The boy who lived...

"There was a death that day, wasn't there?"
She asked. Who had died that night? Did I die alone? Did I suffer alone? It's a funny kind of feeling, the pain. The irony. Sharing the hurt with the one who hurt you. While one lives, the other is merely in exile, for they can't exist together. And yet, as queer as it may sound, they become companions in pain. Noone chose to, the suffering came to them both. As guilt, to one, and as pain to the other.
"Must I share this with you?", she asked. "Anything, if it makes it go away, my dear." and he shed a little tear for her. Was that salt water the medicine to her wound?
My mind is yours, my love. The thoughts, you've taken them with you. It runs through the meadow, while i lay here, hoping, and wanting.

A moment's folly? Or was it an intentional crime?

It left me wounded, my love. And my heart still lies with you. In the wilderness. Where you buried it.

Somebody did die that night.

While my thoughts still wander in the meadows, and with lips that can taste your tears, I yearn. To say goodbye. To the boy, that died.

falling out

On a lonely monday morning, she lay in bed with her eyes open. She can't remember the last time she slept. She could only feel the weight of every breath she took. And the force of every move she had to make to get by. And every time her lips broke into a smile. Just like she did every morning, she questioned. Life, reality, and her existence.
With every breath she felt life entering her lungs. And she felt a blow in her chest every time she exhaled. She was an island. cut off. But somehow, alive.
What is the truth? I am tired, just like you. Must I pretend to love you.
I want to crawl back into your arms. Kindly give me some space my dear. And hold me till I don't have to breath anymore.

It's easy

It's easy to be me
To be me today
It's easy to breathe
To look into my eyes
And smile.

It's me, oh so Free.
It's clear now
No wrongs from where I'm looking
It's getting easy to be me.

It gets better
I promise
Everyday I'm new
I feel free now.

forgetting you

I am moving away
They want me to forget you baby
And they are right aren't they
You haven't left me with much to remember you by baby

You had your reasons
And I'm so caught up to see mine
I pray for me only now honey
I wasted His time on you too much,
too often.

The Monkey on my Shoulder

A lovely looking boy
Sat alone and cried
With his head in his lap
And a nose running wild
The boy wept and sighed

I was walking on by
When he pulled my hair
Tugged at my shirt
Yelled into my ear
I must stop here,
Ordered that monkey on my shoulder.

Well, I gave it a try
I asked the sulking boy
About the tears in his eye
Sit for a while
Said that monkey on my shoulder.

I quietened him down,
Threw my monkey around
Bought him a candy or two
He looked just as blue
And so did that monkey on my shoulder.

He got off my shoulder
And walked away
The disgruntled monkey had nothing to say
And as I sat in sheer dismay
I heard the boy laugh
While he played,
With a monkey on his shoulder.

The Bird who decided to stay

I was there, the whole time
I felt it, the pain piercing my heart
And I felt it every single time
I was there, at that place
Where you gave me your hand
I heard you say my name
But i turned around and left anyway.

You would hold me
But I would pull away
You would push me
But I'd always make me stay
Too afraid to yield
And run toward that open field.

And you knew I had wings
You knew all those things
While I waited to be saved,
And crept away
From the arms of my saviour...

I took flight yesterday
Though he thought I'd stay
But I heard my voice again
As it grew tiresome and vain...

The last journey must begin.

Random ramblings for a worthless someone

Now that it is done
what did you have in mind?
Now that it is over
Tell me, what did it feel like?
Did you cry?
Did I die?
In that one moment of fear
I saw a million lives..
fading away, calling me by different names...
It was a wonderful thing that we had
Was it really even happening?

The silence was broken
I want to let you go
Give you away
Leave my mind, body and soul...
I dont want to hear you again

what use is this anyway...?
You dont even make
A good enough subject for a poem
Babe...

*Laughs out loud*

Seven breaths too late..

With my eyes closed, I held your hand
Till the very end,
Who let go baby?
Was it me or you?
It doesnt matter any more...
Cause I let go of you.

Life has just begun
And I live by no regrets
except honey,
It happened seven breaths too late.

BLACK JASMINE

I was five when I first saw them. They looked dazzling and were set beautifully in my mother’s hair. For some reason she wouldn’t stop smiling every time she wore them. My father bought them for her, whenever we would go for a drive at night. He would stop at the signal and buy her a string of those white flowers, and my mother would tie them in her hair and smile coyly.

I was convinced that that flower had magical powers. Once, I remember, my mother was really upset. My parents had gotten into an argument and father had been rude to her. I was very angry and at the same time very frightened! I would never talk to him! All father did was get her a string of jasmines and all resentment vanished. Not only was mother on seventh heaven, I decided to love my father again!

Gradually I started to identify the fragrance of the jasmine with that of my mother and it’s presence with her smiling face. Very soon, it came to symbolize the bond my parents shared, the love they had for each other, which I believed, was eternal.

And then everything changed. I came to realize that eternal was just a word. I came to realize that change is the only truth and that all beginnings have an end.As I grew, they, grew apart. My mother would sit alone in her room and I would peer out the window waiting for the jasmine string to come and work it’s magic. I was certain my mother would be delighted to see those blossoms. But they never came.

The flowers once gave me hope. Their colour reminded me of the purity of their love, their fragrance, of my mother’s bashful smile.Today, when I stop at the signal and I see those jasmines, I am filled with spite. They appear black like the colour of the kohl filled tears from my mother’s eyes. They reek of betrayal.

Black jasmine. Reminiscence of the pain.

Daddy Please

Daddy, can we go out today
Will you show me the world,
Through your eyes once again?
Daddy, I’ve missed you all along
I can’t bear to be with you
But I couldn’t bear it when you were gone

I don’t know if I loved you
I don’t know what it means
But it hurt me so much that
You never really missed me

But now that you are here
Lets not waste more time
Take me to the circus, to the zoo, on the plane, lets fly
Lets dance our little dances
Lets jump, hop and shine
Lets do this quickly daddy
We don’t have much time.

And finally when i awake
I'll pray you stick around
Long enough to see
My tiny feet, leave the ground.

What to be

To be, no, What to be, that my friend, is the question.

Life is a series of choices. I really don’t know whether there is a right and a wrong. If yes, then who decides what. To go left or to go right. The choices we make reflect our character. Sounds simple.

Here’s what. There is no right and wrong, there is a right and left. If you don’t go the right way, you are simply left, in a lurch. You are left wanting, regretting. We usually know what the right choices are. There is a little voice inside each and every one of us that tells us where to go. It’s just that, as we grow older, the voice gets fainter. I bet as a kid I always knew when I was about to do something terrible. I also think that that voice can be worked on, like that of a singer. A good singer can be trained to sing better, but a teacher, who isn’t quite ready, rather qualified enough, would just make the potential good singers voice crack.

Okay, it’s official. I have lost it!

Phew! Writing can be such a pressurizing job! So demanding! I rally cant think of anything substantial to write about, but I must keep typing!

Freedom at Midnight- A Review

Freedom at Midnight
Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins

“At the stroke of the midnight hour, while the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom…”

However cliché it may be, many a sleepless nights would have been the price I would have had to pay if I didn’t give this introduction to the book that induced a much needed flavor of emotion into this oft-repeated quote by Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of a free India.

We have heard this story several times, read it in the yellow pages of our history books, through the trembling voices of our grandparents, or in the comfort of a reclining seat through the colourful interpretations in the movies of creative ‘geniuses’. At yet, a most striking picture was painted by the authors of this book, unlike anything I have seen before.

Most books that talk about the independence struggle in India focus on the facts, the fighters and the struggle itself. However, the timeline of this book dates to January 1947. Now most of us would think, “well, what’s the point, the exciting bit is over!”, however, the authors (and many significant others like Gandhi, Mountbatten, and the millions living in India who’s fate was being pondered upon!) would beg to differ!
It was intriguing to see that this part of the story, which our history books usually wrap up in a page or two, was going to be told in a whooping 600 pages! I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was possible and what was even more pleasant (and equally surprising) was that it was nothing like my history book! A story was being narrated and with the turning of every page, a new twist would unfold and even though you’ve heard the story before, you can feel the anxiety and tension in the air.

Each and every character is immaculately described and well researched. Kudos to the writers for giving such a detailed insight into the lives of leaders we usually raise to a pedestal but never really know why. Gandhiji appeared far more human and real through the words of Collins and Lapierre than an over hyped God-man that no one really gets in most other literature on him. The Mahatma’s portrayal is one most touching, giving much needed clarity on a man most misunderstood, at least in this day and age. ‘ A soft voiced archangel of non violence’ with a clairvoyance lacking in even the likes of Nehru and Patel and at the same time possessing the subtlest understanding of India, its villages, the Harijans. Not Philips, but Gandhi was a perfect amalgamation of sense and simplicity.
One of the most tense debates this book takes up in the fifth chapter was the question of the Partition of India. What with Gandhi on the one hand not yielding to the demand for partition commanding the British to ‘Leave India to God’ while hordes of Hindus and Muslims ambush each other and with Patel and Nehru on the other hand, pro Partition awaiting to embrace the ravaged nation, ready to mold it into India of their dreams. One could only wonder what would happen next! With the advantage of having history on our side, we could safely say that Gandhi’s instincts were right, a divided India was not the answer to the communal violence pervading the atmosphere. The madness did not end, we still bear witness to it, in the form of many a bomb blasts and innumerable border clashes. No other leader of our struggle had the foresight that Gandhiji possessed, but alas, one can drive to this conclusion only in retrospect for he could give no reason or rationale behind his decision, only instinct, which at the expense of thousands of lives, wasn’t good enough.
At one hand the book brilliantly depicts the heartbreak suffered by the British on losing their crowning glory “India” and the joy of millions of Indians on obtaining the freedom on the other. The book would be more aptly titled, “Lord Mountbatten was innocent and Jinnah was a sick old man!”. It was in a sense Mountbatten’s side of the story, which is not surprising as the author’s interactions with the last Viceroy were a major source of their research. He was supremely glorified, and the atrocities committed by the British found no mention in the pages of the book. Jinnah was portrayed as pure evil, hiding the forbidden truth about his terminal disease of TB, which could have changed the fate of India and the ‘moth-eaten’ Pakistan. In the saga of the birth of the Indian nation, with Mountbatten playing the lead hero under the spiritual guidance of M.K Gandhi, it is certain that according to this book, Jinnah played the role of the villain, par excellence.

After reading the book, a person who has never been to ‘the land of the snake charmers’, would probably never want to do so either, at least a person his right mind wouldn’t. Barbaric, uncivilized, petty-minded, violent mobs, superstitious, eccentric, these are the words one would associate with the common masses of India.

The most incredible chapter of the book is interestingly enough, the twelfth. India is finally free, and for the first time in sixty years, I actually felt the euphoria and jubilation that the end of an era of resistance can bring. When Nehru gave his speech, my heart filled with pride. And when Gandhi’s heart pained at the sight of his vivisected India, I felt that too. So much more significance is now attached with the name of my nation- India. It is much more than the third fastest growing economy, or the world’s second most populated country, with rich heritage and traditions, India signifies struggle till the very end, it shows the world a better way, that of non violence, India signifies a dream and man’s capability to fulfill it.

Lastly, a must read for every Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi for reasons of origin and a much needed revival of nationalism. A must not read for everyone else, for colonialism cannot be justified, and the myth of the ‘uncivilized east’ cannot be reiterated however nice Lord Mountbatten maybe or however many times Britain clandestinely pleads its innocence.

The Power of the Pen

JOURNALISM TODAY IS NOT AIMED AT DEVELOPMENT

THE POWER OF THE PEN – REVISITED
WHAT WAS AND WHAT IT HAS BECOME

Any kind of interaction or communication between few informed persons and the masses through print or electronic media, can be termed as journalism.

This definition has withstood the test of time.

However, the definition of effective journalism has somehow undergone many distortions and corruptions.

In India, the need for newspapers was felt during the freedom struggle as few visionaries saw it as an effective instrument for invoking nationalism and an awakening among the masses. Thus, the very rationale behind journalism was, believe it or not, for educating us on the policies and programs of the government and their consequences.

At the time, the articles embodied the thoughts and opinions of highly educated, conscious and revered men of society, free from all external influences. These commentaries were also aimed at creating a strong opinion among the public. Hence, the editorial gave points and counterpoints on every issue and it was up to the reader to decide his own point of view. Therefore, the media played a dual role, of an informer and of a creator of sound public opinion.

This was then.

Today, the meaning of journalism has got lost and its role is ambiguous. The core element in this entire cycle have been cheated and let down.

Currently, the print media is thriving on advertisements and sponsorships. For instance, Times of India, the highest circulated news daily consists of 32 pages out of which 27% are covered with advertisements, besides having a separate supplement for commercials. As a consequence, news is compromised on due to lack of printing space.

The problem is not only the quantity but also the quality of news that is printed. Does knowing the length of some girl’s skirt, or the name of some celeb’s dog, making me any wiser? That’s the question that every writer, editor and reporter must ask himself, ‘what am I offering to the reader?’ The answer will help him decide whether what he writes is synonymous with the true sprit of journalism or not.

A compromise on content gives the reader half-baked and incomplete information. Many a times, stories of consequence are conveniently forgotten. They are either not mentioned or by some great miracle they are squeezed into one corner, which you and I occasionally notice.

A perfect example of this would be the Jessica Lall case. Was there even a mention of her between 1999 and 2004? I don’t think a child born in the year 2000 would have even heard of this case till now! Yes, now. The effective action being taken now is a faultless paradigm of the power of the media in social awakening. How many more Jessica’s would get justice, if only the press would report news that matters with regular follow ups that would help maintain a steady pressure on the state machinery.

An ideal journalist reports facts as they are, or his own opinions backed by supportive arguments. Ideally Newspapers too, must report events in an unbiased manner, without tampering with information, letting the reader make his own, informed decision. But this concept is far removed from reality today. News can be easily influenced. It is used for money making, cheap publicity or popularity. The elements of accuracy and objectivity have been lost.

The Electronic media has brought along with it a plethora of tribulations, making sensationalism the order of the day. The perfect example would be that of ‘sting operations’ which use invasion of privacy as a means of entertainment. Reporters have even started blackmailing media magnets starring in sting operations, giving an impetus to a new kind of evil.

Why cant the media shift its attention to where it is required? Like Narmada Bachao Andolan or a small village somewhere in Orissa, where voices rise in protest but are forced to die down due to lack of exposure. Will these people ever be noticed without a star coming to their aid?

Some newspapers and channels still give us hope. A Hindi newspaper from Jharkhand, Prabhat Khabar, is an exception to the present day rags that feed on celebrities. Dailies like, Indian Express, Hindu and Asian Age still maintain there high standards but still a lot needs to be done.
The time has come for journalism to redeem itself. Before covering a story, a journalist must ask himself the very purpose of his profession. If it is aimed at educating the readers, if it is an endeavor to create a better tomorrow for the people and the country, only then is the story worth reporting.

Barthesian Analysis

BARTHESIAN ANALYSIS

Barthes talks about the concept of ‘Myth Formation’. The media, and other such systems help in the formation of myths through constructed images. These images are so effective that they become embedded in our culture. His use of the word ‘myth’ strikes me as the most interesting as it deals with a concept that we may perceive as real but in fact it is consciously constructed to make us think that it is a reality, in short, it may be seen as a constructed reality. It makes us ask the question, ‘where are these images coming from? , ‘who decides what to show, how to show it and on what basis to show it.’ He also deals with the concept of meaning making. This process is never ending. Barthes goes beyond the level of the signifier, i.e., the object and the signified which is the immediate meaning that object holds. For instance, a ‘chair’ is the signifier that signifies an object to sit on, Barthes goes beyond the level of the signifier and claims that another level of meaning making now occurs, in this case, a chair may denote power or comfort. If we go deeper, it denotes politics-power play and even deeper, it may denote misuse of that power or the principles surrounding a person in power.
Slippage: When meaning moves due to a signifier calling on multiple signifieds. Also known as "skidding."
To understand these concepts better, lets take the example of a radio advertisement that was being played on the channel Radio Mirchi Frequency 98.3 as a part of the cricket world cup fever. It goes as follows:
“Aapne iss band ko suna hai (Silk route song is played)
Aapne iss band ko bhi suna hai (Colonial Brothers Song is played)
Par kya aapne iss band ko suna hai? (Hoohaa India Aaya India)
Team India wristband
Haathon mein pehno
Toh kaano mein gunjey
The winning formula
Iss world cup no.9 mein 83 ka josh”

Level 1: If we start analyzing the ad at the level of the ‘form’, we will say that, here is an audio ad, talking about cheering team India in the world cup.
Level 2: When we delve deeper, we can’t help but notice the voice of the man narrating the advertisement, since there are no visuals. The narrator has a deep and DETERMINED voice. Thus, even the style of narration has been made such that the listener is filled with a feeling of enthusiasm, excitement and it tells us, though this is a game, it must be taken very very seriously. It takes us back to the euphoria of the 1983 win and makes us want it, a kind of a false consciousness. Since the frequency is 98.3, the radio channel indirectly proclaims itself to be the voice of enthusiasm when it comes to the world cup, thus using the rhetoric to its advantage.
Level 3: The ad puts forth the idea of unity. By using the word ‘team’ even though the listeners are not directly going to be playing makes one feel as important as the players. Thus, the ad also uses the concept of democracy by making us feel responsible for the outcome of the matches. There is no discrimination on any basis. So, every Indian wearing the ‘team India wrist band’ and singing the song about Indian victory is supporting and has the power to determine the outcome of the world cup.
Myth Formation: The most striking part of this advertisement is that, it has been constructed to make the listener think that the power rests with the listener. It highlights this new representation of patriotism that is for the youth, which explains the use of a special song on the world cup. This kind of hype may have been constructed so as to deviate our attention from more significant issues of national importance. The biggest myth is that cheering can actually make India win. By making the listener feel responsible for the Indian teams performance, a myth that the patriotic Indian derives his self respect and national pride from it. So that if India loses, the people too feel defeated and if it wins, the players are treated like God-men.

In a FLASH

Images of a broken home
Finding a cure, but the disease is unknown
Fighting voices in my head
I am and will be, forever alone

Thought I had forgotten
But clearly I haven’t
Like a bee, they sting me
Haunt me, those memories

Who can help me?
Who will rid me of this pain that wont let me go?
I thought I had forgotten,
But clearly I haven’t
And I see it every time I open the door

I had convinced myself that I had moved on
I had forgotten, forgiven, perhaps ignored or withdrawn
What’s the difference really?
The only feeling that remained was nothing
Numbness, those were happy times for me

But now they are back
Those ghosts of the past
They are around me and within me
They hate me or do they love me?
I don’t know, they just wont let go

Can anybody hear me?
That screaming from the depth of my soul
Or is it me and me alone?
Are the voices echoing in my head, as loud and clear as ever?
Or do you just want to wash your hands clean of it?

‘Enough!’, he tells me
Forget, forgive, give up, withdraw again
What’s the difference anyway?
Besides, it’s really easier this way
You fool, you were hurt for so long and you still feel the pain?
You really haven’t learnt the rules of this game

Become numb, it’s the only way you’ll
‘Live’, an overrated word that is,
Not something you’ll truly miss
The pain is a part of you now
It’ll never go away.
However hard you wish, you hope, you pray

So, make friends with it, don’t try to ignore it
And ask yourself everyday,
When did my life end?And when did I let pain take over.