Drifting to the unknown to discover the little known.

Before we judge others or claim any absolute truth, let's consider that..

We can see less than 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum and hear less than 1% of the acoustic spectrum. As you are read this, we are traveling at 220 kilometers per second across the galaxy. 90% of the cells in our body carry their own microbial DNA and are not "you". The atoms in your body are 99.999999999% empty space and none of them are the ones we were born with, but they all originated in the belly of a star. Human beings have 46 chromosomes, 2 less than the common potato. The existence of the rainbow depends on the conical photo-receptors, in our eyes; to animals without cones, the rainbow does not exist. So we don't just look at a rainbow, we create it. This is pretty amazing, especially considering that all the beautiful colors we see represent less than 1% of the electromagnetic spectrum. 

And meanwhile we're busy cribbing about how awful our lives are or how things don't go the way we want it to be. No matter how wealthy / healthy / satisfied (the probability of which is paper thin) one considers himself to be, let me tell you, he/she is just so WRONG. Until and unless one doesn't pack the bags to travel to distant lands, one'll never know the abundance life has to offer or how grateful one must be for all that he is offered with till date. And.. it was my turn for some soul searching. 

I have always been intrigued by the monsoons and find it ideal for traveling. Off I was to a random place which upon reaching was a beauty left unadulterated and blissful in contrary to most of the tourist attractions today. There I was, in a land I knew nothing about.

A little sparrow was the first to welcome me to that beautiful land. She was graceful and showing off the shades on her feathers which seemed to gleam with the evening sunset. She gazed at me mysteriously as if those flickering eyes were to say, 'This land belongs to me, for my habitat is still safe and people still value my dear friend, Mr.Tree". I smiled at her assuringly that I was a visitor to look upon her, her land and learn all that I could. She seemed unconvinced and decided to take off and spend her precious time exploring the clear blue sky. 

Next was my encounter with the ever-busy, Miss River. She was tall and an epitome of perfection. If she had turned back and smiled, she would resemble the moon. She seemed to continuously mutter something on her way down the track. She was restless and too preoccupied to even notice me, leaving me feel almost invisible. I had to break her activity. She looked towards me at once and gave a look so agitated as if I was a grubby virus that had entered a healthy body. I wonder if the Sparrow had dropped in a word or two about me to the River. Yet again, I smiled reassuringly and she gave a quick grin and rendered back to her own chore.


And then, after all the dejection that I had received, I came across a little girl. Her eyes were a sparkling blue like a distant star on a late winter's moon. She smiled at me. A smile of acceptance. And all of a sudden, the sparrow and the river and handful of other pretty lovers emerged and smiled. As though it were a  birthday surprise, just for me. We spoke and giggled and danced and smiled. The day was a sweet nothing.. A nothing to be treasured.


And thus began, my journey towards everything that was, is and will ever be.
Bon voyage, my heart said. And though the voyage wasn't going to be often, whenever I did travel, it felt like the best day ever. Each day felt like the best day. And, it only got better and better.

Beyond, 'Sylvia Plath: The depressed poetress'. An epitome of passion and charisma.

I have always tried to figure out who was my ideal. An idol I always looked up to and tried to extract the gregarious skills that I wanted to master. What surprised me was I had an ideal, right from the age of 10, only to realize it to this day. At the age of 10, I came across her poem, "The Mirror" which had a plethora of metaphors relating to her personal life, which I figured out later. This intimidated me to learn more and more about her. Not just her works but every minute detail regarding this amazing woman. Maybe, it's a scorpio thing. Not all that is said can be true, not what others see is real. There is something very beautiful deep down and sadly, not everyone gets to see it. It's all or nothing. And I get to see that in Sylvia Plath.

"It's the tally of my lusts and my little ideas", wrote 17-year old Sylvia Plath of the journals in which she confessed of her judgement, her struggle with what life had to offer right from a very tender age, her high ambitions and her little endeavors.

Most critics and authors who have published and studied her journals portray Sylvia as someone who was mentally disturbed with the tragedies of life, associated with depression and suicidal records and the stunning urge to embrace her desires. Most of her works are intense and of personal experiences.
But to me, she's a whole different person. She was the extreme, always. Again, I relate to her writings and metaphors with such ease and indication that I never cease to be baffled by her personality.

It's not the depression, the deceitfulness of her husband, or unfulfilled desires as is mistook by most from her journals. It's her chimerical character that must be spoken about. Just like her metaphors, she was a soul ricocheting between laughter and tears.

In her own words, " Life has been some combination of fairy tale coincidence  and joie di vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning". 

One huge sentence and a millions emotions in the most solemn form. I seem to rightly relate to every word she wrote even though she lived at a different time. And no, I didn't have a disturbed childhood like she did or a perennial depression (what most associate her writing with) but a virile ardor to know more about her works for every word seems to amaze me, as if she could read my mind and pen down the thoughts in the most magnificent language.

Everybody does have their own little battle but she dared to write about her own, to bring it out in a form of such brilliance and figurative skill like no other. A remarkable women with such narrative quality as that of a myth of a white goddess with violent emotion and dynamic illustration that sends a chill down the spine every time she stresses on omnipotent verses.

To the left is a video of Sylvia Plath's "Daddy"
read by herself. One of her works that I adore
the most. Such vocal brilliance.

She saw her world in the flame of the ultimate substance and depth. In her poetry she had the exuberant freedom to relish and had access to depths formerly reserved to the primitive ecstatic priests and holy-men.
She didn't evict her true thoughts nor did she exaggerate the reality put presented the truth, in its purest form.







One of her lines, " Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being just a fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those". explains just the same.

In more than one instant, I find myself agreeing to her in ways unimaginable. I find myself in her situations. But if at all most writers could understand her true worth and set her at a standard she deserves to be at. Perhaps, that would happen soon. I would make that attempt, very soon.
Pondering why? Because, 'I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am. I am. I am".

Perhaps you lived a little longer, Sylvia. Perhaps you offered more to the world. Perhaps I wouldn't have been this awestruck by you then. This mystery is good. It keeps the fire burning. THANK YOU.

Child of Dialogue: The narrowing cascade of books.

Child of Dialogue: The narrowing cascade of books.: Books are in for a hard time. Good books face the threat of extinction, or maybe a few are already endangered. The time before they turn ob...

The narrowing cascade of books.

Books are in for a hard time. Good books face the threat of extinction, or maybe a few are already endangered. The time before they turn obsolete and perish altogether is very less. Seems there are new rules and standards set out. And those who are not aware of them, or stubbornly chose to stay unaware, will be in trouble. It's raining change.

I was having a deep discussion with fellow books at the Central Library in Bangalore last Sunday. These are long established, cliched, prosaic and ancient books. Books that had earned credibility for exhibiting fearless writing and built diligent reputation for fine book-man-ship. Books that were respected and looked upon for ages together.

All of a sudden, these same books have fallen prey to modernity (in what-so-ever-context it may be). They faded off to sleep while I was still talking to them. They seemed in serious urge to switch from their signature style to something more profound (Apparently, in their context). They said they had become cheaper, devalued version of themselves. But isn't this a contradiction? This is nothing profound. Why had they degraded their own positions? The answer they gave me was this- 'A Harsh reality check, my friend'.

What had made them alter from being so premier of such brilliance, admired by all, to delete-able, erasable and disposable reading instruments, downloaded at the app store or down the internet and labeled 'free download'?

They told me in utter seriousness and frankness that in order to survive in the invisible ignorance fallacy, they had to adapt by leaps and bounds. I questioned the oldest book if this change was any good and out came a wise reply, 'The stench of failure should not depress you. Just like the laws of nature, we need to modify ourselves, even though it was the man kind to be blamed rather than nature.'

However, the youngest of all seemed more excited about the changeover than the resentment for losing the original identity. He told me, 'Nobody keeps track of how many books are stacked up the book shelf now. Nobody is horrified when the pages get damaged or worn out with time for they have a quick remedy. They could look up the internet and find the same content, simplified, abridged, in different fonts and sizes or download it as when they require it and migrate it to the trash or recycle bin when their work was done.'

Maybe the times had changed. Maybe the good books were narrowing down, day by day, noticed by a few and unnoticed by many. Maybe this change isn't for the good. Maybe like all other endangered flora and fauna, they need to be conserved.

Music, my time machine.

Music to me is like the rains. It washes away the dust of everyday life.
There is music in the dripping of rain drops.There is music in the tapping of fingers. There is music in that smile. There is music in every wind that strikes you. Music is the poetry of air.
An outstanding form of expression for when everything is said and done, music prevails.

Like the rest of the world needs air, water and food to survive, so do we need MUSIC. Music that cuts across boundaries and languages. The striking notes of a piano when so beautifully played transform the soul that is wry to a whole new place of paradise-ish experience.

 Just like the moonlight lights up a gloomy, cold and dry December night, the music lights up my soul. Millions have always wondered to have a time machine at least for a milli second. And guess what? The Time Machine exists. Just in another form. A form named 'MUSIC'.

 Does the form really matter? For instance, we remember the definition of Energy from our schooling, as something that cannot be created or destroyed, just transformed from one form to another. Oh dear, I  beg your pardon. I got carried away and digressed, as usual. The very name intrigued me. Maybe the bliss of the time machine is such. Maybe it could not be destroyed. And here it presents itself in the form of Music.

Music fits as a perfect metaphor, whatsoever be it. Mystery, confirmation and a million emotions hidden that makes all the hassle a worthwhile experience. Extremely true and incredibly close is what music to me is.
It soothes my soul when it needs a companion, it intensifies my happiness, it glorifies my thinking and most importantly, it brings out the best in me.

I reckon, wind, rain, music and the flora are the real things. Maybe we're all surreal. And the beauty of these things is keeping us alive. They seem to sink in so magically. Just effortlessly, as if that is where they belong, together forever. The wind, the rain, the trees, the beautiful blossoms and the music. This is it. Nothing more. Maybe it's us who overtook their territory and yet needing them all the time.

When you have been involved with something for most of your life, you come to recognize this: The more you learn about it, the urge to go deep into the roots of the very thing increases multifolds. And to those singers, my life saviors, I owe you big time. The vocal quality of the nations greatest singers, the tonal richness, no permutation and combination of 26 letters could ever express the gratitude I have for such talent.

Love thy music. Love thy divinity. Love thy instrumentals. Love thy musicians. Love thy raagam. Love thy classics. Love thy life.

Bangalore Days

So, all of our Bangalore freaks and Malayalam movie lovers would smile undoubtedly at 'Bangalore Days'. And those of you who still haven't watched this beautiful movie, please spend your precious time on this amazingly scripted story. Note- Not advertising but a genuine suggestion.

Bangalore. A city where dreams are fulfilled and heights achieved.
Being a Bangalorean is no less than being honored with an award of national significance. Lashing rains, amazing weather and warm people all over.

A city wherein you can find both extremes of culture and tradition as well as modernity. A city with mesmerizing filter coffee and Cafe Coffee Day. A city with architectural wonders to temples and parks.
A city where you can find people with an expertise in no less than 5 languages. A city where you feel blessed.

And most importantly, a city where you make friends for a lifetime, immaterial of language, culture or nativity.
Bangalore unites across borders.

 

Bangalore surely does light up everyone's state of mind. And so did mine. Amidst the quenching thirst to figure things out at crucial times in life, a day off is all you need. Not necessarily a trip to a resort or a spa.

Just generally Bangalore. 
Just exploring the streets of Bangalore, smiling at people you meet in the way(Yes, I seriously do it and guess what? People reciprocate with big smiles. And for once, faith in humanity is restored). Finding new additions and deletions to the stores and shopping centres.

The sunset at the lakes is so soulful and heartening that it leaves you awestruck. The roads sidelined by trees which is no less than any fairytale movie.(Again, a few places are dry though as a prey to industrialization but nevertheless, this is Garden City).

Bangalore without traffic is like a pen without ink. The irony here is, you can always find traffic in some corner. And at times, even traffic in Bangalore seems enjoyable. A break. You stop and look around, look at how worn out your fingers are or how wonderful the kids in the next car are, the memories, a smile from a distant stranger, a quick talk about the cricket match, politics and melo-drama. And the restless to watch the signal lights to turn Green, well, as a matter of fact, even the appearance of yellow light is joyous.

BANGALORE, BANGALORE, BANGALORE.
Namma Bangalore. :)