Through the Highs and Lows of an emotionally driven mind

The writer and his poem

channu — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 18:47:15 +0000

The writer was asleep when he heard a distant rhyme.

“….of wonderful stories entwined,
putting to shame the elixir that was wine….”

Someone was praising him in his dreams.

“….you stood tall amidst ordinary men,
your words worth more than ten…”

He was smiling in his sleep. He pictured himself being surrounded by people he knew. They all were praising him.

“ …..Stories so deep that stay in memory,
and make us all look up to you in reverie…”

There was an even rhythmic sense to the verses. It felt as if a song was woven together. The writer loved every letter of it. This was poetry at its purest form.

“Now wait a minute!!”

This was his first poem, the first that his genie had conjured up for him. The genie had chosen ‘A poem of self praise’. The choice of words was typical of his genie in his elements.

This was rather, his first song… and it was being played here, in his dreams.

He tried in vain to memorise every word of it. He could not get up, as the song was still unfinished. He could not record everything, as the words were as if strung together by a delicate string of undercurrent emotion. He was ecstatic that his song came, and helpless that he could never replicate it on paper.

He woke up in tears, wondering when his genie would churn up his next poem. He wanted to sleep again, maybe he would dream of the song again. But he knew his dreams never repeated, and his song wouldn’t come.

He picked up the book nearest to him and opened a random page.

It said

“If I were to choose the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten,

I would choose the ecstasy.

It is better poetry.

But you and all my neighbors agree that I always choose badly.”

Book Review - The Prophet

channu — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 13:10:28 +0000

I have always felt book reviews to be challenging and would love to hear your inputs on the style of review and its contents etc.

So, here we go!

“For as Love shall crown you, shall he crucify you.
When you love, you should not say “God is in my heart”, but rather say “I am in the heart of God.” “

This has been one of the best books that I have read for a really long time. The content is most thought provoking and philosophical.
The book is a strict no for light reading.

I love the way Gibran chose the protagonist for this book, a sea farer, Al-Mustafa, who has been waiting so long in the village for his ship to come and for him to take to the sea.

Since he always knew he would be gone from the village,he views the life in the village from a detached perspective.

When his ship finally arrives, the villages gather around him and addressing him as a prophet asks him to speak of various topics.

What follows are carefully woven lines and deep thoughts articulated very well with apt examples.

Here are some excerpts:
Of marriage : “Let there be spaces in your togetherness. And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.”
Of Children : “You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.”
Of Giving : “It is when you give yourself that you truly give.”

As the prophet speaks about multitudes of topics, he enlightens the villagers and urges them to give themselves wholly to nature. He speaks with the same zest about life, death and the higher being.

As dawn turns to dusk, it is time for the Prophet to leave. He promises to return to this village, enriched and with higher wisdom.

Being a writer myself, this book thought me to look at drawing examples from an altogether new perspective. The old and authentic style of english used is refreshing to read.

The verse that most affected is this

“To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of the ocean by the frailty of its foam.
That which seems most feeble and bewildered in you is the strongest and most determined.
Is it not your breath that has erected and hardened the structure of your bones?
Is it not a dream which none of you remember having dreamt, that builded your city & fashioned all there is in it?”

Final Verdict : If you can stand philosophy, this book is a must read. Furthermore, if you do decide to read this book, take some time and space for taking in the content lest the purpose of reading the book itself gets defeated. Do try to get hold of a copy with illustrations in them because they too touch a chord in the heart if you keenly observe them.

A Warrior’s Life - Book Review

channu — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 05:15:55 +0000

I am fresh after having read the book – “A Warrior’s LIFE” by Fernando Morais.
This is a biography of Paulo Coelho, written on the basis of information got from his diaries and a number of interviews of his friends and enemies.

The following are tweets about the book and explanations of the same.

“This book has taken me four hundred and fifty seven steps closer to my idol.”

The book reveals truth about the life of Paulo and how they served as basis for most of his books. The understanding of what the man went through before he could produce such genius of books has made me relate to the latter much more.

“From today, my idol is Paulo – The author, and not, Paulo-the man.”

I am proud to say I have not even indulged one percent of what all Paulo has done over his life. For someone who writes books about positivism and truths, he has been a wreck for most of his life. Such were his indulgences that you could actually excuse him for smoking pots.

“The book cries out to anyone who will hear, “Please do not follow Paulo’s paths”.

Full of doubts, deceits, multiple failed relationships, atheism, trysts with the devil, learning magic and preaching vampirism, Paulo’s life is one crazy roller coaster.

“True success is never felt until it achieved by doing what you are born to do.”

Even though many of Paulo’s ventures brought him money and fame, he never felt contented as the desire to write constantly consumed him.

Do not Read A Warrior’s Life.

If you thought Paulo was a saint.
If you believe all writers are pure.
If you do not want to read your darkest fears on paper

Read A Warrior’s Life

To know more about Paulo.
To know that success can be achieved at any age.
To know that anything goes!
To know that peace comes when you follow your heart.
To think about your personal legend and look to fulfill the same.

To Christina, with love

channu — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 07:26:51 +0000

The lock clicked open as he entered his apartment. He opened his door and faced the huge new painting he had recently installed on his wall. The splendor of the ship and the cool blue sea behind it seemed to give some calm to his excited nerves. He nudged the door to close behind him and took off his shoes.

He loosened his tie and fell on his couch. As he bounced on the sponges of the couch, he switched on his music set- Beethoven, his favorite. It was the perfect tune, for the perfect occasion. The view of the evening sunset seen from his balcony was, perfect! Everything was perfect.

He had just been promoted. At 25, it was a new record for the youngest project leader. What more, his parents had found him a suitable match. A beautiful and intellectually sound female who was even better than anyone he would have managed to find himself.

What was he saying, “Better than anyone I could have managed to find myself”?

He pondered over the question for a while. All those memories flooded back to him. The wonderful times he had with the girl he called “Kiddo”. The unexpected meeting in the railway station five years ago, when he had decided their acquaintance had ceased for good; the awkward manner in which he had proposed to her and the wonderful feeling of joy when she accepted him a week later; the hours they spent on the phone, getting to know each other;the twinkle in her eyes when she gave him one of those naughty grins; the days he had to wait for her to recoup from her chicken pox; their first official date; the first kiss, the second and the first time they made love; the way she bit his ears; their first major fight; the second major fight; the fight on his birthday; and then, the manner of their breakup. The memories were bittersweet.

And then he remembered Christie. Christina, the girl he had met just for a couple of hours in his life; the girl who made all the difference to him and turned his life around in those couple of hours; the girl whom he never again met; the girl who’s face he couldn’t even recollect.

He met Christina a week or so before his break up. He got to know her as a friend’s friend. She was five years elder to him, married, with a son and seen a fair share of life as compared to him.

It was a day in which the gods were angry with the city and had poured like crazy. The day had been a reflection of his mood- furious, dark and gloomy. He had had the most imperfect birthday the previous day and it was getting no better. Every quarrel he had was hastening the breakup and he could do nothing to help it. He needed a break. He had to do something to break the monotony of his life. But it was raining cats and dogs and he couldn’t step out of the house.

Thankfully for him, his friend called him out for a drive. He latched on to the idea and so found himself in the car with his friend, heading out to some place he had no clue about. This was when Christie joined them. Through the coffee, she had spoken to him about a lot of pursuits in life other than love. She had brought out the concept of living ones life for his family. She had spoken about how the search for peace could be fulfilled by the simple act of chasing ones passion. She had spoken about positivism, objectivity and a lot more of complex concepts in the simplest of terms.

“Look for happiness through the eyes of those who you love. Look for it in those who realize how much of a difference you made in their life. Treat everyone with the same amount of care that you would show when you see sadness in “your kiddo”. Set your heart free and you will find it influence thousands of hearts around you. Maybe she will come back, but if she doesn’t just make sure you don’t grow old with the feeling that your life so far had been without a purpose.”

These words, he had repeated every morning since the first time he had heard them from Christie………………… That was five years ago.

He took a pen and wrote,

“To Christina, with love………

Today, I can say I have lived my life as best as possible. I repent not for any mistake I had done or for the pain I had put my heart through. For I have grown successful in my career and in my social life. No one can be loved by everyone, but I can surely say that I am loved by most people who know me.

I know not where you stay. I know not how you are doing. I know not whether you remember me. But if you do, I say, “Thank You for turning my life around.”

And if you don’t, I say, “Thank You anyways”.”

Life, Peace & Sanity.

channu — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:39:58 +0000

I like cats! They say when a cat closes its eyes, it imagines that night has fallen upon the world.

I was not born in the best of families. My father was a businessman who lived a cockroach life. He came drunk in the night and often left the house before I woke up. There were times I recollect where we met once every fortnight or even less. My mother took to ‘social welfare’, the term she used to justify her absence from home and hanging out with similar ,rather sad ladies who claim to look after others while their own lives are in tatters. This situation often left me all alone in a four roomed house.

I had never been the brightest kid in my school. As a matter of fact, I hardly managed to clear half my subjects. Math and science were my worst enemies and English was my best friend. Speaking of friend, I was shy by nature and I hardly made any. With my curly hair and braced teeth, I was often made fun of as the bunny of the class. I truly was a dork who kept to himself and stayed away from the normal world.

So at an early age, I took to books. I started off with Tinkle, graduated to Tintin and Archies and Asterix. Soon I indulged myself with Agatha Cristie and Sydney Sheldon. I plunged into reading fantasy once fiction became predictable. I sometimes used to recreate some plots and enact them inside my room.

My life changed when the time I reached my high school. By then, I had lost my interest in fictions and fantasies and turned to personality development. I needed a girlfriend too. As a matter of fact, I needed friends, full stop! So I plunged myself into books on how to improve my life. I learnt how to be effective. I learnt when to say no and how to say no. I learnt many ways to achieve success.

One particular book(ask me later for its title) said that we have to recreate the day’s events before going to bed in the way we would have wanted it to have happened. I liked this method of living life as it gave me a chance to erase my memories of disappointment and look forward to recreating my life the way I wanted it to be.

I became a better person. I got rid of my glasses and switched over to lenses. I visited the salon and had a neat haircut. I even carried out a wardrobe change. I practiced making speeches every morning before the mirror and within a month I was transformed.

Every time I got snubbed by a girl or every time I made a fool of myself I corrected my mistake over the evening and would come back better the next day. Eventually, Mary Jane became my girlfriend.

Boy was she a beauty. She always came in her lolly pop red dress. Her pink hat with a feather on top complimented her dress perfectly. She wore white stilettos and white stocking. She was smoking hot. I never got tired of seeing her that way. We had the perfect time together. She would always let me hold her hand and guide her through Central Park. No matter how many times I explained the history of New York, she would listen to me patiently.

Aye, she would ask the right questions to keep the conversation going. She had an awesome sense of humor and would be the first tease me when I acted silly. She was so full of life, and my love for her never hit the dip.

Soon Mary Jane introduced me to my Danny. Danny was a junior director by profession. He was looking to create his own movie and the time we met was indeed God given. For, in me, he found the perfect ally and also a source of funds for making his idea a reality. Together we produced a number of films which were later to be box office hits.

We created films of all genres. Be it romance, action or Horror, we gave awesome movies. I was the secret behind Danny’s success. I gave him amazing stories. I tweaked the script to achieve the cutest dialogues when it came to romantic films. We were a success.

Danny married Gloria, and I married Mary Jane. Along with Jack and Jill, our Norwich Terriers, we are family now, living under the same roof. Mary Jane and I bought us a Benetton and Danny got Gloria a Bentley. We have everything in the world. We are at peace with life.Thank you God, for showing me how to live life, like the cat.

Jimmy Welsh

PS: Jimmy Welsh is an inhabitant of the Wonderland Association in NY, an asylum for the insane. Often people hear him demand for checks to be sent out to a certain Daniel Crowe. He has been released five times only to be brought back for claiming to be the husband of anyone who wears red tops and white stilettos. It is ironical that Jimmy Welsh scored the most in the latest NY psychometric test to identify the man who is the most at peace with life.

A page from Tommy’s diary

channu — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 15:37:22 +0000

I guess the problem I face began somewhere during the sixteenth century.

It was the time when the joy and euphoria of ‘The Renaissance’ had begun to fade and population of humans began to grow in crazy proportions.

The time of the artists had come to an end. People were bored of praising them and making them celebrities. The masses desperately needed to earn their bread. The concept of business and trade evolved. Mass production became the frenzy. Mediocrity became celebrated.

Words like individuality, genius, perfection, skill gave way to adaptability, flexibility,productivity and team work. Anyone with basic education was heralded as ‘potential’ for generating money. The few talented souls who showed anomalies were regarded with suspicion and termed as outcasts.

‘Crazy’, ‘mad’, ‘psycho’ and ‘relic’ titles were assigned to condemn those people and curb such behavior. The artist clan began to dwindle in size.

Normal people were given heavy compensations. This in turn gave them access to live the ‘high’ life.

Who cared about emotional satisfaction when they could flaunt their latest gadgets around? Who cared about perfection when the acceptable standards were at an all time low?

No one complained if they had no clue of what they were doing. If they ever did, they found solace in company and hid behind the mask of ‘teamwork’.

The psychos never stayed long. Either they turned normal, or they perished trying ventures that would have been lauded, fostered and funded, had they been done during the Renaissance.

But among them all, a few took on the world. They embraced failures. They accepted poverty. They renounced the access to technology that made them lazy. They strove hard in what they believed. They fought abuse. Their families shook their heads on seeing them. “They are failures, as they don’t earn as much as others. They are irresponsible, as they chose a different path. They are immature to move away from a golden treasure. They will learn someday, that they were wrong.”

They walked on, oblivious to all their criticism. They found peace in life through doing what they believed in. They found integrity, for they had control over their work. They were merry, satisfied and contended. They were the remnants of the artist clan. Their art was their heart and soul and very purpose of existence.

Am I an artist too?

‘Fall’ in Love

channu — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 15:37:35 +0000

“Hey, its me.”

Obviously, he knew who the voice belonged to.

It had been three years since he broke up with her. Even though he claimed the break up was out of mutual consent, deep within he knew it was ugly. They had argued a lot and exchanged murderous looks before calling the relationship off. And he had never heard from her again.

Until now!

“I just called up to say that I am leaving this weekend to the States for doing my masters. “ Well, at least her life had gone as per the plan. She was going to do her studying and prove to her dad that she deserved freedom, rather than the pampering and unlimited funding he gave her.

It is nice she is going. Now he can breathe easy and not worry about the daunting prospect of bumping into her someday at some random mall. Men don’t cry, but if he did see her again, who knows, he could go against the norm.

“I leave in ten days. I just thought we could meet once over the weekend if that’s ok with you.”

How sly! Now she had passed the baton on to him and been the nice girl. As always, denial, if it did happen, had to be initiated by him.

“Hmm. Ok. Text me the place and time.” He said before hanging up.

He called his girl and told her he was meeting the other girl. If she had any concern, she did not voice it. He felt grateful his love had evolved from a strong base of six years of friendship. He had very little to explain, she knew the story, to every (gruesome) detail.

………………………………………………………………………………………

“Well, it is so nice to see you again. You seem to have put on some muscle, your scars on the face because of those rashes have healed and you look great.” Some scars are external and they heal. Some internal cuts don’t. Why tell her all that now? She would be gone far off soon. He smiled in acknowledgement.

“You know, sometimes I get the feeling that I know you totally. And then in other times, you seem as distant as a stranger to me. Just as it baffles me, it attracts me to you.” He seemed to sense the direction in which the conversation was going. What he did not understand was why she chose now of all times for this conversation to happen.

“I was just thinking, for the past couple of months, that maybe we should get back together. I mean, it is true you loved me. It is true both of us were happy till things became messy. So if things get messy, we can talk about it and come to a common ground. And make things work. Plus we will be so far away the distance will help us chill down in case our egos clash.”

“You had always cared for me. If there ever was one person who wanted me to be happy, it was you. We are meant to be together. Why else would we be on and off each other for over six years now? Come back home with me, let me introduce you to them, as my guy, as the one I want to be married to. As the one who will take good care of me and them. You can take over dad’s business even.”

…………………………………………………………………………………

The life in his eyes had not changed. Numerous were the questions they asked; penetrating, they were; and relentless were they when they searched your soul for the ulterior motives.

…………………………………………………………………………………

He looked deep into her, smiled as if he knew what her intent was behind the proposal.

The girl wanted someone to take care of her parent. She wanted someone dependable for taking over her dad’s business. She wanted someone to live his life to celebrate her existence. The truth that she liked him a lot was just a bonus considering the other benefits he would bring her. She felt exposed, a tad relieved when he got up and left.

………………………………………………………………………………………

She called up his girl and said, “He loves you. He will give his life up for you if you ask for it. His ego has not gone down one bit; use it when you want to get rid of him. Love you babes, have fun with him!”

Dont play with love - It hurts!

PS: The author wishes no conclusions or parallelisms drawn from this post.

All three characters in this post are property of my imagination. Any reference to anyone you and I know might be a result of “Too much gossiping!”

Writers Block

channu — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 15:38:11 +0000

Sometimes in life, you just go blank.

You want to do the one thing that gives your life some meaning. Yes, you want to write. You take your seat before the computer. The coffee mug is filled to the brim, its steaming hot. The taste would last the full hour of your typing. You even keep your favorite biscuits on the tray to your left. You are all set. You open your editor.

And you blink at the monitor. And the bloody thing won’t even blink at you.

You sit and you think. But you ain’t thinking. You are simply looking at space.

Your story won’t come. Your poem won’t take shape. Your article will flop. You are going to be one big loser. You are already a loser. You are a crazy loner sitting in front of your stupid monitor at this death of night and staring into it.

You have better things to do. But you cannot get up. You are depressed. You are irritated. You want to impress people with this write up. But you cannot even start. Boo hoo all you want, the story ain’t coming.

Go pick all the hair in your head out if you want, baldies are considered cute in this planet, why not go join them? Go out, try stalking someone of the opposite sex or your sex, whichever damn way you prefer. What in the world are you doing looking at this silly screen which won’t bloody talk to you?

And you were thinking you would make a career out of writing? You are such a moron. Come, write me one story, one poem…. Hell, write me one paragraph dammit. What a waste!What a shame! You don’t belong to this category of elite people.

Aah, now. What do I see, a tear in your eye? Or is it the hit your self-belief is taking? Or is it that you know what I say is true? Or is it that your inability is slapping you left and right and all you can do is stare at the monitor in astonishment.

Your story wont come tonight.

Now , don’t blame your deamon for it. You never acknowledged its presence when it churned out all those wonderful stories that you took credit for. How could you so blatantly refuse to acknowledge its presence and so shamelessly take all the laudation that came your way? Now don’t blame on the genius in you for ditching you. Don’t blame your genius when the world spits at your works.

Open criticism atleast can be coped up with. Open abuse can be taken in. But what are you going to give as a reply to all those who still say they believe in you? So easily they say you will come out of this shadow and write something out of the world. How are you going to face them? Will you ever get your deamon back?

You are a big nobody. Your writing days are over. You cant influence people anymore. You are going to have a miserable life- one in which you settle for second string stuff. You are going to perish a failure. Stop staring at the monitor you miserable piece of crap!

Tommy the Librarian

channu — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 15:38:57 +0000

Tom was a very exuberant chap when he joined the team managing the library. He had learnt his English from the academy and felt his knowledge was adequate enough to cope with the management efforts. He hoped that his new team would help him develop into one of the best when it came to the working of the library.

A week later….. “Tom, we have five floors of books in this library. Each floor stands for a different purpose. What the purpose is, you need not know as of now (Truth is that we ourselves don’t know). So anyways, do not ask what they are for.”

Two weeks later …… “Tom, today is a big day for you. You are gonna make your first correction. It’s a simple one, all you need to do is go up the fourth floor, take up Shakespeare and do the correction in his English.”

A month later … “Tom, we have declared to the customers that we have sufficiently trained you. Now you will have 15 corrections to make in the next month. You will have about 5 time tracking devices which will monitor how you are spending your time. If anything, you can ask your teammates for help.”

Two months later… “Tom, did you finish the changes in the second floor? Oh, and by the way, in the fifth floor also there are changes to be done. Do both at the same time ok? By the way, it looks like the seniors are always working with you. Look to decrease your dependency on seniors.”

Three months later… “Tom, until now we had trained you how to make corrections in the books. From today, you will be writing new paragraphs into Shakespeare’s verses. Keep in mind that the overall time to read the book must not increase because of the extra verses you write.”

Four months later… “Tom, the guy who arranges the books will be on long leave, you would have to stack them up every week. In addition, you will have to maintain notes of what books you stacked and when. This will be in addition to your usual work. ”

Five months later… “Tom, our library has decided to take up books in Urdu too. So I would want you to take care of the new books coming in. Equip yourself with knowledge in Urdu. You have four days time.”

Six months later… “Tom, we have decided that Urdu is too remote for us. Hence we are going to use the latest European books. Learn French and German soon, I am sure they are easier than Urdu. So I will get expect you to be writing books within, say, five days?”

Seven months later… “Tom, am surprised you want to move to a different library. We have been spending so much of time training you and bringing you on par with your seniors. Its such a blow that you are asking for a change now.”

A week later … “Tom, our customers feel three people can manage 5 floors of books. So its been a pleasure having you here with us. You can leave to the next library down the road.”

******** Little Tommy could be anybody. Coincidence to real persons you might know is but a play of your perception. Feel free to share ‘your’ Tommy’s story too.

The secret revealed

channu — Wed, 19 May 2010 16:37:28 +0000

Our tale for the day is centered on the inhabitant of a pretty little cottage in the hill side of Scotland. The cottage has a chocolate brown roof and a deep red chimney. Through the window, one can see the cute cuddly teddy with its big black eyes lying by the side of the bright pink pillow. Surprise surprise, one can also find the multi colored lap-top lying on the bed. A rich aroma of tea leaves fills the cottage welcoming the weary stranger or the inquisitive blue eyed Hansels & Gretels of the nearby town.

The cottage belongs to a certain fine-young highland lass who prides in calling herself a Princess. Aye, she did have a charm that only a Princess, nay, a queen could possess. For, none were spared from the enchanting, mystical powers of her words. She was the undisputed queen of poetry and the Princess to all who knew her.

Elsewhere, the people of the village wonder how such an unassuming girl could produce such magical poems. So they decide to spend a spy to find out and reveal the Princess’ secret. And guess who they select, the master of camouflage, the king of survival, the jungle boy, your very own – Mowgli. His discoveries are startling indeed.

It is midday when the door of the cottage opens and the Princess walks out oblivious to Mowgli’s presence. She is dressed in a dark purple sweater top and a deep indigo skirt. A hood covers her head from the chill outside. She has an empty bag by her side into which she would place the tea leaves she would collect in a while.

Mowgli watches the Princess picking tea leaves methodically one by one and putting them into her bag. Suddenly, without notice, the Princess stops working. Her body becomes tense, as if she is concentrating all her efforts on listening to something from far away. Her head darts here and there like a deer looking out for presence of the lion in the surroundings. Yes, she has felt the vibration coming from the horizon, a train of words flying towards her at considerable speed. Then the Princess drops her bag and makes a run towards the cottage.

Sometimes she reaches her laptop on time and records every word as they flow through her. What comes out is an excellent shape poetry that wins her the best post of Valentine’s Day carnival.

Sometimes she reaches too late and the words are beyond her reach. No matter how hard she tries, she can never get the seamless rhythm of the original piece. But she is not disappointed; she drops her laptop to the side and goes back to picking tea leaves.

The most amazing poetries are the ones that come out when the Princess reaches the laptop at just the right moment that the last line passes through her. With great effort, she clings on to the words and drags them back into the laptop. What comes out is an amazing poem, sometimes symmetric, and sometimes reversed!

Mowgli returns to the village, awe struck at what he has seen, and tells the villagers that the Princess’ secrets are her own and none shall have them. He goes home convincing himself that he has kept a secret ritual what it was meant to be – sacred!
He still is bemused why the Princess never took her laptop to the tea estate with her.

A small dedication from the jungle boy to the Princess of Ch1world on her birthday – hope you accept it and give me a good meal from your royal banquets.

PS: I saw a meme in Ellen’s blog – To write a story in present tense. And here it is!