continued walking.

She broke away from his gaze, got up from her seat, walked over to the parapet towards the roadside, and hitched herself up on the broad wall. Perched there, above the heads of the milling film festival crowd below, they ate their cones, silently watching, until the sun set.  In the purple darkness that followed, they noticed that couple walk down towards the snaking line in front of the entrance to the main auditorium.

A thin kid in a crumpled white shirt with rumpled black hair standing in a group nearby, forlornly watched the lucky crowd now entering the hall. When the breeze rustled the leaves of the deodar where they sat, a couple of leaves shook loose and fell where the kid stood.  For an instance the kid looked up. He looked puzzled when he had spotted them. Their eyes met.

He turned towards her once and then took out their passes from his back-pocket, raised his left hand slightly in a beckoning gesture. He held up their passes.  The kid looked away as if he hadn’t noticed anything at all and pulled his friend closer and they seemed to have a quick consultation. They looked up, at them now. . A moment of hesitation, then the kid walked over. He reached down and handed him their passes.

The kid dropped his eyes, murmured thanks and looked up at her; the look in his eyes didn’t say “we are grateful”.

She didn’t care.

He hesitated for a moment, then his lips twitched and he flashed her a smile. “Aapni shundor” ( “You are nice”). His friend, waved at them from where he stood. When the kid reached him, both of them walked together to the entrance of the auditorium. While the usher checked their passes, the pair had turned back for one last look at the silhouette of the young man and the woman perched on the wall.

He glanced at her. “Do you know how you look right now?” She ignored him. He was far better looking than she was. He always complained about how she neglected to take care of the way she dressed or let her skin go dry and chapped in winter. He held up his hand and pointed. She looked up. “Exactly like those.” He was pointing at the straight-back slender Asopalav trees skirting the grounds, covered with new-born-frail-pale lime green leaves, swaying gently with the cool February breeze. The baby leaves shone, like sparkling happy eyes, in the neon lights of a city getting busy with its evening chores. What? The leaves? The tree? She was puzzled. What did he mean – good or bad?

He watched her as she studied the trees thoughtfully, then everything around her, really taking in the scene now.

He felt something stirring deep inside of him, clawing at his young heart that made him want to get down from that wall and run. But he didn’t budge. He knew he never could bring himself to tell her. She turned to him.

He knew she could not read the expression on his face in the darkness.

“Aren’t they pretty?”

She stared, unsure. She would not exactly call them pretty – they looked good together, that couple…if that is what he meant.

He shrugged and gave up. “Well, if I hadn’t said that, would you have looked? Or have noticed how beautiful they look when the wind blows?”

Well, probably not. For a minute she hesitated…

What??? The bad – bad man! So, that was about those silly trees? And she almost thought for once he was going to….O well, never mind….she flipped her hair impatiently and turned away. He is only – well, he is just him. He isn’t her date or anything.

He watched her frown gather and then disappear. He lifted his hand in a sudden jerking motion, that jolted her a bit, waving it over her head, fanning the air in front of her face and legs – brushing imaginary mosquitoes away from her. Her face doesn’t quite look right. Stupid woman. Impossible woman. Who is going to waste time with someone like this? His suddenly felt tired inside of him. He fidgeted. Without looking at what he was doing, he drew her bag close to him. It felt warm and nice to hold on to. So he hugged it and held it close and looked away and watched the night traffic.

She relaxed, the sound of his voice felt like a caress to her restless soul. He was wearing a loose warm flannel shirt – it flared out when the wind blew and broke the bite of the chill in the wind shielding her from it. It felt cozy and warm to be near him. She sat still, looking completely at ease with the world around her.

Everyone was inside by now although the grounds were not entirely empty. The chai wallahs wandered lazily about with a large kettle propped in the crook of their left arm and the right holding styrofoam cups arranged in a long white pillar. One looked up at them expectantly but moved on when they smiled down at him.

This was Live – a concert under the open sky, a show they had thought might turn out to be much more interesting than what was in an imported Made in Italy can, inside.

A whiff of breeze blew his hair over his head and his face became fully visible as it caught the neon light of the post in front of them. He is so…quiet and young and clean and like a little bird… lovely – she smiled  – as one would, when a huge round full moon, suddenly sails into view in the summer sky.

there he comes rolling into view!

there he comes rolling into view!

d up

childhood rainy days

Rolling spent her childhood days in the lush green North Eastern States of the Indian subcontinent.

Assam, Manipur, Agartala, Nagaland, Arunachal Pradesh.
The sheer fecundity of nature here and the breadth of eyespace she enjoyed, while growing up in these parts, affected her tiny impressionable mind deeply and left indelible impressions. Her mind and perspective on life is coloured by what she saw around her constantly as she slowly turned into a woman…

Heavy rainfall is a constant element of life in this part of India, as are snakes, insects, dark green, scary green, turquoise blue, electric blue, colours, thick undergrowth, dense forests, and deep growling silences of tropical jungles.

It rained here – incessantly, for days, in the monsoon season and even at other times. No water logging because this is hilly region. The sun shone immediately afterward, making everything look brighter, better, glowing with happy colours. It was then like eating ice-cream with your eyes. The coolness of the air you could breathe in and let your body savour its freshness. Growing up in the north east may have made this woman turn sensual, I think. With the way the weather and the terrain is in the north east, one’s faculties get naturally tuned to nearly every nuance of nature.

The days it rained, when she was seven or eight or nine or ten – were some of the happiest days of her life.

It didn’t rain there – it poured, like someone had turned a big bucket full of water upon your head. The drops of water felt heavy on soft skin. Temperature dropped. It felt cozy to curl up in a corner of the bed with her favourite fat Anandamela Puja edition book and wrapped in a kaantha – a Bengali quilt made of layers of old used handloom sarees, very soft and oozing with oomph. Usually, schools declared rainy days when it rained heavily. It became so dark in the morning that no one could tell it was only mid morning. You had to switch on the electric lights and look at the watch. Or switch on the radio.

A little later when mum finished with her cooking, she would come and join little bro bhai and little elder sis didi on the bed. They would play ludo or checkers together and after a few games, would watch the rain through the glass window – the lonely ghostly commuter on a cycle covered in transparent plastic sheet from head to foot, the local priest in his gumboots and black raincoat driving past in his faded green Bajaj scooter.

The dark green trees, the rain sleeked charcoal black street curving away in the east, the flaming orange red Krishnachura flowers framing the soggy blue of the sky above, hazy but glimmering shapes of people passing by outside the window pane – all of it looked like a sheet of oil pastel painting seen through a transparent grey plastic sheet. Mother and little daughter and tiny baby son all sat huddled together in a corner of the milk white bed near the picture window and watched all afternoon. Sometimes mum would break forth into a song – Doorey Kothaey Doorey doorey/ amar mon beraey go ghurey – ghureyyy/ Je baanshitey bataash kaandey/ shei baanshiro shoorey shooreyyy….far, far away in the distance/ my mind wanders/ to the tune of the bamboo flute that wails with the sound of the passing wind…

A tiny voice would join in too with the only rainy day song she knew how to sing: Boley re papiharaa, papiharaa/ Nit man pyasa, nit man tarasey….(she used to think back then it should be ‘Ek man pyasa, Ek man tarasey..’ some people are thirsty, some people are thirsting, that is what she thought the song meant 🙂 )

Until it thundered and grew dirty dark outside. Then it was mid day – time to feed her ‘babies’. So mum would gather them up and put them down on the floor together – the children would squeal with laughter as the bundle hit the floor, scramblingly splitting into two sets of feet and hands. Sometimes the bundle collapsed in a heap on the mat on the floor and mum would laugh while she stooped to separate the tangled mass of flailing arms and feet and then they would all troop like a set of Motherduck-baby-duckling toy – baby boy holding on to mum’s saree pallu, didi sis following, teasingly holding on to the back of his little shirt – to the dark kitchen.

They would switch on the light. Then they would lay the table together, baby carrying the stainless steel baby glasses, which he could now hold one in each little hand, didi sis carrying the stainless steel plates – which she tried to beat together like cymbals in rhythm with the loud pattering outside – mummy brought the china bowls of curry. These were heavy. The children were not allowed to touch these. Last of all came the rice and the colourful salad with beet in it.

This was the only sore point of the day – when they had to eat raw beet with their salad. They hated it. The taste, the wild strong scent, the way it coloured everything else up. So very dominating! Junglee!

The hot shiny white rice looked beautiful – each grain perfectly shaped and separate, like fresh jasmine flowers plucked out with the dew still on it. This is the famous Joha rice of Assam – lovely, fragrant rice that made everything taste twenty times better. They would have their simple meal starting with the greens – spinach fried sauteed with a dash of garlic, followed by bitter gourd boiled in the rice and mixed with mashed potatoes to dull the shock of bitterness for sensitive baby tongues, followed by fragrant masoor dal soup, with fried eggplant finally ending with the royal treat – fish curry. All Bengalis have their food in that order by the way. Fish or egg or meat always comes in the end and is followed by some dessert – no matter how simple it is – there would be a dash of sweet in some form at the end of a meal in most ordinary Bengali homes.

In our household, if they could not get to the store, when rains continued for more than three days, it would be home made laddoos made of jaggery and puffed rice, or a dollop of jaggery made of date-palm juice, called Paataali and is considered a delicacy in Bengali homes. They buy it in winter and stock it for the year.

After a peaceful meal – if baby didn’t spit too much and didn’t fuss too much over his meal – if he did though, an added bonus would be a story – usually he liked monkey stories – he seemed to identify with monkeys better- it would be back at the window or on the bed.

Never on the floor, which would be cold despite grass matting or dhurries that covered it. Usually, these would become damp too and had to be sunned when it stopped raining. Often there would be millipedes and centipedes trapped under them or actually crawling over them, in their bid to get away from dampness outside, they would flock indoors in this season. Sharing space with them wasn’t such a pleasant idea so we left them the dark corners in the room and the shelves and the floor – we climbed up into the safety of the bed.

There were great big scorpions too and baby snakes that would blunder in – at least that’s what mummy taught the children to believe – “Ora path bhuley dhukey podechhey – mero na oder”. Meaning, please don’t think of killing them, they forgot where their house is and blundered in here cause they are babies too and don’t know better.

There was no TV – we had a lovely silver white Panasonic 2-in-1 sitting on a table behind a door in a corner. The family was very proud of this set and is still there. Mum would turn it on. Clear voice of Ritu Guha rang out rendering Rabindrasangeet lyrics like they were magic words that transported the little minds to a dream world where it was full of light and spring fields swaying in the breeze.

When the father came home after the afternoon flight was safely on its way to homebase in Kolkata, he would find the children curled up like little fluffy lion cubs fast asleep, covered in their peach and off white flannels.

There would be Gautam uncle coming in to read the Bangla paper with Good Morning stamped on it in purple stamp pad ink slightly smudged at the edges, and his young wife Aditi aunty – the little girl would wake up at the noise and walk into the parlour to see what was going on and to get a hug from daddy. After a bit of washing the sleep out of the face and dressing up and the glass of milk with chanachur strewn over the top to liven it up – she would fish out her already battered (session started in July back then only a couple o months before Monsoon started) Geography book and get lost in the pictures of other lands and people. While the adults chatted on happily, the baby played with his mechano on the dining table, she curled up in her favourite little cane basket chair, which had been made too order for her specially and roved the world in her mind.

And another lovely, happy day would, a few hours later, end in sleep and tending to dreams that would someday shape the reality of her life.

Masakalli Masakalli Udio Na Dariyo

Warning: Rant post on the eve of cruel May

Ah well, ok, ‘on the eve of the V-day this Feb’ if you please…

The more these other girls try to chat this natty man up, the madder he gets. Not about them. At them. They remind him of her. Of course, she is not at all like these other people. She is SHE:  different.

Their presence underlines her absence so intensely that he loses it completely and explodes.

Flaming words of sarcasm fly burning holes into goodwill. Only at unguarded,  perhaps alcohol drenched,  moments. People driven up steep walls lose it too and open fire.  He gets back as good as he ‘gives’ – so he broods about it less now. But still.  He can’t help realizing how UNFAIR this senseless mardon ka world is. For, what she can do, he cannot? He COULD not –

Aye,  Masakalli Masakalli/ Ud matakalli matakalli /Zara pankh jhatak gayi Dhool atak aur lachak machak kar Ud Masakalli…kar le puri dil ki tamanna

Hawa se jud, ada se ud…Masakalli…

Cavort with the Wind Masakalli

Cavort with the Wind Masakalli

No, that was not –  what he would have thought – but then, well, she isn’t a bird  –

Udiyo na Dario

Kar mandmani  !!

Badiyo na – Mudiyo

Kar nadaanii – bas,  tthaan le tu

Jaan le tu – sananana  hawa

Masakali matak matak matak – Hawa se Ud,  ada se Ud…

Go get to know the Wind

He was well aware that she wished he had said that : especially,  that part about “kar le naadaanii, Jaan le tu – sananana Hawa”.

BUT – was this – could this really be the GREAT BIG cause that drove him away? Her hawa se judna ? Her little flight over horizons he seems to have walked like the backyard of his own house.

On the Edge

she would never know

She doesn’t know. She never would know. Ever.

He didn’t either. He thought he did – but he knows if he allowed himself to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that he didn’t KNOW. And also that she scares him. Drives him mad with her unpredictable ways. Of course she is not really unpredictable.

Thoughts of  ‘unpredictability’  – it absolves him of some responsibility of what happened. It is easier to overlook his own cruelty to her.

She did ask him enough number of times – as many as was permissible within graceful limits.


she worries

Sometimes, in the dead of sleepless nights,  he  knows,  she worries – about how he could be laid up somewhere with a broken arm or a leg – or worse still, cozily ensconced in the arms of some hoori that drives him crazy with “lotsasex” and lovely guile… well, he can’t – he would not deny,  it kind of  – does nice things for his – well,  ego.

He  knows that she sometimes stares at a very bad stupid  picture that  is all of him that remains now – with her, that is. The rest of him is somewhere so bloody far away she can’t even hope to reach him there in her imagination.

he knows she never could reach him

he knows she never could reach him

He tells himself that she has been up and down this slope so many times already.  She knows what it is like.  She KNOWS that it would pass.  She knows she would finally get away and be free. Till that time there would be  licking wounds alone in a hole in that breathless state when every minute is like a year.

He also knows that there would never be forgetting this one.  At least,  she wouldn’t forget him.  And that he would walk the earth wherever she treads. He knows that.  But it doesn’t bother him.

Life would be the same  – petty – insignificant – one track ram rod straight zooming into each unknown day – bumbling along – for her. For him too.  The same as ever.

as ever?

not love

He knows this is NOT love – only,  it could have been.  It is just that,  for her, he realized with great difficulty that he had been the one she had been looking for all her  post millennium year life.  That he had been her dream unfulfilled.

could have been?

could have been?

PN: Pictures sourced from the Internet copyright with respective owners

Chair, Person or his AIA?

well, which one? do I respect? the Chair, the Person, or his Ability-Inthe-Abstract?

what does each stand for? vamos, let us take a closer look at each one in turn.



Sheer Ability

–  sheer Ability in terms of a man’s  understanding, effectiveness, skills. what colour he is, what colour he represents doesn’t matter two hoots, when we simply consider whether this man has the ability to deliver us from evil and lead his folks across stormy waters to safety.  famous example from History, Hitler?

young Germans didn’t care what he represented or  looked like or even stop to question his methods or ideals. what they saw in a land swept with depravity, moral weakness and political indecision, was this little big man with Ability to Effect Change! that’s all mattered – then…

they saw in him a leader that could take them somewhere, where to, started to matter – BUT,  much later.  and then obviously  – there was a turn around as Time stands witness to.

the Person

the nice person that always smiles

the nice person that always smiles

you like the look, in their eyes,  when they look at you,  the way they treat you, the tone of their voice when they speak to you, the sound of passion and conviction in it, and you decide you like it. You like this man. He is somebody – a friend, a brother, a compassionate fellow that understands your life and times.

when I feel that, what he represents, what colour he is, where he is leading me to cease to matter.  swayed by complete trust I follow him – even if it be to the centre of the Earth – to possible death. famous example – well, the Pied Piper of Hamelin?


the Chair

Hot Seat

Hot Seat

– stands for Authority in the Abstract. no one man or woman in particular, but a position. who ever bloody sits on that Chair has to meet certain expectations, deliver certain basic goods, measure up to certain ideals. doesn’t matter at all who they are in their petty little personal lives, or of what colour or creed they are, as long as they do what is expected of them – by virtue of that Chair.

they are EXPECTED to lead us out of danger, to safety and prosperity – so, expectation is – you had BETTER DELIVER buddy, or else?

well, buzz off, we will pull him down, force him to abdicate, sack him  – make sure we  get some one else who would do the job!

So, now then folks, which one of the three am I going to give importance to? Obviously to the one that  is a safer bet,  I  have to get work done too.

and we all bloody well know, we can’t do it all ALONE by ourselves.  We do need someone out there up on the tree, looking ahead (the quintessential Leader) and getting someone (your Manager) out there with a map help (the Executives/Doers) to clear out the path with a hatchet so I (Domain Specialist) can pass on to the next phase to do my bit, yeah?

my boss

often reiterates, we mustn’t expect children to obey or oblige or plead allegiance because of authority.  In effect, not the Chair, go for the Person or at least Ability.

since I respect her a lot I contemplated.  And as you can see, I considered it reasonably closely, wouldn’t you say, in the light of human History and Literature…right here and now.

looks like the Chair gives one better options, empowers one in a way that the Person or his AIA cannot.


with the Chair, one isn’t EASILY at any one’s mercy – not really, with People and their AIA perhaps one isn’t that safe,  as an individual I run the risk of getting trampled upon nearly all the time?!

do you see what I see?  Or, well, what do you see, or have to say about the matter?