shah of blah tells a story

Idle moments in september

2011-12-08T18:44:00.001Z

Jaane. Kyun Jaanu na. .rang khoye Kahan..dhundhli in ankhon me baarisho se dhule, chehre aur kursiyan roshni hai kinhi pardon pe, hai andhera kai aankhon me, sapno me..janu naa shaam kaise bani fir subah..khali phir kursiyanGungunaate koi geet bhoole hue..geet sapno ke humne Jo dekhe kabhi...hum chale aye fir bheed me bhoolne. Geet bachpan ke, sapne sanjoye hue.Anth hi satya hai, sach hai subaha jo chubhti hai, kehti hai zinda hoon main.Beeti deepawali, poochhte hain diye..joomarein, roshni jo ke mehngi hai humko agar roz ho.Mujhko kyun zindagi dee bas ek raat ki..ya ke jeena ke jaise meri zindagi ki zaroorat nahi..Kyun mujhe quaid rakhte ho har saal, jeene ko bas raat bhar..jane kyun rang khoye kahan..jante hain sabhi rang dikhte hain dahleez ke paar,..kisso kathaon me..sapno me un raato ke yad rakhte nahin hum jinhen rang dikhtein hain un rahon pe jinpe chalne ki fursat nahi..jante hai sabhi rang sachche nahin, aankhon ka dohkha hain..humko milte nahin chhoone ko, quid karne ko apne gharon me, jaantein hain sabhi rang utre the kagaz pe, deewaron pe,. tab jab ke kholi thin aankhen apadh, bezabaan........shah of blah

Homecoming

2011-02-13T18:40:00.001Z

It was a cold night when Aladdin came back to the city. walking through the city lanes, he immediately started searching for familiar signs, and there weren’t many he could find.
The city had changed. There were new names, new ramparts, new colors and languages everywhere, the fog felt different in his lungs, the shadows felt different, his footsteps felt different, much heavier, and murkier, the city had moved on…
Aladdin walked towards his home, through the new, changed, upgraded neighborhood, much advanced in age, on a slide to death with its share of scavengers in pink of health.
The town had died at many places, hardened into a mummy somewhere, and alive and infested in others...its veins twisted like a serpent, organs bloated, the town welcomed visitors with a perpetual sick twisted smile...
it was scary and engrossing, there were hoards and hoards who wanted to come and see the big wild beast, some wondered what kept it alive, others thought about euthanasia, the right of beast to die in peace, and waited for the time when the beast will muster enough energy to change the smile into the grimace, when the beast will decide to draw the curtains.
The visitors where in love with smile of the town, they admired its endurance, what they didn’t like was its urge to defecate on a routine basis, they wanted to help, they wanted to civilize the beast, train it not to go about spreading it’s stench, and thus someone decided to murder it, put it into wax, stuff it with all the scents in the world, let the smile and beauty be preserved, only the beast wouldn’t die..
Aladdin loved the animals when he was a child, he saw them being, hunted, he saw then stuffed and smile, hang in the Zaman’s court, he found them in cages and uniforms and sects,
He found then endearing.
Only during the course of his journey across the lonely river, when he had to kill these did he realize that they were dangerous, that they could murder him to stay alive...
Aladdin learned something; that only life he could love as a child was life that was controlled, extinguished and stuffed, all other life was dangerous for those who wanted to love it at their own terms...
Aladdin could now see his home, in ruins, unchanged like death. He decided to return to his other home, buried deep, somewhere near the lonely river, amid the white silver sand,
No one quite knows, He wouldn’t say, except that it is safe until the day of reckoning comes…..

shah of blah

the winter's mist

2010-08-21T18:06:00.008Z

my day often starts with many mysteries, where do my specs, which were sitting right next to the bed in night, disappear, and how they travel to other side of the bed, floor, ahoe rack, the coffee jar etc?
why do my keys, ID card, socks bag, all these essential evil Nick-knacks play the hide and seek drama every day, even though i keep reminding them that i own them, even though i threaten them with dire consequences once i find them?

these are interesting mysteries, yes, and a solution would be of much use to me i must admit. i, however, will speak of another mystery here, keeping aside my vested interest.

this story is of a death in winters, and how it helped a superhero reach god.without much ado, or rather with as much as already has happened, lets begin with the story.

one chilly winter's morning, wading through the thick fog, which covered the road, the ghats, and the ganga like a solid wall, Nandu stumbled onto something on his way back from the early morning bath to the Hanuman temple. he swore loudly, as much for the chagrin and premonition of having to take another bath, as to keep himself warm.
the old hands on the road knew this voice well, through his childhood to silver years, they had heard Dr NandKishor a.k.a. Nandu every winter morning.

this time though, his premonition was proved right, and he knew his time had come.
this object blocking his path was a human corpse as soon as he touched it he knew.

the corpse had been there for quite a while now, another statistics added to the casualties due to cold, and another maybe added if he had to go back and bathe again Dr. Nandu considered.
he peered through the mist- the body was covered with a patent leather shroud, cold as ice.it was a sign, Dr. nandu instantly recognized..he gave one good look to the corpse and walked away towards the temple. old hands on the road, if they could have seen his face, could have recognized the determination, and a sense of purposeful excitement, but as we remember, it was a winter's misty morning, with a wall of fog that devoured everything within itself..
it was morning which makes you reflect, lets one to be alone with oneself..often this leads to discoveries and incidents both beautiful and morbid as we shall see..

Another day of wait, another night or foreboding and anticipation, Lajo woke up early as usual, and did not find Sukhu by her side. her two kids were snuggled up to her. in early days, she would stay awake and not move for hours for fear of waking up these kids, now she had learnt the art of sneaking away-like a shadow, disappearing in the for that surrounded,and protected her hut. Lajo was a believer. she believed in the goddess that would protect her and give her power to live,in fog that protected her hut from all evils, made it invisible to powers that be, in Sukhu, who fathered her kids, who will come to be a legend one day, in her master who would find solace in her, release his burden of divinity to become human, in the moist-alive,mortal earth-away from his barren consort up-above-so-high.
she knew she was mortal, and that Sukhu will not come to her one morning.mother earth took away her sons by many pretexts- sometimes it was heat, or cold, or hooch, or work, or malnutrition,disease, alcohol, women, or their masters, they all would take away men from household of Lajo and her like-she knew well.Lajo rallied against fate, against mother earth, her benefactors were her goddess, and master, who would protect her hut from evil eyes, He would make it invisible, yes, there was no sin that she carried on her shoulders, when she was with her master, he would take it all away.
Lajo trusted The master, and his servant,-the fog..

It had been an year since Aladdnin had come out of his house..he was contemplating, as always, on thing that he could have done differently.He had often dreamed of life away from slavery of Zaman. He had often dreamed of Fatima and their first encounter at midnight.
He constantly thought and schemed and plotted for his release, his release into the life on lonely river.
shah of blah

The art of sadness

2009-12-09T15:21:00.000Z

It's quite easy to be sad..you tilt your head certain way..make a crooked face, start staring at something vague and uninteresting, take a sigh, and lo! The sadness will start creeping in..it's simillar with happiness, except that you feel tired like dead afterward..is this why we have so much of suffering around?.. shah of blah

In desert

2009-12-06T19:23:00.003Z

I scoffed at his memories,
when he said he remembered his school,
the lawn in winters,
the cricket, the dust and the heat,
the banana vendor, the walk back home.
I scoffed at him when he tried to call his memories sweet.
when he spoke about his first day in a big school.
when he told me about how inviting the school seemed to him
I thought he was being a sissy, an also run when he told me about his grief
and his struggle to cope with it
i put him in the league of ordinary and he smiles.
He smiles and i can't stand it.
i live a dream and he came out of it.
............................................
yes i live a dream, dream much too surreal
grief, agony, happiness, smile,
and blah blah....
my dreams make them all look stupid..

i whistle, i sing a song
i let the moment pass..
Its much to surreal to make judgements i say meekly
So let's make it someone in the club says
we pass drinks, we share our tragedies, out great adventure stories
someone shares his boring silly day and we are all hooked to it.
A boring day?
well that's real, a relief, we all murmur..
All we need is a boring day the joker shouts
we raise a toast to the the boring day.....
we promise ourselves to be mediocre and boring..
or at least pretend..
to be real...
.....................................
In the desert it's all too real
i have never been to one.. i prefer to think about it...
Prepare.. says Moturam.
The wish to conquer the desert is cop out i say.
from someone who never had the courage to own a moment in the lush green valley..
Muturam smiles at my tattered cloth, my parched torn sandal's...
He knows....
It's not about cop outs or courage he says. it's about asserting my right to exist..
Asserting my right to be miserable..
Why does everyone preach and thunder about the virtues of happiness anyway?
If it's all a farce why one is better than another?
Moturam has learnt a lot..
He knows it all..
I slip out.
And walk away...

shah of blah

For Mangoes in red desert

2009-11-24T13:18:00.002Z

Moturam always wanted to travel far..far across the red desert.weighed down by all that he expected of himself and all that world expected of him, he was a chubby, little boy. He had sad eyes, eyes which left you speechless, benumbed, even scared sometimes. whenever you saw him you saw despair around him through the little holes in his eyes, through his mouth, his ears, his skin, you could feel hope bleeding away.
Moturam sat in shrine of misery, people travelled far to come to him, they said he had powers, those who met him walked away with a little more juice to live on.
squishy-squashy-chubby-leaky moturam could not cry ironically. at least no one had saw him, even at birth the customary slap didn't make him cry, a pinch made him red, a burn made him afraid; with his startled eyes he saw the world since then, a strangely startled-sad eyes, eyes that saw death all around him. eyes that told him why the tears were worthless as much as laughter, why every emotion was just a sketch on water.. On the first day of his life he came to know he was going to die. he awaited that moment with bated breath and then with indifference as the years wore on, worn him down.
what kept his going was his preparation for the red desert. The desert was ruthless place. it soaked away all happiness and humanity and moisture and of course friends. i red desert no one could keep company of friends because all friends who crossed the invisible red line of red dragon dropped dead, got consumed by the desert. His only companion in the desert would be misery he knew and hence he took dollops and pounds and tons of it from everyone. He hoarded misery in the knapsack on his back, his in under his hat, hid more in his pockets, under his pillow, in the secret closet, but mostly nearby. he was afraid of letting go of any of the strings that tied the door. Through his calloused, weary hands he would touch people. rip open their wounds, let them be light and free.....
Moturam was a man on a mission indeed.. and he knew he would succeed ofcourse if the death didn't come knocking too fast..
He knew he would cry once across the desert,he'd lay sown his burden, breath for the first time in his life.. and cry.. and laugh and be happily Sinister...

shah of blah

On A Sunday!

2009-09-20T06:10:00.004Z

on a bright and steamy sunday morning, while munching the puree and 'Chai'instead of regular coffee, it came to me that the world is a farcical theatre played out with so many ( far too many, but how does it matter anyway?) actors and no audience at all, which incidentally might mean this play is really good one, given what happens with good plays and stories in general.
i was wondering what happens post life, what happens at the end of the world, why don't we have a swashbuckling climax but a gradual tapering off to death as the likely scenario, and so on and so forth.
it often just happens; for some moments amid the chaos around, one somehow connects to the other reality, the mundan-er than mundane. the truth so forgone that one chooses to ignore it.
while reading about rakhi Sawant and the predictably shocking revelation that she wont marry elesh afterall, how rahul gandhi, a man who's there where he is by virtue of his blue blood bringing a new wave of democracy in our GOP,reading about IITs and IIMs getting a cut in grants so that they'll fund the labs and research by their own accord and need their Netas only in case they don't get enough good students and they must fill the seats from the blue blood, while i kept reading about what is wrong and right around the world, opineating about everything, i remembered my laundry that's not done since god-knows-when, the monday that is coming and the sunday where i need to choose between having a timely lunch and catching up with a movie.. some reality check it is..So i must rush and do whatever needs to be done on a Sunday, eat drink, be merry,.. coz we may diet tomorrow..(i certainly need it Urgently!)...
doshah of blah

The journey

2009-08-19T15:51:00.000Z

Several months into his journey. As he was passing through some old old islets , aladdin was hit by a memory wave that almost toppled him over, to his surprise, he realised he wasn't thinking about the isle and his fond memories, but fatima..he realised that he wanted to see her again,to hold her,unlive the bitterness,fall for her once more...and he knew it wouldn't happen,he won't let it. Except by a miracle..it was a wave that made him remember zaman and his most dreadful-stealthy warrior,-The Fish...he knew he'll travel farther, hunt for zaman's soldiers,he knew he will never love fatima with same innocence,.unless the miracle happens. So he waited for it...for all times to come..shah of blah

The Mangoland

2009-08-10T13:15:00.004Z

Moturam loved mangoes. He was capable of anything for these sweet, tangy delights.
One day fine day, after getting scolded by his mum for breaking into landlord's orchard, suitably surprised at this break-in where nothing needed to be broken for getting in,Moturam decided to find his own mangoland where there were ripe mangoes through the year, and nicer one too than the two wretched trees that consisted the orchard.
He decided to travel west, for all the good things appeared to come from west. the mangoes, the silvery moon, the quiet star-lit nights, the cool breeze, all came from west. Moturam had seen the sun sink behind the big-fat dune in the evenings. all his friends said the mangoland existed across the desert.
Moturam was a brave boy of uncertain age, he was a bit chubby with nice friendly smile and large, moist eyes.besides mangoes, he loved big-fat religious texts kept in the house. His mum held these as sacred. one particular book told him in whispers, as he was about to doze off under the lone gulmohar tree,That if he wanted something really-really badly, the world would conspire to get it for him. Moturam was a conspiracy theorist in his own right. the idea struch chord somewhere, only thing was what was it that he really needed badly. as he was being scolded and lashed that day, he realised his destiny-to search for what remain hidden to the world, the mangoland for all his friends( Moturam was not small hearted when it came to sharing something that was in abundant supply, after having his fill, he will let his friends have theirs too-he decided in an instant).
on this day that we mentioned, he took his leave silently, solemnly, and gallantly. he marched into unknown ,unchartered desert all alone, friendless,with his small supply of food to keep company.
he walked for a long long time till he reached the burrow of red devil.
Moturam was tired and hungry, the devil was tired and hungry-they made a pact. The devil will have moturam to satiate his hunger, and they he will let moturam do likewise, thus creating a live(?) example of win-win strategy.
The red devil was huge, Muturam wasn't too small either for his (uncertain) age; moturam saw a good bargain here and agreed.
And thus the devil devoured moturam!

shah of blah

Loneliness and Beer

2009-04-06T16:15:00.003Z

on one hot sultry Sunday morning i decided to shun all worldliness and head towards the Himalayas.i took by meagre belongings,said adios to my hermitage and started my journey towards the final destination as per my dharma.
At the point of writing this i am sixty years old, very old man with plenty of vitality to carry me along to another few years.This is quite a contrast from my other life in the bustling city, or so i believe. i cannot say i have a very strong memory nor do i claim to have many interesting stories to tell, yet, in twilight of my rather long day, as all old babbling men do, i am filled with the desire to lay bare my story. i call it a story for i cannot say how much of it is true; i have never been very particular about telling the truth when fiction seems to be more alluring. Thus dear friends, you might keep your bowl of salt ready as you leaf through this rather fascinating ( to me at least) tale.
I was born a great man, or so all the soothsayers said, i grew up through my childhood more or less fulfilling the charge of greatness until like an ordinary mortal, i committed a sin. But let's not get into all the sins that one can commit and the one that i committed. what we shall talk about is much more pleasant to me. It's about one magnificently lit full moon night, the kind you see when you are lonely and you lose your strength to despair. if you let the moon and the wind and the sand and the prickly earth play around a bit, let them believe your are part of their beautiful inanimate kind and not viciously alive , if you let go of your rather weird pride of life, when you let your body drift in the current, dissolve in it bit by bit, when you allow yourself death, you will see the lovely night. i said lovely not by accident. it's love you discover with power of hundred fierce storms on such rare nights. It's on such nights that your fears might just loosen their grip, ( and they do if the wind is powerful enough, If you are absolutely lonely, if it's a full moon night indeed) and you might just sin. you might just die, you might just fall in love if you are stupid enough..
On the night i am talking about though something profound happened. As i was wandering alone i hit something hard accidentally.. a black weathered book, a rather forlorn and likable peace of poetry, and a dark bitter liquid that lay beside, rather ominously. i was full of intrigue and credulity in those young days. i knew instantly though what it was.. it was bitterness of the unfourtunate lover bottled up. i tasted it and accidentally rediscovered what was thought to be only a frivelous folklore..
That's How Beer was rediscovered...
No ofcourse that's not the end of story, but.. let the old man breath and moisten himself.. and then only we'll know a bit more about what was in a the store..

shah of blah

Relief

2009-03-05T14:55:00.003Z

Relief is what i felt as we walked away on our own journeys. This isn't right someone said, someone deep inside. the voice grew stronger with each passing day till i could here it no more.. I found myself singing in a voice filled with broken glasses ( specs? tumbler? mirror?..who cares..), i found myself listening intently to the intense static of chaos. now i could walk down the road-aloof, deaf, numb, and that's how happiness came to me this last time.. promising to stay along for a while.. at least till i realise once again that all roads lead to only one end.. ..
shah of blah

The Fish

2009-01-19T16:49:00.005Z

The fish that we shall read about was strongest of them all, or so he believed, not unlike many of his rivals. The fish was so strong that he could bite and tear through the greatest nets and hook they had in the great sea. The great sea had many great anglers, anglers with their hooks so sharp and their baits so tantalizing that no one was ever heard to have escaped. The fish and the anglers often met in classes on strategic thinking and they had come to accept the MAD doctrine as the best one Dr Nandkishor aka Neo had taught them. Suffice to say, the great sea was in gripping dangerous/ exciting phase of dynamic equilibrium. Many great fish were daily killed and dried and put through untold unfishely suffering. Many a boats were punctured and ambushed, nets torn apart, sailors chewed with great relish. The Interspecies tribunal was choking with complaints from either side.. The fish were inhuman, the man unfishely, neither respected the international law, neither had any other objective but of securing peace and harmonious co-existence for all..
Both the Fish ( the capitalized protagonist of out tale) and Mr. X ( the great leader with name withheld due to security reasons) told the masses publicly that they could not choose neighbors, and it was best if they could choose to become friends. That was in AD 2K2.
Consequently the great leader asked men ( and women) to feed the little fish as often as possible, He mentioned the great verse from great book that promised heaven if one did that. (It created some problems as people stopped working on anything else apart from their usual pleasures & vices and feeding fishes; this was the easiest way for them.) On the other side, fish jumping out of water on sight of hungry, emaciated children was not unheard of.
Such were the times when the Fish did something that eventually demonstrated his strength to world and changed the course of history, which incidentally changed every so often anyway.. Not unlike the great river through the flat unyielding plane that changed course every few miles and months. What did the Fish do? Well, he finally conquered the greatest fisherman of mankind- the great Zaman..It's a long story, and exciting one too.. Better get a breather before we start the next part.-the battle of great sea..

shah of blah

Aladdin

2009-01-16T13:08:00.004Z

Someone sent me a diary on excel today. Being used to writing by pen on paper in middle of the night, a soft version seemed like worth a try. the trouble started when i found that i had a lot to say, plenty of things to account for in 15 days of 09. Having abandoned the routine, it’s difficult to let go of this state of unaccountability. Well begin is half done people say, can't say I started out well, but then i didn't expect to, and it didn't matter as the pain or happiness lasts for 15 minutes and then there is a something brand new to encounter. As the day winds down there is nothing much to account for it, no debits, no credits, just another day gone by in the series of interminable days of light amid infinite sea at the centre of earth. No one knows I exist, I do not see much evidence of others either. it's a journey full of adventure except that even though the grind of enterprise might be good in afterthought; the boiling springs scald flesh now nonetheless and it is pretty boring to be frank. No that's not my name, I am not Frank though I liked his music in good old days, if I ever did get a chance to hear it that is. It started out exactly one year ago, my adventure trip with interminable pauses. that was when i had finally arrived at the famous oasis in the middle of desert. The oasis was as they should be, full of hustle and bustle and banters and fights; full of life that place was. Now that i recall with by green tinted specs, the oasis seems so much greener and happier than what it seemed at that point of time. That is what green tinted specs are made for I am told and I do not complain. When you are bitter, even happiness from days bygone hurts you somewhere deep inside; it still means you are alive. I refuse to be bitter-i hope it won't hurt as much this way, and it does not, not even as much as i expected, and i feel cheated/scared/ afraid. I will not write my account- I know I have some bad entries to settle, I do not want to be precise, I wish to keep the fickle hope alive that this might all be a mistake, that It might all turn out well in the end. ( That much I know- it will turn out well in the end. How? well I did a bit of cheating, I turned the last page of this little book, I blacked out the last few paragraphs and rewrote these in exactly the same font, I even replaced the last pages later so that you would not even notice..) When you live in short bursts, first thing you need is survival, and then you have so much time to do these things once your unconscious mind takes over the essentials.. if you have ever been out to sea for days, alone in vast expense except for your emails and unfilled diaries, you'd know what i am talking about, to some extent i guess..
Why did I start this journey? The simple answer is that it was not my choice. what was my choice then? To be a fisherman. Why? because it gave me a chance to be alone at sea, all by myself, away from everything I wanted to stay away from, taste new-old saline, become the another footnote in the endless list of people who conquered the sea-which is interesting as it might better be described as surviving the sea in your little or not-so-little boat, not dying from drowning, sea sickness, or by boredom, or by other unpleasant means if you've got company.
So my dear friends, I am out to conquer the sea, find the lost worlds and untold riches, and that is because there is nothing better to do.
I have sailed far out to sea because I am afraid of the lost world that has been growing within. I am scared of the rain forest that keeps creeping up all around. This forest has gobbled up almost everything of my past already, I almost feel home with the fresh breeze inside, new life created from old, eating up the dead-wood, or killing it for the purpose. I like the sound of new eating up old- it makes for good excuse-or is it the hallucinogens from the parasites?
At the moment it's philosophical question and thus one might put it aside till one catches the lunch and dinner and of course the treasure outside..
I have always believed in treasure islands, which is quite surprising for skeptic me.
It's a good distraction in any case.
Now is the time to talk about the treasure then- the big fish (the BIG FISH). The big fish and I share a bit of history you might not be interested in. the big FISH and i were great pals once; really close chums. Then something happened that created bad blood. What was it? The great treasure the big FISH gobbled up dishonestly-without sharing, without making the sacrifice for me. Now I am out to reclaim the trophy. (Trophy? for what? well for itself...Maybe... I don't know.. We shall see...)
It's dusk, a time where you are not supposed to do pretty much anything, except of course, telling stories and listening them.. Soon it will be night...

shah of blah

Comedy:things that end well

2008-12-17T16:24:00.007Z

Aladdin left home very early that morning. He had things to do- Watch the moon, watch the stars, watch the sun and the river turning gold on steel gray & blue & black. Aladdin was an angler, a rare species in those parts where sand spread till the eternity in every direction past the oasis. It took him days and weeks to return whenever he set sail. You might wonder why he chose to become what he became, but that is as they say, destiny. Of course, you will know soon enough that he did not make too bad a choice.
Fish were rare in the lonely river for Zaman had banished them all past his oasis. Some did cross over though, the strongest, the most precious ones. The fish knew Zaman liked strength; strength of dead, strength conquered and mutilated- his court had the best storytellers, the best tales, the best martyrs. Every nook, corner, and niche these valiant spirits haunted. Through the day, these spirits rested in the supple, dark trees around the estate- the magically alien, supple, juicy trees with unknown origins except for some frivolous stories linking them to Fatima.
The spirits seethed in rage through the day.. The trees grew better, darker, juicier. At the descent of night, they took siege of the fort, plotting and quarreling and re plotting the demise of Zaman. Only daredevils went too close to the fort in night; misery is the hurt rabid pet you loved- you get too close and it bites you right on neck. They knew the spirits loved everyone outside fort, and that they would kill anyone they found. These were the primary shield Zaman had.
Spirits of fish? Stories are often about euphemisms castled deep into reality.. Aladdin was an angler, a pawn in the hands of the great Zaman. Why? As you must have guessed by now, He wanted to murder Zaman-He wanted to become his master, he wanted to defeat him, mutilate his memories, his legends-Aladdin was a slave of his velour, his ambition and his own sense of history-history that he had to rewrite..
Aladdin had it all planned, why/when/how; to chilling details- and so he knew he must run away for these plans had a life of their own, much too powerful to control- his own jinn held tightly in his clenched fists. No, He could not have been anything but a lonely angler in his rickety old boat sailing deep into lonely river.
In this very boat, by this very lonely river he had seen Fatima for the first time; Fatima- from-the-snow-white-tales, playing innocuous games by herself, or so he thought as he was young then, young with new ideas, new revolutions, and disdain towards those silly legends about the sands by the river being enslaved by Zaman.
Still, he did feel his feet sinking just that bit more, the earth pulling him into her just that bit more when he carried his usual workload for Zaman.
The earth pulled all the humanettes into her eventually, every single one of them becoming hunched and doubled over with the pull and weight of the invisible bag Zaman had gifted everyone with- full of spite, conceit, rage, and servile admiration towards the one master these parts had, until they were finally put in the white sands by the grand fort.

Not a nice place to play you would say but earth hides a lot from us, and from those who choose to see the better world, some might find ‘afford to’ a better description but that is being cynical, pessimist, loony etc. Better to see the better world as the lonely river and the white sand, the fort and Fatima, they were beautiful in those moonlit nights. During nights the humanettes felt just a little lighter in her presence, they were just a little less inflicted with misery, at least most did, not all, and that’s what you call human nature.
Human nature is the most likely scapegoat, cursed with all the evils of good men, sent to the devil, it comes back stealthily, stricken by love for it’s master, carrying along the gifts the devil sends back.. Long story, back and forth, back and forth, It keeps happening all the time. No wonder we have more humans showing failings of human nature with startling innovation every other day.
Back to business, some did not feel all that light in presence of Fatima so they decided to win her and stuff her as a souvenir. They had justice on their side, this girl was possession of the man they hated. They had read the clichéd saying’ everything is fair in love and war in their textbooks so they decided to love Fatima and go to war against his father.

shah of blah

Notes from Staidland

2008-11-23T08:29:00.002Z

It's been sometime since i'm in staidland. Mornings n evenings and nights and afternoons spent ( a friend would rather say utilized), points scored, matches lost, bitterness cultivated, pleasantries harvested- seeded with all the GM varieties n bad-bad fertillizers that make the staidland infertile every other day.
Everyone likes staidland, everyone abhores it, this land kills every new weed, every seedling that it doesn't identify, and it gives back prosparity of known, safe & mundane.
But then it's all about perspectives i guess

of things that do not end that well

2008-09-29T15:41:00.002Z

there are some days that begin well simply because you don't expect them to..
it was on one of such mondays Rahul met Anjali.
It was quite by chance that it happened on that monday for as it turned out, they lived almost next to each other for months before setting sight on each other.
shah of blah

A true story of love, loneliness and beer

2008-09-01T14:50:00.008Z

It's becoming becoming increasingly difficult to concoct stories of late. There was a friend who termed this as writer's block, everyone snickered- yeah so you are a writer!
my friend did not lose heart, he kept burning proverbial midnight oil, sometimes even in his own presence.
Now no one believes you when you start working really hard, they say it's a bluff, moon-shine, (Oh! to mention it.). there are two options you have in such cases. return to normalcy, or start making moonshine, which is, one must say, pretty hard work in itself.
My friend chose the latter, and within quick time he became the moonshine czar on moonsville.
If you remember, he was a passionate writer, that is he wrote with passion and he soon discovered that if he wrote with certain kind of passion, the passion was reciprocated monetarily as well as physically for he was a young czar after all, if you try and remember once more.
The young Czar figured that going was good, a young passionate reader of his figured this too,incidentally. The writer and his muse fell in passionate love in no time.
The love blossomed like anything, so blossomed his pen.
They loved moonlit nights and they loved moonshine. They loved each other's body and soul and temperament and they loved a certain uncannily attractive flavour Czar's moonshine had.
Now it so happened that a certain friend of this Czar chanced upon him and his muse one night and fell in love with the Czarina.
The writer was perplexed by this new turn of events as it opened up so many possibilities.
He thought about it long and hard, and finally chose one- the Czarina left with the this new friend who was exceedingly attractive.
The Czar got furious, his pen found new vigour and he wrote with such passion that it eventually consumed him.

He died a bitter man. He cried day and night- so much so that his tears found their way in his moonshine- the moon shine was now dark and bitter, it was no longer that intoxicating.
People in moonsville found this new moonshine surprisingly addictive for it's not the high they got, but a pleasant-sad burning sensation as it tore through their hearts..
The Czar Died but his story was carried afar.
Even to this day his tears in the dark-bitter moonshine move hearts, it makes them sing the songs of loneliness, and songs of times merrier.
This is my friends how BEER was first made!

Learning French...

2008-08-27T13:24:00.003Z

when I started out it was still quite dark, the kind of darkness poets expect before the daybreak. If you have ever woken up at that ungodly hour you'd know how poetic you feel, blues are favoured; physically or otherwise depending on season etc.

now where did I go?

My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams,

it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.- Ravindra nath Tagore.

In short I didn't know. this was very existantial question and since you hardly exist in physical/ mortal/ real world at that hour, I simply put my trust in Rabindra babu.

In long, (?) I had to catch a bus to pune atleast that much I obviously knew.

now where does it connect with French? it doesn't actually, except of a JV with a french company we have, and ofcourse some one asked me whether i knew French- I did I replied, as long as no one around comes with a French connection (italisized)

the famous indian bard Banabhatta had a curious thing about him- he never finished any of his books. err.. here I go..

shah of blah

It's a new day..well!

2008-07-17T13:11:00.004Z

I woke up with a start. I had been dreaming about another new day, so deeply, indulgingly that i slept through its advent.a new day means new energy, new tasks, new mountains to climb, new opportunities for happiness- They said. they spoke right into my mind, through the night.

like a mist the dreams whithered away, so fast that it seemed like a miracle, a miracle that repeats itself every brand new day, adding to the weariness of a weary long day, fitting snugly into the pattern.
dragging myself from bed i thought about another hour of sleep, dreamt of dreams. One needs to wake up, stand up, let the mist go for it's a brand new day..
I wonder what happened last night, what about the stranger that sneaked out, dissapeared without a trace, only a smell to account for what was new, as a premonition to another tomorrow..
All one needs in life is bad memory ( helped by gallons of liquor) and aspirin!
and ofcourse few things we do not mention. period
thus starts a new day my friend! Isaid aiming no one in particular. with friends that's how it is; you can never be specific on why on earth you call someone a friend or why not for that matter.
friendship is a possibility,something that might occur or it might not. thus you cannot be too specific else it starts to hurt; you find its tentacles intruding into places unexpected.. shah of blah

love across the sillicon desert-as years go by

2008-06-19T13:37:00.002Z

wild . colourful days and nights those were.. on the moon.. said the old man.
On the moon you said? gasped the kid. a wry smirk flirted across the young face. the young man was smiling, with contempt, with pity, with glee. he had heard the story often enough. even though there was something that attracted him, he didn't quite dislike being here, in the shade of the weird tree and the run down house.
the house must have been massive he thought. massive-it-must-have-been-da-ra-ra-ra-re-ra-ra-ra; he liked to sing. In better days the old man was pretty famous too. he was famous for the massive, crumbling house, the only little patch of oasis for miles that he owned, the magnificent voice he possessed, and of course Fatima.
in these parts,it was easy to make people believe you, your moon stories. after all the big, round, white-snow-white moon touched the amorously warm sand but just a few sights away.
in these starry, unclouded, big mooned deserts you could reasonably expect to touch it on full moon nights.
Aladdin was in love. not a very un-heard of malady in the desert, Fatima was in love too.
they realised on one full moon night, exactly where the moon touched the earth.

love across the sillicon desert::

2007-05-22T10:03:00.000Z

It has been years since it has rained..Everywhere now, we see dry dust, dry leaves, dry ponds, dry wells, everything has gone dry...
.it has never been this long for rains in the silicon desert..this a drought alright.

No, I have no intentions of scaring you people off, its a wonderful place, with plenty of water, plenty of greenery..plenty of shade..it's just that it has not rained for so long..and that's not our fault . you know!
do I sound weird? My voice seems to have chipped off something..In fact I am cracking up all over..here go my hands.:Dust to dust.. ashes to ashes....but what is there to get scared?..It happens to everyone.We all die;even you will; just that my hands have died before me...
worry not; I will not die before my tongue gets chipped off..and it will take time...and who knows? it might rain before that...
No! it will rain for sure..so many stories to tell, and they say some stories never die..
Oh ! you need water?..there is plenty of it around,,yes of course it's a drought..but have you not heard.." water water no where, plenty of it to drink..."
Never heard this one? I know it's a little different in your parts..could we we stay alive if all the proverbs were the same everywhere?.all over this earth?...

Now I know you are getting impatient, you want the story after all.
The story is of those times when the earth was green, rivers were full of water, men were honest, simply put, this story is of those times which occur only in myths and legends.
Wait! that does not mean that this story is merely a myth, it's a true story, as true as you and me standing right here, though i sometimes wish this were indeed a myth, but it isn't, why would we have all this drought if the story were not true? pray tell me.you young boys need everything instantly, i know! even i was like that when i was young like you, not to say that i am any older then this tree, or this well, or Fatima..
And who is Fatima? we will get there soon, nothing to worry about, have some water, cool yourself, we have a long way to go.
All right then, let us start from Fatima.
Fatima was the prettiest girl in the silicon desert, so the folklore had it. she was daughter of the great Zaman-the strongest of strongmen in these parts.
Power makes men ugly, and it also makes their kin beautiful, Fatima was no exception. she was prettier then moon and stars and the lonely river that touched her house so delicately.

Fatima often spent her evenings playing on the banks of lonely river.The river had seen the might of zaman, it's red waters bore testimony of his power, and that redness spilled over Fatima, and so she was red. the river had also seen much gold ferried to the fortress in quiet nights, and she rubbed some of it on Fatima, and hence she sparkled with gold.

the silicon sand was mute witness to all the redness getting leached away, into the river; the sand was bleached white; sad, white faces, sad-white cloths, sad- white lives submitting their colours to the river, river submitting the colours to the fortress, fortress submitting them to the clerk working in dim, moonlit lights in the fortress, clerk submitting to Zaman, Zaman putting it safely in a trunk by his bedside. Each one of them worked overtime, extracted more than extractable, the organisation was lean, mean efficient, productive and profitable; no wonder the bedroom of Zaman was the most murderously colourful place in the entire desert.

Fatima chose to play in the sand, the sand was white, the corpses that it hid were white, the bones that it could not hide were white, under the shadow of fortress, and the pale, white moon, the sand also gave the only gift it had, Fatima was white, like snow-snow-white? probably not for that was not all that sand gave her, as we will discover.

the oasis, no-it was green everywhere-gave her suppleness, the emaciated figures, tiny dots of humanettes; arched under unbearable sun, unbearable hunger, unbearable jealousy, unbearable spite, unbearable anger, and unbearable love for their persecutors; they gave her curvaceous lean physique- Fatima was prettier then the rest..

as-it-must-be-for-what-it-is, she found Aladdin one Mooney-starry-shadowy night as she sat on the lonely-white sand by the lonely-red river. she blushed at the first sight and grew even redder.

Now Aladdin was a very fortunate, sad man; lean, mean, efficient-he extracted more out of life than extractable. alladin blended perfectly with yellow-white, teary, sad full moon. yes my friends, as it must be, it was a full moon night when fatima saw alladin for the first time! i beg you to remember this... more than anything., mark my words.

presently aladdin was duly stunned by presence of the most beautiful woman in those parts, for he had heard all the folklore, was mesmerised and smitten and fascinated and alarmed and scandalized by different versions of them. thus he quickly fell in love with fatima..

was fatima really that beautiful? how can someone fall in love in an instant? some of reasoned minds might ask; but what is beauty if not merely a perception? a fabrication of firing neurons and prejudices and opinions and tastes and mood and background, and of sensation of that figure on retina to but a very small extent?..

those who cannot understand love ( the implication is that i do- not a sound one- but i happen to be the storyteller,and thus i must know-for as long as the story goes..) can claim that it was infatuation, a desire arising out of their sheer loneliness, of their age, their time, the lonely moon, the river full of hues, the scheming sand-yes, the sand taught Fatima to scheme, in a manner not unlike how the eagle learns to fly-the fact that some of the redness of Fatima spilled over onto Aladdin, making him stand out just a little from the pale-yellow moon, that he became alive at that very instant, that the congruity, the camouflage that Aladdin had cultivated-in fact all little humanettes had cultivated-cracked just a little, that he started to grow out of his snaky cover,at that very instant, all this gave an impression on either side that they were in love..it was a matter of sheer chance that Fatima and Aladdin ever met, but they did..

Those who do not understand love can claim that it was vertigo that made Fatima touch Aladdin in a manner that was forbidden for her. that it was servitude that made Aladdin love Fatima more than he will ever love anyone..

those who do not understand love can claim that it was destiny that helped Aladdin survive the sandy grave that night..some even tracked a plot by the colourless maids of Zaman's colourful bedroom, or Zaman himself.

it's a matter of folklore, you must not give in to those, it's i who know the truth..how and y? you ate too impatient kids.. wait just a little and you should know...

a thousand nights this night streched, thousand promises made, thouand promises broken, a thousand bonefires were lit to wade off the bitter cold of this night. they felt the cold down to their bones, into the marrow, deeper still- into the souls the chill crept.

they cried and yelled and begger for mercy as the moon crept closer and closer- zooming in, taking in all that happened on that sandy beach, it was ice all around.. ice from the icy moon, from the icy hair of old lady up there the chill spread, the icy deer danced around on earth, galloping and rejoicing on this newfound playground.

it is a sad story indeed, for Fatima and alladin lived happily ever after-ever after onto the moon, on the sandy desert; on the beaches of lonely river, in the shadow of zaman's coulrful, awe- inspiring fort. the moon just added another fable to it's name...

on clear,full moon nights you can faintly make out- for it's so farfar away- a girl of unmatched beauty sitting proudly on a camel. you can also make out, but you have to try harder, a fort and a lush orchard in background.. there is a man out to hunt a merdourously colourful deer with it's icy arrow- drifted farfaraway..

it is love that made fatima and aladdin live happily ever after.. and it is there love that keeps this tree and the well supple.. take rest in the shade, have some water.. for you will not find it anywhere nearby, roots of this tree run deep...

i see you smiling, i see fear in your eyes, or is it incredulity?

some stories are true afterall...

AND NOW I SHALL DIE.

Benaras: The case of Doctor Aka wizard

2007-03-12T13:55:00.000Z

“Aise hi samay pe balatkar hota hai” rapes occur at these times only”, blurted out the lanky, fashionably dressed milk & sweet vendor. He was ogling at a bunch of girls, also provocatively dressed, and enjoying the attention, crossing the narrow street near Assi ghat; a smirk passed across faces of his customers, all men. This triggered a chain of recollections, long forgotten memories, mothballed and canned, in one of the bystanders.
Nandu aka Nandkishor Pandey aka Neo was born and brought up from shoe strings in Benaras aka Varanasi aka Kashi. Like everyone else, he was a dreamer, and a visionary, a species found much too abundantly in the city, he knew god, in fact Baba Bholenath , the presiding deity of Benaras often came in his dreams..it was Baba Bholenath who ordered him one fine morning, as he was slumbering out of bed, to commence upon the gigantic task of treating all ills of ailing millions, devotees who came to die of their ailments and attain the heaven via shortcut, and thus delay the divine will,which was, of course, to delay the divine will.
He was overjoyed thus, scampering around for the deodorized, colored “langot” ( a piece of cloth for covering lower parts of body) he had kept ready for such an occasion, he prayed hard and asked Baba for ways and means of achieving this rather tall target..
when he woke up, ( for it was only a morning dream, the usual hour for dreaming , for Neo was a late riser, and also because dreams in such hours are rumored to come true more often then not) he knew he had found his destiny, he was destined to become a doctor, a soothsayer, a guru, a maestro, all rolled into one. That was the day when Nandkishor Pandey aka Nandu aka Neo became a dreamer, a visionary, and he has never looked back ever since, he has mothballed and canned his past,he does that every morning,wraps up the previous day in fine silk cloth, than a special coating of imported preservatives,( he bought this from a tourist as barter for grass,) a mothball, and than the can. These are simplified details, for Neo does not share his secret with anyone.
From these canes, come out exquisitely pickled and flavored memories and anecdotes, selectively and delicately put on display, served by Neo, with rich dose of his vision..together they make a rather
deliciously persuasive delicacy.
Apart from this rather queer routine, and some other eccentricities, Neo is a sane man.
He is happy with the way things are moving. He knows well that his mission is on target, he can look back with pride over the past, brood over the progress he has made from that fateful morning onwards, and feel contented.
We have a long way to go”, he contemplates,” but a job well began is half done, and that is not bad at all”.
This silvery,leisurely oblong man is the future of the city, or that is his belief. He is a doctor, a soothsayer, a guru, a maestro, all rolled into one, in other words, he is harmlessly useless.
One can often find him taking a stroll towards his clinic, some way from Assi, or an even more leisurely amble towards his home.
He fell in love with trinity when he was in college, and has remained unbeaten since..
occasionally he puts on a jet black all leather outfit, often this coincides with some accidental leakage from his canned memories during his daily ritual.
On these days he is particularly sulky, his vision portraying a quite chilly/ infernal picture of days ahead depending upon weather conditions..
needless to say, he was on one of such walks with innumerable stoppages on tea stalls, beetle stalls, sweet shops and so on, meeting the usual Assi crowd, exchanging greetings and sly jokes, when he happened to stop by the very stall where aforementioned incident occurred
as it happened, he was in wearing his jet black leather suite that day. This meant that people were extra jovial with him and he was extra sulky with them.
It all happened by chance, no one was to blame, a series of coincidences propitiated the unthinkable..
the girl happened to wear plenty of leather..
Neo broke into a terrible fit of laughter, one stroke climbing over another, higher higher higher,
so high he ascended that he broke into the court of devil, quite unannounced, and gave the devil some devilish fits of shock..
down below people sensed a strangeness in atmosphere, they sensed the opportunity to be witness to an event that would prove to be a cornerstone for new ages..this is a fairly common sight in Benaras, people witnessing earth shattering miracles and events, cornerstones, milestones, and so on. As soon as they have any inkling of some apocalyptic event, and they have very sharp senses for this, they huddle into a tightly wound, small crowd, they chatter, they bet, they predict, get ready to prevent any calamity, and even more ready to see the calamity happen.
This is what happened that night, as he climbed down from the seat of devil, he had a glint in his eyes, he knew he was being watched, he knew he had to do something, he had to save Trinity, he had to save the world, he had to save millions of devotees, he had to start a new age, he had to get home, he had to face Trinity, and he had to stay away from a situation where he had to face trinity..
he was only an aging man , what could he do?...will the rain of millions ever dry up?..
was it necessary to cure them when all they wanted was to die?..could he ever find the magical cure that could shatter the glass ceiling of destiny of death? For those millions who wanted to live, by whatever means, for whatever costs, could he delay the will of god which was to delay the will of god that could not be delayed by any mortal?
The crowd was waiting expectantly, they had smelt blood, they knew it already, they wanted to save a life, they wanted a good show. The buzz was growing louder and louder...
Dr. Nandkishor Pandey opened his eyes, wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and said
“ you shouldn't have said that, you are a good man, you should not laugh and insult other women..
the vendor knew he was part of a greater cosmic drama. Didn't his soothsayer once predict about a divination soon to come upon him, a noble deed that will be done by his hands?...
presently he gawked at this strange doctor, his incomprehensible stutter, he couldn't stop a smile from coming onto his face, he had to, this was his destiny...
in a flash Neo stabbed the Agent with his knife and sped away, higher higher higher ,faster faster faster into the sky, he kept climbing till he became just another speck in the sky, so insignificant that no one would bother to look up and find him.
crowd suddenly fell silent, people gasped overtly, than there was a melee of feet and hands and than it was all quiet.
the wounds were deep, they were precise, heart of the agent was opened up like burst pumpkin..
there was nothing to be done but to take him away to his final destination, not very far away..
for they knew that the drama was not over as yet।

.............................................
Few hours past, there was nothing to show of unspeakable occurring save a pool of dried blood, few onlookers by one of innumerable beetle shops, a badly broken and trampled pair of specs, and unusually quite sweet milk shop, abandoned, strong smell of curling milk masking everything..the shop seemed forlorn, aged, tattering and crumbling in a ghostly, old single story house. It was not a shop a young, fashionable youth, of the kind that was murdered few hours ago, would dream of running.in a way this came as a release for the young man..that was what the two onlookers thought as they inspected the site...
" but the blood isn't red,it's hardly any different from the filth around" one of them said..
" our beetle juice stays read no matter what, blood turns black..that's one merit of our paan
........................................................................................

revisiting the refuge

2007-02-21T07:29:00.000Z

Zahir was a nomad. Everyone knew that, and hence no one disturbed him when he set his house on fire.

Cinders of the great fire still glow, giving the night innocence of a nascent life. As I walk through what once was the crumbling, majestic house of Zahir, nostalgia engulfs me like a great serpent eager to satiate its fire.
What made me love Zahir? Why did I come again and again like a child, in the embrace of this motherly house? Over my long years this question has eluded all my attempts. The more I fail, stronger the intrigue and pull becomes.
If I remember correctly, this house was never really a house. It was like Zahir; elusive and ever present, like him, it never aged. All of us used to speculate on the real age of Zahir. He was in a deceptive age. With his silvery head, aged, crisscrossed, sandy mouth, crackled voice he was certainly an old man. His towering straight haughty gait betrayed an unfaltering fountain of youth. In the village we used to whisper that he was a phantom
Zahir knew a lot of stories; he had been to hell and heaven two times each in addition to many exotic places on the planet. He was our hero.
It was difficult to resist the charm of Zahir sitting in shade of his crumbling house, the shadows of him and his house getting longer and more amalgamated in crimson sun; how could we unbelieve the unbelievable stories? It’s been a long time, and yet, the cinders still spell magic. The charm is still on us…I see my shadow getting longer with the house that was, and I grow in it; a red-blue shadow. My legs give way as I am washed in the reminiscing, inviting river in spate.

I wake up under a cloudy, featureless sky, in a rain that has been going on for years, as I am told by the man squatting beside me. This man has lost his face quite recently, his red flesh constricts and convulses as he talks about times when he had a face.he says he has no memory of what he looked like.
The rain has leached away everything. The faceless man seems sad...it takes time. Death comes slowly, I am told later.
We take the familiar path toward the village. The rain lashes down on our bodies, drenching us, somewhere deep down, this dankness sickens me…I feel the nausea taking over me. I bend over and throw out the blackish, sickly-slimy fluid from my body…and see it blend with the slime outside…become one...I can see the face melting away in the mist of approaching twilight, rain, & slime.
The village is now denuded and desolate, though I can still hear the beat of oneness coming from every house of village. I come to recognize things in the glow of the great bonfire in centre of village
..
The alleys that are all alike, People squatting on the doorsteps of featureless houses, I am amid oneness. Eternity has erased time from this village. I know that my house stands somewhere in this labyrinth, remarkably preserved in its every detail, every cobweb, and every name scratched on walls, words growing up like weeds, obscuring identities , names that become anonymous . I no longer remember the script of the lost civilization, fossilized on walls of my home, and everywhere around me.
In the center of village, they are all there, huddled in an infinite circle around the massive fire; faceless men, squeaking with delight at the arson.
I know this place, I know the faceless crowd that has assimilated me. To be one of them, to unexist, become one, I feel relieved somewhere,
As I hear crumbling, chattering wall of Zahir’s house crumble down, my steps take me to a dark, narrow alley, I cross the familiar leafless banyan tree, dogs grumbling and them going back into silent slumber of recognition, I reach doorsteps of the old cavern
Scheming, old witch of my town has seen me on her magical ball. As I knock on the door, I can hear crooked laughter of old witch, I smell death, door opens and I know that I am home…
PART III
---------------
I have lived a dream, for all this years; it is difficult to count in dreams, difficult to keep records. I don’t know for how long I have been dreaming, for too long in any case, time to come out of dreams, to face reality, a reality which eludes me, because I cannot count; it is difficult to keep record, walk in straight line, be a normal corpse.
How did it start? With my parents dreams, they somehow infected me with them, Whispered into my ears, I never understood what they meant, but I guess it was some kind of spell, spell of old witch that infected them, and infected me too. Yes, spells are contagious, I am contaminated, and maybe that is why sacredness repels me, I have seen a cloud over my head on clear nights, a burden of dreams that I carry into my sleep, into my dreams, it is too late now, some infections become terminal when left untreated.
But the holy man said it was a halo, a halo of sacredness, of glory, and I believed him, even though his slanted eyes, his gaunt, deceptively aged body made me suspicious, I should have known who he was…but you cannot be too sure in dreams, you cannot keep records, and I was deceived, retained, cocooned in a cobwebs of myriad dreams,
Now I live in a different world, a world of all things alike,
a
world grotesquely symmetrical, congruent, with sickening sweet chaos of odours, where light hurts, where pain is eternal, drowning sensations in its own static. I know this world to be a dream, of eternal length, of overwhelming strength. Sitting still in the shade of infinitely long, crumbling walls of an un inhibited house, cocooned in its shade, its silken tentacles of stories, dreams, my ears are glued to the drone of unending, enticing stories coming from that criss-crossed, age-wizened, wistfully moist face. The voice is familiar, enchanting me with its saga of trips to heaven and hell…

love across the silicon desert

2007-01-17T06:16:00.000Z

the topic might have alarmed some of you ...you might have guessed what this is all about, and stayed away... those who missed the smell of disaster are reading this..this is a true story, like all true stories, it is full of emotions/ tears..( aye Pushpa! I hate tears"-), intrigue, and.. and...well whatever you can think of.
Once upon a time there was a young boy named Aladdin..Aladdin fell in love with Fatima the daughter of a pirate whom Aladdin idolized..( or petrified? you might ask later)...the pirate was happy to find Aladdin, he knew that this boy will become an even bigger pirate than Zaman, the pirate..and everything was so goody-goody that one started to question writers' intentions...
Stories where everything happens as it should, hardly ever interest us, we call such stories a non-story...
Writer knew that and hence he decided to make things a little sour, disturb the party a little-( writer was a bad man..or was it Zaman? or circumstances that did not allow things to be as they should be? ).. in the meanwhile the love between Aladdin and Fatima was blossoming, they exchanged their love letters via a silicon camel, the silicon camel was the only animal that could cross the silicon desert..Aladdin wanted to meet Fatima, he wanted to touch her, to pour his heart out to her, but the silicon camel loved Aladdin, so she regularly put seeds of jealousy , deceit and discord in the letters, as she ran for days, the seeds grew into sapling,Fatima planted the saplings around her house , oblivious of the treachery of silicon camel..as the the trees grew , Fatima stared to feel the pangs of jealousy, she slipped a few seeds into the letters sent to Aladdin, the trees grew miraculously fast, they gave shade, they gave water, soon the houses of Fatima and Aladdin became the new oases of the silicon desert, all the pirated goods around the world could be found in their shops, they grew rich, and they grew deceitful, now they no longer gave empty handed travellers water , they learned how to cheat, how to lie.the prophesy of Fatima's father came true, Aladdin was now so well known that his clout rivaled that of famous Zaman..he grew dark under the shade of tree, he grew sturdy and fleshy like fruited of the trees, and he became cruel. the letters continued to be exchanged, but they no longer contained emotions of innocent love, they congratulated each other for their fortune, for their vanity and cruelty, but they did it with an envious heart,where once grew love, now grew rivalry, Aladdin still wanted to meet Fatima, he wanted to marry her, to show how successfull he had become, but he knew that Fatima was ahead of him, because she had more trees, larger oasis, he took a terrible oath,he will marry Fatima when he becomes worth her love, when he is able to enslave her, he wanted submission now, more than love, he started believing in his own mirage, that true love can only grow between a servant and Master, that submission of other was a necessity as a proof of love... they competed against each other, they ridiculed each other, Fatima took an oath that she will marry Aladdin when he defeats her,..she became stubborn but the exchange of letters continued..they wrote to each other daily, every night the silicon camel made a trip between their homes, every night they wanted the other more, and fiercer became their determination with each night to outdo other,..friends! the writer knew the mistake he made, he knew that what he had done could not be undone..with heavy heart he changed ending of the story.." And they never met with each other ever after, Aladdin never crossed the silicon desert, the love story became the folklore of villages that formed on the ruins of oases of Aladdin and Fatima..if you ever ask a young girl how much she loves her lover, she will tell you" i love my sweetheart more than anything in the world, more than anyone in the world. except a little less that how Fatima loved Aladdin".even today a couple never meets in the vicinity of a silicon camel, they have started using cellphones instead of letters... .

shah of blah tells a story: benaras

2006-12-09T06:07:00.000Z

not far from my home , there is a square where two worlds meet,
two worlds that are worlds apart...
they fight to outwit each other, make the other part of their own.
the great battle has been raging for as long as i can remember ...the war of worlds has engrossed all of us..we like epics, a new born child is always welcomed in this colossal family of fables.
the new warriors are energetic and enterprising, the persuade and cajole the older generations of stories to fight for their respective side..thus the war has encompassed almost every story, the battle has now turned into a war of gigantic proportions..
In the midst of this epochal war, in the centre of battle zone, a an ageless bearded cobbler can be seen sitting on most mornings..
he is battle scarred, but serene, he is happy because he can see everything right before his eyes, before anyone has seen it,
the battle lines are no longer that sharp after so many years, skirmishes and guerrilla attacks often occur in every alley of the city, but our cobbler is quite resourceful, he is omnipresent. that enable him to see things in real time..
he is my informer, or i am his, we do not know, not that it matters.
one thing is certain though, the war has kept us hooked...

let me start with own story then, one more addition to the incommensurable total. on which side of the war will this story land? Only time has the answer,who cares for a complete story anyway?

it was sunny but not warm, a fine winter morning by all account it was...the day when i got the first tast of the war...first victim, first victor.. ..i realised that all wars are not bad..it was the first time that i met my informer...the day was full of many firsts....how did i see him then?

a man with such a big beard cannot be mending shoes, but here he was, unmistakable with shoes and chappals spread on a jute rug, so many magical concoctions in small bottles and boxes sitting right in front of him. he was fast and efficient, his hands quickly taking things from this bottle and that sac, and giving old worn out rubbish a new lease of life, it was magic, i wanted to learn it quickly..i wanted to learn other things too, because the cobbler was a wise man, he liked to talk a lot, and in many languages, he had done a BA, but he was proud of his work, and he had dreams of making it big someday, wouldn't it be a bit too late? i wondered, but i trusted him, he knew a lot about shoes and men who used them.

He knew that stories need not be true...

The tale of Vikram, Baital, and the city of joy

2006-09-27T12:26:00.000Z

Vikram answered-
These are the morals of the next story-
1. Seeing is believing.
2. one should drink plenty of water before performing Kanth Kriya otherwise he gets same fate as Sukhar Chand &
3.If you have to convince English-speaking people for something, speaki in Greek instead.

Baital gave a big laughter “yes! I know you did this because now as you spoke, I will fly back to my tree and you will have to fetch me again. I save you the trouble. Here is the story-
In years long gone by, there was a great prospering city named Joy amid abundant forest. All the happy people of world lived in the city. They had everything that they wanted.. Free air, free food, free water.. Everything was engulfed in the eternal bliss. The fountainhead of this hunky-dory state of affairs was the central university in the centre of city.. The university was at the centre of people’s lives. People of city loved mathematics & they knew that eternity never comes; that the deception of eternal bliss must end some day.. The day is far away... as it is eternal. In this paradox of uncertain certainty lay the elixir of life, which made people happy, unaware, and unprepared for the doom that awaits them. As it happens in all such stories, there was another city nearby. This city was named sad city because all the sad people of world lived in it.
The sad city was perpetually sad because it knew that it will be sad until eternity and like the other, it knew that its end would come some day. The burden of sadness and despair of eternal wait crushed all happiness in the city and hence it was doomed. Here lay the common thread that bound the two cities.
We are talking of times of great transitions when things were going to change in their usual way. Presently the talks of a spy of sad city were common on streets of the Joy. People were happy and excited about the new secret that everyone in town knew.
In such times of mistrust the new teacher for Behavioral Stress Release Technology, Mr. Ghan Ghor Ghata came in the central university. People were equally excited about this new subject, which no one knew about, or so Mr. Ghata said.
The story now moves to the class that Mr. Ghata was going to take. This class boasted of brightest minds of Joy. City had high hope on students particularly of Sukhar Chand who was diligent, hardworking and with deadly sullenness on his white haired wizened face which displayed premature and sickening aura of knowledge. No one had ever seen him laugh or even smile. In the short time that he had been there, people had seen makings of a great man in him. Then they had Bijli Rani who was such a true reflection of her name that her classmates & teachers had started wearing copper-soled shoes, she had her secret designs on Sukhar Chand.
Mr. Ghata opened with tension-“tension is of three types; hypertension, tension, & hypo tension. Hypertension is a bad disease & is subject of medicine. Similarly hypotension is a subject of biomedicine, and lastly tension is of three types, hypertension, tension, and hypotension….” We may recall, only happy people lived in the city and naturally, no one really knew about behavioral stress. Consequently, students could not grasp it. How will you explain music to deaf man? Mr. Ghata pondered deeply and found his remedy in movies Black & Harry Potter-(doubting Thomas may object that these movies were not made at that time but remember art is timeless) “seeing is believing”, he said to himself.. Therefore, he brought his magical sphere with him in next class…
However, he soon discovered fallacy of the trick, for day one it was all right but on day two as he entered the class he found everyone armed with his own sphere…
“Why do we need a teacher for anything when we can learn everything from the sphere?”-Sukhar Chand argued.
Mr. Ghata knew better. He knew how dangerous this thing is. He changed his sphere to one that spoke in Greek. Serenity returned on the class.
And the magic began. Students could not believe that they were oblivious of this new world… the world of pain, sufferings, fear and defeat and adventure. Life without pain was like food without spices.
Now that I gave you pain, I will redeem you from it…beyond the borders of your city there exists a world where people have never known a moment of happiness…to them you shall go and be their messiah. With the powers that I give, you can conquer stress... Now this is Kanth Kriya –the necking experiment…we concentrate all the stress of our mind in our neck and then throw both (stress & mind)oth (stress & mind) out with a collective scream.
The experiment began. Everyone took the required posture. They started ascending levels of concentration, higher…even higher… their necks started throbbing….a heart rending cry started coming out in unison, they were in resonance with universal wave ...
A bellow came out of Sukhar chand’s mouth.. He fell on the feet of Mr. Ghan Ghor Ghata, muted with pain; the magnanimous stress concentration in the neck had fractured his neck…
A stream of tears started coming out of Mr. Ghata’s compassionate eyes…Sukhar Chand was healed. Every one saw a strange transformation in him; the pallor and whiteness was replaced with mossy green, he was rejuvenated…Sukhad Chand was now Hariyali Chand..
Another strange thing occurred simultaneously. A few strands of everyone’s hair became whitened…people in their homes and their workplace felt a strange urge to cry…
In the distant forest pangs of laughter and merry making could be heard from Sad city..
On the deserted square of the city a madman was laughing hysterically.” Ae Kaliyug aaya re...Koi nahi bachega…koi nahi…sab badal jayega…pagale ka Raj aaya re….main raja….main raja…”

the refuge

2006-09-06T11:25:00.000Z

shah of blah tells a story

Zahir was a nomad. Everyone knew that, and hence, no one disturbed him when he set his house on fire one night.
The night was a festive one; a night which marked the same old victory of good over evil. For this reason the village was lit up…by the light of fire in the Zahir’s house.
Zahir was a very generous man; his house was the biggest and most dilapidated one in the village. High rising walls could be seen from miles …there was hardly any structure, natural or manmade, that could hope to match the awe and compassion that Zahir’s house inspired.
No one could quite recall when the house of Zahir’s first came into being.
Elders would tell you that house was in the same spirited / haunted state of disrepair since their dog day games. The house was the playhouse of village urchins, who kept dismantling it brick by brick. It was a refuge for cupid stricken souls, who degraded the ever crumbling-condescending walls with their indelible promises of love, of faith in all adversities. Every brick of its foundation was taken away so many times without its size, its awe ever diminishing.
The house fathered all, it towered above all.. They knew that the house will last for ever; because the house was protected by spirits.
These were the spirits which made Zahir make his house. The house of Zahir kept standing aloof, broken, crumbling, its pillars sagging, rooms giving way to open skies above; it invited people, it scared people.
The broken, muddy rooms had been wetted by so many tears, people felt safe here when they were sad, they were scared to go past the house in nights.
The house was haunted. It listened carefully to dark secrets, of pain, love, of despair, and they vanished. Zahir was a generous man, so was his house. Elders would swear by that.
It was in ruins.
This was the house that Zahir burnt down that fateful night…
Why should a nomad have a house? It was perplexing; sans reason.
It had to be true. The house was made by spirits. They never left any trace of anything that happened the night before…the crumbling walls of Zahir’s house hid all the scars. Its dank floor soaked up all the tears
How could sadness be so enchanting, how could suffering take such a majestic form?
How can pain and suffering of a mother transform into an everlasting fountain of love?
Are bonds of pain stronger than happiness? Or is it that pain is the key to that spring of self, joy, and understanding?
Would you throw away the key once you know? Or would you come back; through sadness, pain, suffering; to give it back to someone? Even though you know that the key will never open the doors again…
No it had to be a miracle, a handiwork of spirits…elders would tell you, squatting in the shade of Zahir’s house, which was set on fire on that fateful night.
In the deserts of Noname Land you might meet Zahir. He would give you some much needed humidity. Some precious stones which you might be tempted to buy, or some other knickknack. When he is in good humor, you could ask him to see your future, and instead, he would tell you about the crumbling house that you had….. … ……………………Ankur (IV)

once upon a time there lived a king

2006-08-18T10:09:00.000Z

once upon a time there lived a king in forests of macedonia.
he was exiled from his kingdom by his wicked brother in the city.
everyone loved the king and so he went on being called a king of hearts.
king of heart he was...no one had seen anyone with a bigger heart.
and his heart was made of pure gold...people could see it through the halo that acompanied the king wherever he went....
whenever you have heart (or chest) full of gold, u have a halo..people knew it and so they knew that king of hearts had a golden heart.
king of heart always feared for his life coz whenever you have golden heart, and the biggest one at that, there is always a chance of someone
trying to take it away...and so he never married.
king of hearts never liked people coz he knew that they wanted his golden heart..
he hated his wicked brother who lived in a an iron palace in the centre of the city.
now the wicked brother hated him too.
he was always on the lookout for oportunities to get rid of king of hearts.
but everytime he tried, he failed because of the golden heart that the king of hearts had.
i take you to his times to get a peek into this mesmerizing drama
presently he is hatching another of his crooked conspiracy..we see him waling around iron clad in his iron palace...there is a halo of darkness around him..due to this we cannot see properly what is behind him

story of a dream merchant

2006-01-25T11:13:00.000Z

rashid was a dream merchant.as they usually are .. spreading happiness..intoxicating people ...he was a travelling merchant but he had a shop too..a shop where he sold dreams. then why did he travell?...coz he loved travelling.. coz there were many who could not reach upto him so he had to reach them...it was purely a marketing thing..
the trade of dreams is prospering ...he has shops all around the world..and yet no one quite see's him.. he is wandering forever...forever in hunt for new teritory.. new land to conquer.. new ideas to learn...the merchant is essentially a nomad..
rashid knows many secrets..you ask him on those cold starry nights and he would repond in his crackled voice..these are secrets that men know but choose to ignore coz they are too busy..secrets of the fountain on eternity that every one has felt but no one cares to believe..
yes rashid knows a seret or two..why else this ordinary, rather ugly looking man be so saught after?..must be something..
that was what fatima thought when she first met rashid. that was when he came to kahani to sell his dreams...fatima still remember the day..the moment when she saw what she had been searching for in every possible moment.. every corner of her existance..
there was something in this young lanky guy with abnormally obtuse head..
He refused her..the bag of deams was empty by the time fatima reached upto him..
the bag had desearted him when he needed it most..to give the dreams to his beloved; dreams that he never had..

shah of blah tells a story

2006-01-20T11:11:00.000Z

shah of blah tells a story
the story went on for seven thousand nights and seven thousand days..through rain and lightening and heat..coz indra was furious and he wanted to teach a lesson to these silly apes who dared to challenge the almight devraja..although when indra himself got absorbed in the epic of epical proportions;coz he too loved stories like everyone else..sun came out and there was this gentle breeze which took away all the pain from hearts of all the creatures around.
that was the first time angad came to know that he had ventured in the land of dead..
it was strange once he realised this..
all through the story he had it in his mind. there was something that was telling him to think a little harder...
but he was intoxicated.. the story was too engrossing to let him realise that he was dead..he was in process..of decay..

stories of good times n bad times

2006-01-04T08:07:00.000Z

and shah of blah told us a story..the story of a dream he saw one night..in which he was king of good times and he was king of bad times too...the dream was abt the shah who became king of him own life..
it was a sad story.. so sad that we cried all night.. for as long as story lasted and beyond that..till we sailed in the ocean of notions..where tears and laughter..tears of sadness, of pleasure;all of them concocted a broth which fed us with the stories of dreams that he saw one night.
And these stories made us cry..cry all night.. coz night is the time when we wind out from cruel world of reality and descend in nascent and efforvascent dreams..the reality that could not be..
it is this sadness which bewitched us and attracted us to shah..coz he told nice stories..
everyone knows that and everyone loves stories.. stories which are unreal..which take us away from this cruel reality; and they make us cry..all the pain that accumulates in our heart throughout the day, all the sadness..the deceit..
shah makes us cry and unburden ourselves.. our hearts which froze during heat of the day.. become moist and alive in those chilly nights....
that is why we love stories...we love to be retold again of what we missed coz we were too sincere..the life which escaped us..coz we were too involved in it..
that is why we loved the story that shah of blah told us that night..about the times when he was king of good times & bad times too....

s angad& her mother & the fruit he didn't eat

2005-09-16T10:03:00.000Z

this is a story of times long gone by... of times when there lived angad with his mother....one day she n her son were standing on the door overlooking the mejestic forests of the nonameland feeling hungry. A
ngad started for the forbidden fruit of forbidden tree...this was a dangerous thing to do thought her mother "stop angad dont do that..come listen 2 a story...a story of adam and eve who dared 2 eat the forbidden fruit of forbidden tree....
and bali threw them out of his empire.They had 2 live n procreate to form this world; dont do that" ..now angad was perplexed" u r tellin me not to satisfy my hunger?
"yes my son "said mother and there srarted a story-rather an epic of epical proportions...this was not a story that ever was told before;that is it was original...Now that is a rare thing .
So much rare that even the sages hadn't heard about it..n when that happens everyone gets interested..coz we all love stories..the gods too..so they cleared there ears, noses ..the story started and everyone listened 2 it intentely.
they were glued to the drama being enacted n beamed through their tv sets...Narad too was listening .or rater watchin the drama live.
narada warned indra" what they're doing is extraordinary..they r showing courage atypical of apes..u must act now.."
Indra was a funny creature or so his subordinates said..he luved 2 drink n party n live out his good deeds.n he was perrinially in terror of ppl who might take away his post..he was always centre of rumors....
what happens next?