India to Pak - Maintain cease fire on LOC

----- That was the headline in the Times of India today, Its an Article about Our defense Minister Mr A.K. Anthony's response to recent attacks across the border, 130 incidences between march and july alone, all across northern India, Even bangladesh tried a stunt, "Our forces are doing their best to prevent these incidents. By and large, they are able to control the situation. Our forces are ready to meet any challenges in the border. So there is no cause of worry," he said.

The artcle touches on, how we are in control , and although these minor incidences occur increasingly during summer, its usuall military activity, they have not once tried anything more than the odd shots fired at each other, so the decision taken by the defense ministry as seen in the response to this article, is no where near to the public opinion, hang on! isnt that against democracy, in the largest democracy in the world?one might argue, but are the Indian public, Actually asking for WAR?

Yes Absolutely - says Jaihind from UK, yes the United Kingdom, Yogender Chouhan from Scotland says " we should learn from russia's attack on georgia", I wonder what they are doing away from a country they love and care so much , as to know exactly whats best for the country when they dont even contribute a single dollar For its affairs,We are adding the equavalent of australia's popplulation almost every year, India today struggles to cope with increased demand for food internally, exporting less affects its bottomline, which inturn affects the poor, and the ones who will be soon be because of ever rising food and commodity prices, India needs good people who can lead her to a brighter future, it sure will happen, but why wait so long, why have we waited at all?, is the direction we are heading.

These indians outside india would like india to go to war, so they can boast about it to their bangladeshi friends and pakistani mechanics about how great their country really is and, Like the olympics proved to be China, They think its a sport, which since we are bigger offcourse and tougher, we would easily defeat them, but we in the process will also destroy innocent brainwashed masses, if we played strategic games with them, it will cost lives on our borders, soldiers will die both side for no apparent reason, as that will never stop them from constantly fucking around in the border anyway, it has always happened and will always happen. unless we completely conquer Pakistan and bangladesh , just for style, and suppress them until they realise, we are all one as long as India makes the rules, and they will become added states and go on about their affairs, now for this situation to realize itself, there will be a great need for a spiritual cleansing, the muslims will have to be completely denied ther insaness which they have been deriving from tribal , religios leaders with 2 brain cells have been feeidng them with.

Which I do not see as happening as they will die with their spirit and that spirit does not get along with ours, anyway getting back to the point, The war will cost us so much as to drain us of the economic development which we have Gradually learnt to achieve, it is our time to shine not blow, These people do not contribute as much as a snail does to the ecosystem to make possible human existance. and they Critisize the Ministrys authority without knowing the full picture? I would love to give them a personal war myself.

As a dravidian, An Indian, I myslef would love to until a few years ago, rage a war, loose a bit but win us the respect and honour we deserve, The great Hindustan deserves, I would fight for my country in a heart beat is i had the oppurtunity, but all ones has to do is only pause. silently zoom back, and look at the wider yet clearer picture.

These times, times are already tough,our popullation is swelling like a mother having quadruplets, foods barely getting to the bottom of the placenta, prices of day to day commodities are increasing at a rapid rate, natural disasters are a common headache these days, unlike a solar eclipse once in a while, Education is spreading at a very effective rate, our rural areas are being discussed with much passion these days, Children have more resources, but we still have a long way to go in reaching confident levels of social and economic development in its true sense, The rich people are finally realising that they have become so rich that, it would be against gods will if they dont give some back, Indians outside build temples and set up NGOs funded for their tax rebates, There is a sense of realisation on how important planning not only for the present but ahead of tommorow is crucial to our harmonious (symphony of chaos) lifestyle.

all these factors are interwoven and connected at levels , people who started them dont even , know, Corruption is featured in all levels of society at varying impacts, tourism is booming, our call centres are humming, the cash tills of many small businesses are hummming even louder, the influx of rular communities into cities has also increasing at an alarmiing level, effects of this and implications are too broad a subject to be discussed here.

so anyway getting back to the topic, with such a complicated, ineffective unbalanced system of democracy,at a time when we are realising goals which were sown in the 1991 changes, which will not last too long because of same systems that created them will consume them.

-------- To be Continued

IFRI AFRI AFAR ( Cave People's Dust)

"Boast of Quietness"

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside
Sure of my life and my death, I observe the ambitious and would like to
understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
they speak of humanity.
my homeland is the rythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indespisable, singular, worthy of tomoroow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he dosent expect to arrive.

----------Jorge Luis Borges

Fragments

boobs on bikes - ?

MiNdWinD

refracted reasons of a distracted past

Reflected visions of a shattered dream

I am not...as I was
I am against my will
Im changing in many ways
Like seas across the hill

Dreams were built
With heartfelt thought
Visions seen
And battles fought

Some dreams lived some falling through
I’m still alive
It feels so true
In my mind ive grown
From child to me
A leaf on the universal tree
Like a soul in the wind thrown
Floating without a clue
I’m still alive
Walking this illusion of life through


Live I will and we all do
All across the land
But more waits beneath our feet
Under the mortal sand

The end will begin
For we have none to fear
Life was to be lead
As the eyes give way to a tear

"The Pretenders"

“Philosophy is the want to be everywhere at home”


A bright humid 11th century afternoon, A thunderous roar across the red stretch of mud leading everywhere in all four and more directions, as plain as the human spirit and daunting as the soul, sprawl the fields at the end of which lies forests larger than them, as the tall hoysala king Veera Ballela 11 on an hunting expedition strolls the unkind unknown, lost he is from all world closed and thrown, an old lady with wrinkles as many as his army, stands still un moved by the sight of someone higher riding on a high horse, she sees her son she never had in his eyes and feeds him her only ration of beans, beans cooked with the warmth and kindness known and forgotten to most of his kingdom and beyond. Such is the land where the kind exhaled, where the heroes walked and the beans were the best across the Mysore plateau, “The city of baked beans” bengaluru rested humbly under the mighty horses hoof waiting for its day to be the force to guide it.

Many years have passed since a story as above was fabricated with an intentional propaganda towards the integrity bestowed upon their patriotism generated by such an emotional perceptory treat. on any morning the city gives a feeling of being at home with its gentle hustle along the busy streets getting quickly filled by cows, dogs and us alike, radiating an exclusive sense of hope towards the possibility of a place being resistant to change and unchanging with the rest of the changing world. Almost Smiling faces, uniforms of all colors of all ages walk the streets that lead to where they will; many of the stone paths along the cemented roofs come alive as they do in an RK Narayan story.

Bangalore, the fifth largest metropolitan shingles in the south east of Karnataka a stately boundary in the pre Cambrian deccan plateau gave birth to continued settlements dating back from 1537 as the Vijayanagara Empire reigned under the rule of the great kempe Gowda, after changing many hands along with being bought for 300000 rupees by the king of wodeyar in 1687, painfully survived the fourth Anglo mysore war, after which the British as quick as prudent they are set up the British east India franchise, which was the first of the stones laid to a cobbled state of air pollution, traffic congestion and anglicized street names. the phrase “necessity is the mother of all inventions” aptly gains significance in context to the city, the 1898 the plague erected telephone lines as the bodies were buried, even an health officer was appointed. In 1906 Bangalore became the first city in Hindustan to have electricity powered by the hydro electric plant situated in shivanasamudra.1927 the watered gardens flowered generously all around choosing the city as their abode which tourism marketers took no time in re franchising across the world as the garden city of India.

The locals are a very polite breed with a tradition rich culture or vice versa, paddy based grains being the most staple along with wheat and the usual assortment of India rich spices.
Language gently changing from the higher society to the much harsher versions in the nerve centre the true markets in central Bangalore. aromas as many traveling like rainbows fill the air in any neighborhood on any Friday morning which is considered the holiest among the days of the week, when temples are swamped and sometimes more by children and their parents in colors bright. Love their movies which are only fractionally watched among the city’s inhabitants as the vast population are originally from Andhra Pradesh and Tamil nadu, more than few cultures intertwining harmoniously have created a great bunch. Oh off course there were a few racial internal conflicts but that is just the heat involved in melting the steel gates of society that of now which has been moulded to become a glacier to reckon with.

You sure will read about the shopping and local tourist spots when you get there but what we will talk about here is an experience of those places which you may not hear of even being there.

Lets begin where the celebrity gods are born, along a not so narrow laid path from Bangalore to narayanpura the friendly looking buffaloes sun themselves under the trees which soon are disappearing, closer to the village the harvested grain is strewn to the width of the road to be threshed by the moving wheels and even feet, yes narayanpura is a potters valley, a family tradition passed down for centuries well may be not centuries but nonetheless for a very long time as gently as the moulds once made for the gods of today which got passed on too. The halli with around 55 families is not as forgotten as It is not remembered at all, the sight of young ones sifting sand and elderly artists creating works of art faster than the women preparing the clay is not what many locals take pleasure in appreciating as they are immune to it consequently is assumed to be a non commercial venue for tourism development, culturally saturated with such attachments which exist as an invisible ignored placenta between the people here and the rest of the world in the garden city. Which might be a blessing in disguise for the simply floating by community? The descriptions of the statues are a book and more on their own of whose descriptive justice will never suffice. The eyes see more than any pen.

Water in Bangalore is going to be a constant problem, the water table has lost atleast a few meters in height, the hope of a silicon valley is also depleting the water supply by endangering factors responsible for feeding the water table, and anyway we should talk abt the water table after the birds, now. It’s a strange feeling to absorb the influence the city has had on the syndrome of “following” compared to their ancestors. Narayan murthy is considered a demi god when he lives by the motto “only capitalism will survive” will survive what? And for whom? Why did not the honorable people of Bangalore and all around it pay even a little attention to a great intellect of a creation in the name of Sri Kuvempu whom even the plants and animals kept company. I sometimes ponder the differences in somebody like myself and a great man like him though we had the same heroes such as Tolstoy, Milton and Wordsworth profiling the miracles of silent simple living. The man influenced the local literature in a symbolically significant way, starting of with the “beginners muse”, his superiority in understanding the decoding function related to words for their infliction was second to none.

“It’s meaning or none
To their creator leave them
Why waste time in a distant futile
Come my pal lets walk
Together ahead journey of life
Of which previous life this bond
Has come back to bind”

Would have the people engrossed in such transcended speculation follow a true path to liberate themselves as much as the people today follow the capitalistic dream, the answers are unknown and the questions belong else where, but the trees under which the buffaloes lie will sure die.

Lets talk about the local birds, there’s street vendors yes, there’s canieving hawkers running behind cunning 3 wheeled taxi drivers , flooding the city are bicycles and men on feet some carry their livelihood some the bag of sweets for their wife waiting at home, books for kids, food is the most common especially in the afternoon, but off course with the number of cars and easy self transport developments such sights are lost memories for lost souls but is it necessary that the traveling soul is always lost? Yes back to the birds, well where do we start, from the past on course, the yediyur tank in jayanagar is a still, non floating co ogulated absolutely non viscous shit filled pond which not so long ago was an amateur “guys who love birds” paradise, the brahminy kites were my favorite coz they sounded wittiest, egrets, coots, common kingfishers made their rounds, the occasional cormorant would grace the others but were much less rarer than the herons now those birds looked good, many looked like the majestic examples shown in salim ali’s handbook of Indian birds. Among them the ones around the lake now are just the crows, pariah kites, sparrows and pigeons which are also found in places without a trace of lake around them, stressing ladies and gentlemen here we are on the link between birds and destroyed lakes which we all knew before din’t we. And yes yes the great Indian bustard can also been seen sometimes and you are right only up until the lake was destroyed. It’s saddening for some who are not joyfull, as many tanks around the city which our ancient rulers (kempe gowda, wodeyar, tipu sultan, British) purposefully built to provide perennial life to the cradle of the silicon valley are being replaced by 2nd generation amenity shelters such as the majestic bus stand, the kanterva stadium etc. which may be one of the reasons why in some cases the ground needs to be pierced to find a water nerve up to almost 400 feet deep,


The farm side of Bangalore--The windy roads in between fields of golden paddy and tall sugarcanes. The still smiling people scantily clad men mostly in white and women with heir exposed belly buttons on whom colors quarrel, flower sellers, untidy public toilets if any, clothes fluttering in the wind against their wet will, could all similarise a view from top of an ancient shrine across any part of Asia where the palm and other trees stand with their leaf filled arms stretched wide open no matter how bad global warming has affected the rising water level, the unmistakable smell of jack fruit and mangoes from across the road are motivation enough to leave this paradise and venture into another enhancing the monofarmical view of these chain of simple gloriously backward farms.

The third shop on the right after annand sweets on commercial street is the street vendor who sells pani poori which is known as gol gupe in north India ( we are back in the city ) at 3 rs for 5 little puris which in English would resemble a pastry the size of a rum ball empty from the inside which then is filled with chick peas, onion peas and sometimes mashed potatoe all suspended in a liquid concoction of tambarind and mint brewed carefully to avoid making it too bitter and making it taste like unripe tambarind which all bangaloreans know what Im talking about. And the best yet to come dish is served in a plate no bigger than your palm with a piece of butter rich sugar saturated piece of mithai paradise which by roger banisters 4mile is better than its copy made at annand sweets which is unjustly but deservingly the finest sweets store in all of Bangalore.

Catching a bus to go to the nearest “you will not hear about destination” a welcoming sight stares me, a “Volvo” a mighty Volvo, looked majestic and simply far more healthier than the “the sad and lonely bigger version of the virgin shag mobile” fellows who drove us around the part of town which was the only part we knew. As you blend into the city every morning The BTS was the only thing that reminded you that you did not have to change to be wanted. For all people say and swear, without the BTS the nerve centre will be devoid of energy that churns the city to its awakened moments. As I comfortably feel a cushion under by back side the Volvo re assures the great things to come into this country welcomed or with the lack of, driving past the busy streets the pre occupied popullayion looked different in the sepia tinted windows of the bus, they look happier without the colors as that’s what may be gives a sense of lacking in the real world.

The climb was not testing at any level, the slope is neatly carved made clear of thorny bushes and a clear path to the peak is visible through the uneven canopy, a 30 minute on a bullock cart, 2 mile hitch hike from the station where the Scandinavian built bus dropped us off were a sweet predecorial preparation for the view (less daunting from what you may see over many of his counter parts far north of this great land) from the top of this squatting rock monument nandhi hills was humbled by a blanket of fog and tinges of a tree green shade from the flora, I have always wondered from many years about this mountain when we drove to nandhi hills like most people in the age group 16-65 would have driven to on a Sunday at some part of their lives, but this mountain had only ever been feetset by a few foot prints, the road leads people to beauty but only the hope of beauty leads the feet to see your home for the day and more from the roof of a another world. Experience it folks.

Time is the quintessential persona of the almighty, when there is hope in the future there is power in the presence, if it is to be its up to me and Im it, injustice lies as often in the omission as commission, are the kind of quotes the theatre loving audience of this great city take refuge in, one of my favorites ones was what I read scribbled on the canopy of the legendry three wheeled autos aka taxi’s in most of the countries, was a bright red Algerian fonted “ patriotism is the refuge for scoundrels”.

While the world of the suburban south remains innocently odd, Bangalore is on a fast track to justifying its label as the favorite FDI location bestowed on it through the past 10 years. With Wipro visionising to be among the top 10 IT companies in the world,infosys bravely disposing millions of rupees into purpose built premises securing land which otherwise would have been among your neighbors top 10 favorite picnic spot, IBM, ABN Ambro, Nova Scotia, BMW which my old man while driving his Hyundai sonata along alliance Francese sternly described it as a poor mans Mercedes, Mercedes Benz, aspiring Kingfisher Village being raised on grounds larger than any other open space available in the vicinity of the central city. Titan diversifying from telling the city their time of the day to showing the city in different colors through their wide range of sunglasses which are very famous among the teenagers who stylishly cruise on their motorbikes in company of pretty faced southern skin women wearing larger shades. And even dunkin donuts is planning to open a franchise, which Im sure the ever growing call centre thronging crowd can afford at 50 rs a doughnut. (Me, Arvind and vinay used to have 2 meals a day for 50 rs, 2 proper “moms will be proud of” meals) and the list is as many as the words required to describe this photogenic city cancerous with growing traffic.

Words in my eyes will never be sufficient to even begin to describe the halo encompassed by this simple city which will be a memory immortal in many lives who accidentally stumble upon this unignorably willing provider. As I sit on a bench of a chai wallah sipping sugar filled chai with the first two streets to begin this city in my direct view, the poetry weather jewels the smiles of people and dogs who continue their existence in chaos reaching out in their own ways posing to be paused by an artists brush. The smell of rotting garbage 10 meters away at times hazes the canvass, while only 300 meters away spring is ushered in with the spathodia blooms, followed by the jacaranda and tabebua trees, the may flower then takes over for the summer and through it all the decorative cherries, the copper shield barriers, the sampige and the great Indian cork tree usher the air around them with fragrant scents intoxicating to the “karma” following people ridding them of their sadness for a breath. As I stand up my bare feet sinks home and if not for that smell this city would be just another piece of earth dug up for the only purpose of survival which without them we wouldn’t have known of in the beginning anyway. I wonder away with a ripe smelling piece of mango competing with a bug eyed fly whose taken interest in the chili spread half ripe fruit which, just like this odd shaped city, fills you with a flavored essence of belonging.


Ps: The people of this city are particularly proud and intensely infatuated with their direction giving skills to any one who dares to enquire, aimlessly driving past the 18th century British grave yard, in the Indian sports car of the century the contessa classic we pulled over to confirm this allegation just to be sure unlike the headstones of the thousands soldiers and britishers buried on that ground denying the people to come a right to know of their identity and destiny. We pick a middle aged man wearing a green collared shirt closing a deal on his miniature cellular phone sitting comfortably on a motorbike which had a petrol tank which could hold no more than a mighty 3 litres of the golden juice, I lean forward and in my best Kanada ask him “boss which way to Germany” and with not a sign of pausing speculation he confidently throws words of Kanada back at me “go straight and take a left, and then keep going straight”.


That laugh alone is worth more than the air points which seem to be the latest motivating factor of an excuse for people who traverse the clouds to strange lands, there’s only as much one can experience without being there to experience it for the rest one may need ones soul to recognize its home, come before it’s too late.

Vino...

To make a great wine, one needs- a madman to grow the vine, a wise man to watch over it, a lucid poet to make the wine and a lover to drink it, if u call, the local wine grower will see you, he is the st peter of this mini paradise, but he will not ask you if you have sinned before allowing you into his heaven, his is the cry of a nation of wine growers. If you have heard it, you will no longer drink wine you will taste a mystery.

Naturalized city dwellers in a traffic jam exaggerated

Faces in the mirror, starring back. Do they see me?
I feel them thinking, I am crazy for believing I am free
In that starring I see my own eyes prying.
Is he trying to understand that Im not lying?
I am just trying to find my way home its already half past three.

White Faces strewn about
Some humble some without
In colour they frown while they wait
Echoes of a past shattering great
Rooted in exile in this strangeness, home is an echo bout


Deeds of a Past ringing great
The sleep on stone
On leaves we ate
Sounds of a shop about
A Childs death the elders mourn
Summer was late
New was when old was torn
Pockets filled with date
Girls smelled like corn
A mother’s cry from the shed below
To her calf of her fate
Grow as we may hearts turning brown
Brown as the willow
Burnt as my knee
A glance to cast a man to become
Standing alone
We seize

The red turns green
The lady in a men’s suit
Casts her sight umpteen
The freeze she wants may be?
Or am I as cold she can see
Its 21 more trees to home
Which what it may have become
Thoughts like dates on a tree
Only ever some become necessary
We seize again remembering Im hungry
Is that tree where he’s supposed to be?

If words were thread and the cloth was we
What will from the needle weave?
How much of what less we know heave
Like the 100 cars in front we may know only three.

Priests, prostitutes, pest controllers and the rest
Taking the same way in distress
Along the winding char colored road
Dry green trees, fields of corrugated roofs erode
Drink! For, once dead you never shall re address...

This poem not the secret well of life to learn
Just glaring thoughts raring for a meaning to earn
Toddling along my every day tree that I at the least see twice
Are there gods in this world where we crawl like mice?
The road still winding as the big boned lady’s eyes on my raspberry churn yearn

The light turns green and the road leads to another where the hill admires
The faces il miss.

Conversations with a mango

I stare into my own eyes with an unignorably orangish yellow fibrous pulp... Very moist
Circumferencing my lips and some even in my nose, I don’t feel it or smell it as it already exists in my head, just like when one is engrossed in reading a book or thinking about an important meeting we may fail to hear the clock tick yet if I were to come across a sentence involving a clock my attention would subconsciously become aware of the ticking and hear it very clearly. Which as our ignorant species time to time understands ... The incapacitated perceptory capability of animals like us does not ever make use of all the information ones sense organs can provide. As my thoughts forage the painted brain of a mouse from above my bed reflects at me in a compelling plea, as the cold water runs into my hands I feel the warmth which could be inside of me…. Every breath is already an opportunity I am the product of whats been sowed and watered for many human years , all fertilizers added , most of the pests taken of me and forgotten by, a fully functioning flesh suit with all my senses in place oriented with time. Anyway I should start at the beginning…

Every one of us enjoys a block of chocolate or a chunk of creamy cake some more than the others, at around 9 every Sunday morning ive met one of those some people, shes no taller than the 3 feet sugarcane she sells to every one of the nostalgic people who walk by her one table vegetable stall at the flee market on the same day every week, “one fruit at a time” she says in a very brave Thai accent, as the sugar cane are gone she moves to the mangoes which attract less flies than her perfectly round face most of which is cream cake smudged. The century old argument on multitasking abilities of women can be put in its coffin as you watch her yell out the prices of the mango holding a ripe orange in her left while sorting the gold and silver coins in her right noticeably enjoying a mouth full and more of the yet to be finished fresh cake. With a didgeridoo playing in the background not too far away I sit beside a kid on the rice sack to enjoy my Laotian fish breakfast, there is a very intangible force in this market that keeps me coming here yes the cheap lp’s, the Samoan doughnuts, the Thai lady, percussion artists, antiques, or is it the noise. The music of reality, the multilayered vibrations created by a multitude of vocal interceptions, just like every market at home more so on the meat side. It could even be the pretty girls dressed in colors looking new straight from church, the air a bird and insects dream filled with the odor of food good and bad fruits sold and unsold, people and kids playing, the old wood, books stored in cupboards for years carrying their masters smell, the rubber from cheap footwear made by kids for almost no money in the beautiful suburbs of ancient china. fresh bread dipped in even fresher coffee, the Koreans and their kimchi, curry stuffed in breads, second hand leather untreated for decades, perfumes made from other perfumes spring onions and pomegranate, coconut oil from Fiji, the sea smell of squid and fish that swam freely yesterday 3 miles under the mangere bridge, the hot dogs, the Chinese women of which some believe showering too much when their life is good may bring them bad luck,




My brain re wiring forcing a part of my consciousness to divert its attention to an age old philosophical question, if instead of sitting on the rice sack I was lying on my couch would these sounds still exist independent of me, are sound sensations physical events which take place whether someone is there or not, is sound an organized movement of molecules caused by a vibrating body in some medium, water, air, rock, steel etc or is sound a sensation known only to the mind of the listener, a sensory influence we perceive as the sound being created pre programmed by our innate physical and emotional biology. so is there actually a sound when a tree falls in the forest if there is nobody there to listen to the sound.
“Common la that food is full of oil and fat why don’t you eat a fruit la, its good for your health” I snap out starring clearly at the orange she waves at me in a circular motion as though trying to hypnotize me into buying it but I was enjoying my breakfast just fine it was steamed and grilled fish so there was neither oil nor fat not too much anyway but why am I so conscious of what she said to me, she just wants me to buy a fruit she dosent really care what I eat or now hold on what if, well, does she, as I throw away the paper carton with the soft bones into the garbage bin on her right, I notice the wonderful melons being handled by the woman in the next one table stall, I think it was the thirst that made me start craving for a piece of fruit, now it had to be small and moist enough to enjoy and sweet enough so I dun feel thirsty, I dint quite want to walk to the drink stall 50 m yet, as my mind insignificantly swings from melons to mangos, I wonder if the Hindu saying about rice is a universal quotient or just a pertained ideology about rice, it amused me when my grandmother always said every grain of rice has the name of the person who will eat it, as in not with first middle and last names but a soul signature an intent associated to an identity, karmic connection between the grains of rice to be consumed and the consumer, so may be even the mangos have a similar attribute now why not it may be a common law among the vegetative kingdom, if it is who must be making these rules if its not then why do the Brahmins of ancient India believe in such nonsense, was it so the grains weren’t wasted, to avoid wastage in the already scarce environment ,religious rendition of moral values were easier to implement I guess especially in a country like India as the god sense is more matured than in other parts of the same world, now I just wanted to eat a mango, grown in 84 countries, millions of tones every year from eastern India to Chile, Florida to west Africa, Cambodia to west India, a fruit related to a huge species of poisonous fruits bearing cousins, a sense of patriotism swamps me, mangos grew at their natural best in south Asia especially mastering themselves in eastern India when travelers and plant crafters introduced strands of these sweet fruit into various geographical locations, so the chances are the mangos sold by the petite Thai lady could have been some where down the lane related to my own mother land, may be even from the farm of one of my ancestors who grew rice and mango for as long as time can take us back, convinced that mango was the fruit of the day I walk up to her, may be I will take a few coz I just felt like it give a few to my flat mates who probably have never tasted good mangos as they come from much colder regions, before I could ask her how much they were she hastily chucked 3 of the hugest ones into a light blue plastic bag and handed it to me with a tone that sounded like “15 dolla la, good one for you la” havin been dealing with a lotta people in a sales context my immediate response was why why good ones for me, and she said “ well la, the idea you gave my grandson last time to sell my fruit worked really well I sell almost double and all these stalls lined in a row some looking cleaner and fresher are only selling half their produce”

With a sudden ease I did remember what she was talking about, it was may be 2 years ago when I used to frequent the market with gene and sometimes others, I had met a kid no older than 10 or 12 years who used to stand in his stall yelling out In weird noises to grasp peoples attention to sell his fruits and as I passed by the lane squeezing between people and trolleys of fruit holding genes very soft hands, these noises caught my attention and when I looked back it was this kid howling at the world, gene always seemed to have this innate connection with kids and all things innocent and care deserving, she looks at me and in her signature subtleness fronting her lower lip like a 2 year old baby when they are having a bit of difficulty getting what they want and her eyes closing just enough to wrinkle her eye brows, only if she was a Jew and Hitler had seen that look the world would have atleast 30 million more Jews from the 6 million that were made disappear for being born into this world as a Jew, people would be going to Budapest for the annual world business convention and may be in a business sense would not be the most advantageous situation to us as Indians as the Jews were bloody good at our sport- buying and selling. Quite disgraced with myself for comparing the holocaust to business opportunities still holding her hand walked towards the young boy, and she bought almost every last fruit on his table, pineapple, mandarins, Korean pear, mangoes, even bananas which is her least favorite fruit, the last time she had a choice between a banana and a glass of goat blood which was offered to us at a traditional Korean festival she opted for the blood, she said the bananas were for me, her tone the innocence and purity in it always stripped me of everything that was unhumble, she was as pure as the gesture she was making, and clearly understanding that the kid who is not much of kid really thanks her and I interfered sternly telling him to give her a kiss coz she is doing this for his braveness not because he was a kid, and he was more than happy to give her a peck on her left cheek which was her favorite, they both lit up he had an enchanted smile from cheek to cheek while she just shone. and the day the Thai lady was talking abt happened exactly a week after that moment, after that very minute the boy noticed the accounting book she was carrying in her right hand as we were shuffling the 8 bags full of fruit around on our arms, and he said “may be I go university, I like the business, my uncle tell I be very good sell” and that captured me in a way, reminding me of the streets I grew up in I heard that line everyday, infact I may have even said the same line in worse English, grounding myself I decided selling being my forte I had to find a piece of information that he could comprehend at his age and experience and also which would make him understand the dynamics of selling in that environment and it had to be interesting and cost free to him at the same time, cleaner table, wearing a costume, fruits packed in neat cartons with free stuff attached to them, cute signboards all these could help but the boys voice was poking at an intuition that was far simpler and effective than all these an activity he would make his own and be a part of. When gene heard about how I felt she immediately flashed a happy smile and said “K you better or Ur not my friend”.

Later that day after a game of basket ball lying with sweat trickling down my forhead floating onto my closed eye lids on my drive away, I felt a tickle on my feet being too lazy to even open my eyes I assumed it was gene, yelling “leave me alone” and not hearing anybody laughing I opened my eyes to realize ive been lying there for longer than I thought everybody was already back in the house, no wonder it was so eerily quite I assumed it was just my head, raising my head to see a piece of paper blown by the wind against my feet, picked it up to see what it was, definitely a foreign language I was guessing it was Korean, couldn’t be Chinese as the symbols were less picture oriented, could have been any Asian language really, just being curious I hopped back on my feet went in and showed it to James who was my Korean friend and he recognized it straight away “ it’s a flier you know, for the market, they open new one over there, its quite good, I can get lot of noodles you know, do you want to go” I barely paused to understand what he was saying, may be the word market or his English took me back to the boy, and immediately with no doubt I knew I had the best idea to make him sell more fruits, something which seemed to be very tangible and nostalgic at the same time, “ is this market open now” “yes it is they close at 6 you want to go rite now” “ yes lets go, now” I started the car and waited for him for 20 mins to bloody come out of the house in the mean while I had decided where else I could find multi language news letters and even just old language books or news papers, “ im sorry bro lets go” he said as he sat in the car the market was only 2 minutes away if that, I picked up a whole bunch of old Korean newspapers atleast abt 100 papers “ are you crazy, can you read Korean are you crazy” he said in his usual confused voice, “ lets go we can come back another day for noodles its too crowded” “ no no hang on just leeelaaax I can do that in 2 minutes you know” knowing for sure I cant talk him out of it I agreed, and we went in picked up a few tubs of noodles and checked out and I made him take me to other Asian super markets collecting enough rubbish as he put it, we got back home

I couldn’t wait for Sunday to come, I told gene what my plan was and how I was going to teach the boy, she was really happy and with a loud yet gentle voice she said she loved me for doing this and well basking in the limelight I convinced myself this was a great idea, the week slowly passed, I realized a few things that week, none significant or advisable but it occurred to me that as some great writer once said “life may not be tied down by a bow but it still is a bloody good gift” life was just a dream we were living, hour after hour, sleep after sleep, constantly changing like da shapes of clouds on a grey autumn sky, faces, colors, sorrow and pain, laughs, giggles, Secrets, pies, darkness and the sun rises every time, every single day passes into another like a train passing fields of lilies, torn down train stations, mutiny stricken towns, posters with forgotten faces, animals, grey walls, blue walls, water, land as dry as our finger nails, my spinning thoughts permeate from 33 rpm to 55 at a similar difference in speed while listening to an lp.. police sounds like panthera,

What came down was once up.

We love we learn pain as measure
Along the winding sky every star a treasure
Morning glory moonlit after the fading sun
All things must end that have begun

Demons saints unresting mind full of doubt
Would the pain remain when happiness is out?
A turn of the earth and the feelings spun
All things must end that have begun

The wind blows the darkness away
Alone the bright grey willows sway
Void of flowing flowers and it aint a pun
All things must end that have begun

Mundane to magic, smile to sorrow
From a breath to a memory we grow
Days of cold and warm evening run
All things must end that have begun

The weeping clouds the smoking train
From lilies to fields, horses with lesser mane
The failing light the peasant is done
All things must end that have begun

Victories and battles fought
Tears shed sans reason sans thought
Names and mortals even Attila the Hun
All things must end that have begun

Life is a floating leaf when still
Fear to its kill, seeds to its till
Death is the only deathless one
All things must end that have begun

A Dillusioned essay

People around us are falling in love for they know each other well, or in the hope of want to color those invisible thoughts that they hope define the person who creates memories and little bursts of happiness in their minds. Thoughts are like energy they form and reform but are never lost until we replace them with other thoughts, when we are aware of the true existence of these thoughts in our head then we are in the know and now on the way to finding who these thoughts belong to and where they came from to serve what purpose, more often than not more than half of these thoughts are void of any need for soulful contemplation existing as a noise to solely forward our existence as animals towards the complex weave of textural experiences keeping us connected to the wired world of exchanges. And then one day you wake up from the last moment thought into a cloud which feels surreally sometimes even divinitively away from physical reality almost a transcending state an un palpable un replaceable thought which swamps your head with endorphins when even just being acknowledged, an unstable high rising from the trenches of your own mind with ease and panache. Is that love? Who is your un replaceable thought?, a thought a person a memory shroud by fumes of mysteries which we don’t want to understand completely but want to call it our own first, then no matter how it changes or morphs it will still be our own and how more alive can an existence be when you have your own secret garden to explore unendingly. Is that what makes mothers love for a child unconditional even under the harshest of conditions in life’s garden coz the child is a branch that may or may not bear the fruit. A little girls love for her first puppy the emperor penguin couples love for their first egg. Love in all its gloriously masking costumes plays the harp to whose tune we dance in all walks and climbs of our life, or is it just a chemical our brain produces which we humans are all easily addicted to? So what happens when you are in love (a un replaceable person) with some one and there’s some one else who (thinks you are un replaceable) loves you? Questions arise don’t they? There is also an innate pleasure when people decide to think the world of you and whose memory you are a colorful part of? Another chemical addiction? We bask in the limelight? Have you ever? We have given them enough reasons to feel about us the way they do but also are you responsible for not feeling about them the same way? Feelings change and emotions get diluted love of all takes the longest time when is true (to u), is understanding the key or is self preservation?
Or do we sacrifice our love to settle for the person you like… who loves you? Can you?

Love for a person is the want for that one person (irreplaceable) to share the pallet of colors with you to paint the canvass of life together,

You’re looking for a person who will paint your vision on the canvass or will you both paint the vision together with your own souls subjectively experiencing itself . Or will she be the inspiration for your painting to begin? Are you hers? Pause, breathe, pause, and think, in all its emancipation a painting unfinished is still a painting isn’t it?

So do we have a choice in changing the person you want to paint with half way through? Or do you continue no matter how different the painting may be turning out to be from your first imagination of it?

Will your painting look more like you want it to be with someone else painting beside you?

Hearts change minds expand love grows?

Volcanic revelations.....

The howling wind commands company, sleep stands no chance
As I lay in my green tent the red comes to mind
Howling again the ink in my pen seizes in a trance
The red within the giant and me today lie intertwined

The clouds above in a foggy mess
Changing shapes and colors as they undress
Reminding me of the changing world under my feet
I wonder if she’ll give me a treat

Conflicts with my thought bares itself
On my knees behind a rock I pause
Winds screeching with voices as alive as the dying desert
Filling my mind that silences cause.

I rise up standing in front of the ridge still standing
The narrow path once the red gold flowed
From the mothers agonical belly of fire
Is sadness a product of desire?

Buried in its depths of trenchful wretchedness
Rises the agony and pain for thoughts once thought
Days pass by in awe and hope for a day or nite
When my thoughts self realize
Learning from me to be who I think I am.