why do I write ?

Why do I write ,I know not why,
I'll try to explain in the words that flow.
I write of thoughts that come to me,
I picture them in words as I see them be.
I ask myself ,what do I benefit from thee,
is it just a waste ;that I commit to thee.

I write to hold my life in words,
to inscribe them as they slip through the sands of time.
I write of emotions as I feel them be,
I write of passions which tingled me in,
I write of experiences that I grew with,
I write of feelings that are dear to me.
Hope one day when future doth come,
their smell reminds of what I had done.

I will continue to write till epiphany does come,
or there isn't much that I can share.
I am neither a poet nor a writer ;
all I write is nothing but me.
Hope you enjoyed the time reading me.
If you have something to say do write to me.

Memories

What shall I call that fleeting moment,
that feeble instance I do remember,
Is that a figment of my imagination or a feeble mark on past recollections.

Memories we call them ,they come in peace.
Bitter sweet symphonies of the time gone by.
They lay deep as brushstrokes by an impressionist,
Circling my attic like a fleet of pigeons,
an armada that sails through the trysts of time .

They lie clustered in those corridors of remembrance,
I pluck each one and smell there languid air,
they make me laugh and cry ;
Some shall not fade though some muffle past by.
Clutching onto them I am reminded of times,of love,sadness,fear,mirth and laughter.
Some make me relish the time gone by,
Some talk to me in the tone I love.
Showing glimpses of those I treasure,
the one's far,close and those departed souls.

They lay there; all inked in the book of time,
turn the page and the moment is alive,
I try to hold on to them and they fly past by .

I ask a few not to bother me again,
they say ;it was me that gave them space to stay
and here I see something happening again ..
Call it déjà-vu is what they say ...

Trainspotting!

..A walk to the nearest railway station ;through a closely packed alley ,with parallel lanes of unsymmetrical shops on whose footsteps countless mini hawkers populate themselves.Past the rusty over bridge I hear thousands of feet trampling over concrete floors,steps ;with a mingling cacophony of human voices and further ahead that metallic commotion of trains .A feeling of rush simmers through me ;when is my train arriving ,platform no ....Trainspotting !

I first came through the word while hearing the title of Danny Boyle's movie based on Irvine Welsh cult classic novel "trainspotting",a tumultuous ride of a druggist from embracing heroin to at the end leaving it and choosing life .And pardon me from mentioning this culminating quote of the movie (vaguely out of context of what I am writing about ) spoken when the protagonist finally cleans up

"So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change, I'm going to change. This is the last of this sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you: the job, the family, the big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die. "

So that's it for the movie I look up into the dictionary and here it comes

n. hobby of collecting and noting down railroad locomotive numbers; looking for a vein to inject drugs into (Slang)

Hmm so the former refers to the movie and the latter is easily comprehendible.So that's it for lexical analysis ,I move up the charred four steps to the ticket counter .A long queue of people flock about the ticket counter ;appearing like a show of geometric symmetry between all this humanly congestion.

The station entrance speaks of multilingual blue boards and twinkling diodes displaying train numbers,platform no etc.Once inside the foray ;a rusty but crowded overbridge laden with street hawkers flies over you .Going down the stairs ,over the footsteps beaten by millions ;and sheltered by a canopy of rippled tin sheets supported by triangular latches of wood.Ahead the platform is scattered with old brazen cement benches ;always laying motionless ;relaxing millions of people who wait for there inevitable train arrival.A peculiar resonates through dictating the arrival and departure of trains,with a "ting tong" sound as an intermission between each consequent messages.Chirping ticket checkers check commuters for a piece of paper to guarantee legitimate travel.A saintly black and white clock stands there like a diligent cop ;like it is never going to budge ;and looks over to the millions who pass beneath it with sturdy rigidity. The white subway breathes through the stations underbelly,with that creepy underground feeling .Its white concrete walls pale with dust and red supari spit,pirated cd hawkers queue on sideways and dim tube lights fill the atmosphere with that hospital ward creepiness.An intermittent train passes through and shakes the underground with its rumbling metallic vibrations.

Trains pass and stop ,the squeaking sound of the brakes resonate clamorously over parallel tracks ,and those red devils emancipate huge crowds and drizzle them through with equal commotions as they came.Trains come laden with thousand of commuters packed to the brim,some hanging on to rods and poles ;in a meaningless void with the strong feeling of; rushing to there destination though inevitably its true that they all will come and reach at the same time. Lives betwixt tracks and compartments,people laden with trash rags collect plastic bottles,junk on the tracks.roadside vendors selling junk food,soda,books ,magazines and any infinitude of possible handy item.Varied semi clad,worn out children and beggars plead with there disjointed limbs for ounces of money.

A look towards any of the platform reveals a marked contrast to all this activity .People lie static on the floor ,cuddling naked children and living life on these tracks .Life is in a standstill here for them; and there fiefdom is limited to the sphere of the station .They sleep by the platform with paper thin sheets , stray dogs flocking in close vicinity.Among them some bath from water pipes meant for cleaning trains,replenishing them from a usable blessing to prove life can thrive in doldrums.

But these sights here breath of life ...of the transitoriness of life ..as the tracks the sun remains static and like the earth ;the trains our lives revolve around these tracks ..sometimes unconscious of the tumbles we take and always asking us that question ..

"Who We Are, Where We Came From, Where We Are Going"

Literary déjà-vu

..The bustling cacophony of rainwater strikes the earth; a cool breeze sprays water droplets onto the translucent glass overlooking my balcony. Towards the East Mountains kiss the voluptuous clouds that surround them but in front of me are the large concrete living places, chequered with a physical graffiti of windows laced around it. I am sitting on my bed facing the wet glass door with page 238 of Somerset’s "of human Bondage” staring at me...And I read a

paragraph...

“The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I am ready to accept it .I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces from the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it is good I can claim the merit; if it is bad I can accept no censure”

And delve for a moment on the lines obsequiously; the gloomy; black and moist atmosphere adds to my nervous tensions and here’s a déjà-vu I recall the lines of .Paulo Coelho in the “The Alchemist”...

“When you want something, the whole universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”

One speaks of inevitability in life and the other speak so of human endeavour ,though both claim of an unknown forces conspiring to cause it ;one has no-regrets as he speaks of the unavoidable and one suits man to be driven by his free will. In Maugham’s graphic novel the insouciant character Cronshaw who speaks the above words, is aware of the notion of free will; but he shelves himself inside the veil of inevitability. But in the Coelho’s version he aspires to craft the inevitability in the inspirational sense; by stating that if you want something the omnipresent unknown powers help you to achieve it.

I get into a conundrum, if we read Maugham’s quote it inexplicably states that “Life has no meaning” it’s just like the randomness of the spilling rainwater as it hits the ground; what has to happen will inevitably happen. Though Coelho inspires us that what we want will be ours; and the unnamed forces will help us in achieving the same. Yes Maugham’s lines are not meant to be inspirational or express a philosophical take on things; they basically characterize what the fictional characters of the novel feel and he as it being his semi-biographical account; yet they do embody the inherent truth which we clamour to find and do not till the very end. But Coelho gives us the inspiration to strive ahead in life and make a meaning out of it with a sense of want.

Yes to state; Life is meaningless; it’s the objects and the sense of want that drives it...till this desire is living you live; else you are nothing but anonymous in the universe of the unknown.

I turn the page and start to read ahead with alacrity...

...Once

...Unfold the newspaper, the page is laden with countless reviews of Albums and movies....A flurry of stars decorate each article; seemingly reflecting what the critic have observed about the subject.

I skip the page...

Open my notebook and start watching “Once” a brief moment in the lives of two people, searching for satisfaction .With the inherent lacuna and suffering in their life thirsty to feel the droplets from the fountain of happiness. This romantic yet soft chemistry between Allan Hansard and Markéta Irglová creates some of the most beautiful images that can be painted on the reel .

The initial ice breaking jam session was among some of the most mellifluous mingling of guitar and piano laced with vocals producing “Falling Slowly”;the scene depicts Allan deeply engrossed in the music ,slamming guitar riffs and Markéta follows; looking at him with a deft smile that squints from the corner of her lips to be in tune as she plays the piano.

As they talk ;and start getting acquainted;Markéta asks Hansard about his lost love ; he conveys his inner broken heart through the chords of the guitar and some swear spiced rock snippets. What’s lovely is the conversations between Hansard an Irish lad and Markéta a simple girl with a Czech accent that just creates one of those multi cultural cocktails we so love to hear and watch .

Markéta behaves with curiosity yet maturity when it deals with family ,though she has an inherent inclination for music which comes apart when this passion prompts her to create music
,late night by breaking her child’s piggybank for buying batteries to fuel the cd player to hear the tune created by Allan ;creating a soft rhapsody that rises up from the dark with her singing “If you want me “ with tune to the music coming inside her ears a lyrical extempore.

The song “Lies” with flashbacks of Hansard’s lost love ,is a touching realization of his deep-seated pains in a musical way .The pictures of joy ,love and romance flash back in a grainy palette ,as the songs states “you are moving so fast forward” ...Hansard’s desperate to hold on to her but to his utter dismay can't .

The films reveals some great Irish outskirts with a romantic scenic background,a vintage motorbike,the scene near the backdrop of the mountain and the ocean simmering right down there feet ...Hansard asks do you love your husband and its Czech translation ,Markéta says "Miluješ ho?" and answers in "Miluju Tebe".. not translating it back for him .

The array of jam sessions and recording just generates a collection of great rock ballads...The music flurring in the background with simple clips of joy with family,friends and the band.

The dark scene with both of them seated near the piano,with marketa playing “The Hill” that she wrote about her life and husband,cries Hansard's shoulders;he urges her to come with him to London,and she says "can I bring my mum"

Hansard leaves for London,gifts her a piano ...

And with "Once" in his memory ,laden with a deft smile leaves for London, with the background score “Falling Slowly” strumming up the pieces of “Once” ;and striking all the right emotional chords.

Rolling Over

We all are in a rush, floating over rough roads, railed tracks and convex flyovers with the intermittent revolutions of circular wheels.
I sometimes sitting in these mobile machines, plugged into doping Rock & Roll, sometimes peek through the windows .The tracks are laden with varied vehicles, running by the help of there circular legs. The speed varies as the number of mobiles increase “traffic” we call it ,a simplistic definition that captures the density and state on the road.Everyone of them placed like a jigsaw puzzle on the track,but this state of synchrony soon gets disturbed by some unruly un-regimented machines. What comes out as a result is a Jam; a name synonymous with stillness, commotion and frustration.
But it is the motion that amazes us not stillness .As humans we craves for change, evolution, revolution, innovation.Seems there is some action in these letters "tion” ...
Sitting idyllically for a while, hoping my watch needle drives me out of this stillness
The Jam clears.
In the rhythm again…
The mellifluous cadence and high notes start flowing through my ear buds,I give a squinting glance through the bus's mirror and watch over the moving ,the vehicles appear like static boxes moving in constant relativist motion to each other .But I lower my eyes at the circling wheels ,they push me into a state of activity .
Rolling over… embossing rubber traces on the charcoal clad roads like footprints on wet soil .There spirit excites me, oscillating with each strand in tipsy-turvy motion like the endless circle of karma; all firmly dictated by the firm axle. Climbing over speed breakers, jumping over rugged pot holes, bruising themselves over rough roads; and still maintaining there indomitable spirit of rolling .
With the musical rhapsody gently absorbing the inside of my ears and sights of the dance of spirited wheels, I stay calm; a feeling of satisfaction and an emotional high grips me.
Can non living objects in turnstile motion inspire you?
Circular rings of steel circumscribed by an inflated ring of rubber...
Maybe I am insane!
Or maybe we humans just crave for a moment of happiness and a cheer.
Cheers!

Hindering from Delirium

The day passes by flipping pages of literature, tip toying and rattling sound of the keyboard, the hullabaloo of the television and the squelching cacophony of living beings.

Sometimes with the calmness of the day, the calm breeze of solemnly solitude, I find myself .The weekdays which usually bustle, but sometimes finding yourself in the midst of static activity; lying on the solitary couch is a different proposition .The body stretches over the couch and the embossed finger veins appear as per the concomitant activity of my finger muscles .Ideas, thoughts fly by like fluttering flies and sounds percolate intermittently into the fictional world of a novel. Also the loud sound of a bustling crowd comes out of the telly in the event of a skillful antics in a live sports event .I sit tight swinging between the novel and the telly, when suddenly realty calls in and I get up to conclude certain social commitments.

Time swiftly drifts by and its noon, though we all maintain our positions like random stones sprinkled on soft sand.

After a while I put on my headphones and play on Bob Dylan’s biographical ‘I’m not there’ ,rekindling a complex drama with a crisp and touching portrayal of Dylan’s life ,each played with a separate theme by different artists. The great music jingles inside my ears, folk, pop, rock and roll and an amalgamation of Dylan’s classic works. The end of the movie lends me again into delirium, an attempt to characterize Dylan, his various facets good and bad, maverick and a revolutionary. Though I conclude that he was just a free soul caged by the worldly pollution, who strived to be a complete unknown, having no direction home..Like a Rolling Stone ….

As the dark glooms out of the transparent shutters, the flickering tube light lightens; illuminating the inside, though an omnipresent shadow of darkness glooms on the outside. Again the chatter starts, the telly creeks, the web becomes alive. Talking over virtual networks, with virtually existent avatars, discussing life and publishing thoughts on the web. Sometimes I wonder ,is the entire universe under the realm of my fingers and these plastic buttons .Are the signals and bits that pass through encapsulate in them humans and a part of there life, all for a gust of subtle virtual satisfaction .

I wonder.

Though they do engross you in superficial cages, yet we still crave for the outdoors, crave for the divinely universe.