Books. I miss reading. The library is one of the most depressing places. Dingy and small, with dull tubelights, long tables and chairs squished in. Racks and racks of shelves, which comprise books that cannot be issued, but only referred to. A smirking librarian, picking on people for whispering. Serious-faced people hammering away at laptops or consulting fat books that they cannot issue and read in the comfort of their rooms. The silence is overwhelming, save a few stray whispers. And the best part is, fiction is denied to law-students, apparently, since the only books available in the library are law books, and a few cliched classics that are supposed to represent the entire class of fiction books. Heck, they don't even have legal-fiction.
It's just fat law textbooks, tattered and dog-eared, wedged between fatter books, on the ugly metal rack. This is testimony to the fact that learning is imposed on us in the most terrible ways. Mental growth is discouraged, and we're made to swallow everything that is dished out to us.
Maybe if there was some creativity and imagination around here,things would be different in every way. For one, I wouldn't have to stare at the black head in front of me in class, and nod earnestly at the gibberish spouted by the teacher, whilst I slip into a reverie far away from here. Secondly, eccentricity wouldn't be considered ludicrous, and idiosyncrasies would not be scorned upon with disgust.
Happy places can be found in books. But they don't realize that.
After all, we're just 21st century kids. The era of technology has transformed us into machines. Data is fed into us, and we process it. This, they call knowledge, education. Hypocrisy is omnipresent, they say. But to this extent?
And they call us sassy, not outspoken. Since when? One of the many ironies of life.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Nostalgia is possibly one of the worst form of emotional wierdness that a person can experience. It often comes in the form of a song that reminds of you of childhood days, when life seemed so simple. Of long car-drives with family, cruising down traffic-laden roads, of swimming lessons, of mangoes, of softy-ice-creams, of art-classes, of salsa, of Harry Potter, of video-games, of summer-vacations during school, of 9th-grade crushes, of going through the 'pink-phase', followed by the 'goth-phase', of unrealistic and unfulfilled dreams and ambitions, of conversations, of chocolate, of VH1, of MTV Most Wanted, of Aqua, and Britney Speares. It reminds you of black nail-polish, hair-streaking, of ankle-socks, of short-skirts, of school-bus rides, of school-bus friends, of canteen food, of school-bus food, of tiffin-boxes, of tupperware, of sharing lunch, of corn-puffs, of orange-ice cream, of sleeping in class, of bunking, of school assemblies, of school prayers, of drill, of the mall, of Javagreen, of granitas, of surprise cell-phone raids, of copying in exams, of cheat-sheets, of sports day, of annual day, of culturals, of debates, of ad-zap.
Life then, was so terribly simple. However did things get complicated. School was the one place where things were secure, at least for the time-being. Tensions included completing homework and wearing polished shoes. And then, things become complicated. There's more to it that pressed uniform and completed homework.
It's not that simple.
Which is why when you listen to a song that reminds you of Dexter's Laboratory and powerpuff girls an popeye, and the Little Lulu show, you wish you hadn't grown up so fast. You wish you'd stuck on as a kid, and ate candy for lunch, without counting calories. You wish you could read Enid Blyton unabashedly, and you could bunk school to watch cartoons. You wish you hadn't thrown such a big fuss over third-grade mathematics. if only you did those stupid sums then without the lamenting and the fuss.
And now, we're stuck. We miss growing up. We won't grow up again. We can't just bunk college and watch cartoons. We can't eat candy four times a day without getting fat. We can't watch Wizard of Oz. We can, maybe, but it's not the same. We can never understand the Wizard of Oz the way we did when we were kids. Now, it's just not the same. I can never watch Heidi (which used to be my most favorite cartoon back then), without distorting the childish memory I have, of dancing goats and a cute, chubby girl.
Life is unfair. Growing up should be slow. I think of all the times I'd hoped to be 'grown-up' as a kid. I'd hoped to wear high-heels and a suit, and carry a brief-case and look serious and important. And now, when it comes to doing that, I'd rather wear a smock and eat Twinkies and Doritos and watch Heidi on Cartoon Network.
Life then, was so terribly simple. However did things get complicated. School was the one place where things were secure, at least for the time-being. Tensions included completing homework and wearing polished shoes. And then, things become complicated. There's more to it that pressed uniform and completed homework.
It's not that simple.
Which is why when you listen to a song that reminds you of Dexter's Laboratory and powerpuff girls an popeye, and the Little Lulu show, you wish you hadn't grown up so fast. You wish you'd stuck on as a kid, and ate candy for lunch, without counting calories. You wish you could read Enid Blyton unabashedly, and you could bunk school to watch cartoons. You wish you hadn't thrown such a big fuss over third-grade mathematics. if only you did those stupid sums then without the lamenting and the fuss.
And now, we're stuck. We miss growing up. We won't grow up again. We can't just bunk college and watch cartoons. We can't eat candy four times a day without getting fat. We can't watch Wizard of Oz. We can, maybe, but it's not the same. We can never understand the Wizard of Oz the way we did when we were kids. Now, it's just not the same. I can never watch Heidi (which used to be my most favorite cartoon back then), without distorting the childish memory I have, of dancing goats and a cute, chubby girl.
Life is unfair. Growing up should be slow. I think of all the times I'd hoped to be 'grown-up' as a kid. I'd hoped to wear high-heels and a suit, and carry a brief-case and look serious and important. And now, when it comes to doing that, I'd rather wear a smock and eat Twinkies and Doritos and watch Heidi on Cartoon Network.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
We live in the epoch of extreme consumerism. In fact, we are consumed by this very phenomenon at best. In the cadence of the modern 21st century, we're victims of the retail market that has taken over our lives. We're dependent on them for food, clothes, groceries, and even the bloody damn newspaper(metaphorically, obviously)! Sometimes, (more often than not) we feel like hapless consumers whose voice is being stamped out by the unreasonable price-rates thrown at us along with the inadequate quality--a shocker--(at this point, I'm NOT talking about instant rip-offs at the Sarojini Nagar Market or Janpath in New Delhi, when you purchase a raggedy T-shirt for 150 bucks only to realize its true value lies less than 70 bucks. Hawkers are ALLOWED to cheat you. It's called licensed cheating, and you're SUPPOSED to bargain. You'll only be considered an absolute airhead to not bargain). Anyway, I'm talking about swanky branded retail outlets that were invented to cater to the bourgeoisie, where consumers have no option but to stick to the overpriced rate marked on the price tag. These consumers construe that the large quantity of dough doled out towards their purchase automaticaly guarantees them exemplary quality. But no, they're mistaken.
Gone are the days where there is value for money for consumers. In fact, retail outlets make a juicy profit at the expense of the naive consumers, most of whom are oblivious to the cons of globalization, which include 'illegal profit-making by manufacturing goods of substandard quality'. Ha, who cares if defective electrical appliances causes the death of somebody? Who fucking cares?!
The materialism is abysmal (has always been, and will always be), but the lack of respect is unpardonable. It just bears testimony to the fact that a person's life is equated to a certain percentage of profit acquired from selling a defective product. Which is revolting.
And no number of laws, I tell you, can rectify this disgusting phenomenon that looms like a miasma of disaster over this 'global village'. It requires an attidudinal turnover. And this very statement is incredibly futile, considering that an attitudinal turnover has not been accomplished despite fruitless but earnest attempts, in the last century, when it comes to scruples and principles (in fact, it has only worsened in this department), and probably will not happen in the next couple of centuries.
Unless maybe there is a natural calamity. Nature's fury can do miracles, can't it?
Middle fingers to retail outlets. Die, you cheating, dishonest bastards.
Gone are the days where there is value for money for consumers. In fact, retail outlets make a juicy profit at the expense of the naive consumers, most of whom are oblivious to the cons of globalization, which include 'illegal profit-making by manufacturing goods of substandard quality'. Ha, who cares if defective electrical appliances causes the death of somebody? Who fucking cares?!
The materialism is abysmal (has always been, and will always be), but the lack of respect is unpardonable. It just bears testimony to the fact that a person's life is equated to a certain percentage of profit acquired from selling a defective product. Which is revolting.
And no number of laws, I tell you, can rectify this disgusting phenomenon that looms like a miasma of disaster over this 'global village'. It requires an attidudinal turnover. And this very statement is incredibly futile, considering that an attitudinal turnover has not been accomplished despite fruitless but earnest attempts, in the last century, when it comes to scruples and principles (in fact, it has only worsened in this department), and probably will not happen in the next couple of centuries.
Unless maybe there is a natural calamity. Nature's fury can do miracles, can't it?
Middle fingers to retail outlets. Die, you cheating, dishonest bastards.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
I wondered why things had to end the way it did. I did want it to end, but not that way. In any way but that way. Nonetheless, things are so less in our control that much as we hope, pray and cry for things to be different, at the end of the day, it either is just not different, or the difference is not the difference we cried for.
So we don't really have a say in certain things, much as we'd like to. We'd all love to delve into time and redo things, say things we wish we'd said, and unsay things--take back things we wish we'd never said. Only it's too late for all of that. Memories can never be erased, though they can be buried, tucked away in some corner that will remain unexplored till necessary.
It's been a wierd semester in University. In ways that I wouldn't particularly like to recollect or blog about, but returning home was like waking up after a nightmare. A nightmare that haunts you and clings onto your very being--a nightmare that you remember so distinctly and that now holds a corner of your brain and your heart--a fact that you will have to acknowledge and be strong about.
I didn't think that writing a novel would be so difficult. I'd always believed that the writers block is only a psycological phenomenon--an excuse for writers to plunge into the occassional lazy spell, which is understandable and de rigeur--I tell you from the personal experience of swishing through a bout of laziness myself. But well, I've been sadly mistaken. The writers' block does exist, it does, and much as you try to write despite the aching emptiness (and the feeling of stupidity in my case) in your head, words get stuck and twisted and sentences are constructed all wrong and ideas are cliched and often repetitive. The experience of proof-reading is sort of like reading a sappy novel only to realize that it's so mundane and unreal, like the many things that are unreal in our daily lives.
I'd like to add that there ought to be a society or community for socially inept people. People who are socially awkward and who spend ninety percent of conversations revelling in uncomfortable silence or cracking lame jokes and who are misconstrued as original fun-suckers due to their terrible inter-personal skills probably stemming from an entirely different and uncommon wavelength all ought to get together. I'd probably fit in then.
So we don't really have a say in certain things, much as we'd like to. We'd all love to delve into time and redo things, say things we wish we'd said, and unsay things--take back things we wish we'd never said. Only it's too late for all of that. Memories can never be erased, though they can be buried, tucked away in some corner that will remain unexplored till necessary.
It's been a wierd semester in University. In ways that I wouldn't particularly like to recollect or blog about, but returning home was like waking up after a nightmare. A nightmare that haunts you and clings onto your very being--a nightmare that you remember so distinctly and that now holds a corner of your brain and your heart--a fact that you will have to acknowledge and be strong about.
I didn't think that writing a novel would be so difficult. I'd always believed that the writers block is only a psycological phenomenon--an excuse for writers to plunge into the occassional lazy spell, which is understandable and de rigeur--I tell you from the personal experience of swishing through a bout of laziness myself. But well, I've been sadly mistaken. The writers' block does exist, it does, and much as you try to write despite the aching emptiness (and the feeling of stupidity in my case) in your head, words get stuck and twisted and sentences are constructed all wrong and ideas are cliched and often repetitive. The experience of proof-reading is sort of like reading a sappy novel only to realize that it's so mundane and unreal, like the many things that are unreal in our daily lives.
I'd like to add that there ought to be a society or community for socially inept people. People who are socially awkward and who spend ninety percent of conversations revelling in uncomfortable silence or cracking lame jokes and who are misconstrued as original fun-suckers due to their terrible inter-personal skills probably stemming from an entirely different and uncommon wavelength all ought to get together. I'd probably fit in then.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Untitled random posting that has no relevance to the life called 'law school'
I saw you falling into the black abyss, and I reached out frantically to grab you. You and I had a lot in common. We were both victims of the blood-thirsty, power-hungry materialistic animals who continued vying for each others' blood in a relentless quest for power--the very power that had ripped the society into fragments of space and that had shattered every dream that nestled under the skeins of silky protection like mirrors being splintered into shards.
We shared the yearning to run away from the power-hungry maniacs, to break free from the manacles of morality so carefully chalked by the ones who believed themselves to be the quintessential elements of the existence of the universe. We shared the book of right and wrong, which we had mentally written for ourselves in the little space we kept for ourselves. We shared the desire to jump into the black chasm of cold darkness to escape the wounds that the words cut into tenderness, the tenderness that I could comprehend so well...
Your words of wisdom continue to echo in my head, and they echoed when I clawed to breathe under the cold suffocating waters of ire, of negativity, of mirthless laughter, of animosity that somehow converted sweet redolence into the rancid odor of hatred, of sardonic bitterness that wrenched my heart.
Your brown eyes gave me the strength to hold onto the flimsy thread that bound the fragile bits together.
When I saw you falling into the black abyss, I reached out, and grabbed you. I didn't want you to fall, because somehow, somewhere, I cared. I didn't feel for you, not for an instant, perhaps because all the pain had numbed me, and had made me immune to feelings of love and passion. The surge of emotions had been broken long back by needles that left scars unhealed. But the humanity, the compassion was strengthened. I cared, I realized that I did, and I fought to catch you, fought against forces that exhausted me, that drained me, sapped me off energy. Until one day, you lashed out in venom. In misunderstanding. You didn't comprehend the depth of the scarce emotions that lay buried and veneered beneath the non-pretentious, genuine caring. You misconstrued the chiding as anger, anger that never existed. You pushed me away with words that added to the scars already existing, that caused so much pain and hurt.
That is when I realized that I had wallowed in self-pity for too long, and it was futile trying to lift you from the darkness when you so willingly jumped into it, when you were embracing it. You wanted the darkness, and all the love I could muster would never take you to light when you somehow saw light when engulfed in darkness.
The irony shocks me, but the the truth is plain and simple, as lucid as the clear Jodhpur sky with it's sparse mottling of stars facaded by wisps of thick clouds.
I retreat into the cocoon, however, stronger than ever, knowing that the feelings of compassion will be invoked yet again by the monster called 'power' that surges within each one of us to satisfy the materialistic wants that we were not born with, and that we will not die with.
We shared the yearning to run away from the power-hungry maniacs, to break free from the manacles of morality so carefully chalked by the ones who believed themselves to be the quintessential elements of the existence of the universe. We shared the book of right and wrong, which we had mentally written for ourselves in the little space we kept for ourselves. We shared the desire to jump into the black chasm of cold darkness to escape the wounds that the words cut into tenderness, the tenderness that I could comprehend so well...
Your words of wisdom continue to echo in my head, and they echoed when I clawed to breathe under the cold suffocating waters of ire, of negativity, of mirthless laughter, of animosity that somehow converted sweet redolence into the rancid odor of hatred, of sardonic bitterness that wrenched my heart.
Your brown eyes gave me the strength to hold onto the flimsy thread that bound the fragile bits together.
When I saw you falling into the black abyss, I reached out, and grabbed you. I didn't want you to fall, because somehow, somewhere, I cared. I didn't feel for you, not for an instant, perhaps because all the pain had numbed me, and had made me immune to feelings of love and passion. The surge of emotions had been broken long back by needles that left scars unhealed. But the humanity, the compassion was strengthened. I cared, I realized that I did, and I fought to catch you, fought against forces that exhausted me, that drained me, sapped me off energy. Until one day, you lashed out in venom. In misunderstanding. You didn't comprehend the depth of the scarce emotions that lay buried and veneered beneath the non-pretentious, genuine caring. You misconstrued the chiding as anger, anger that never existed. You pushed me away with words that added to the scars already existing, that caused so much pain and hurt.
That is when I realized that I had wallowed in self-pity for too long, and it was futile trying to lift you from the darkness when you so willingly jumped into it, when you were embracing it. You wanted the darkness, and all the love I could muster would never take you to light when you somehow saw light when engulfed in darkness.
The irony shocks me, but the the truth is plain and simple, as lucid as the clear Jodhpur sky with it's sparse mottling of stars facaded by wisps of thick clouds.
I retreat into the cocoon, however, stronger than ever, knowing that the feelings of compassion will be invoked yet again by the monster called 'power' that surges within each one of us to satisfy the materialistic wants that we were not born with, and that we will not die with.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
I'm here. I like starting on a positive note, and the very fact that my 'I'm here' should imply that I am well and live, with every limb in my body intact, at the very least, denotes positivism.
So, well, this place is not exactly Eden--it takes a long while to figure things out, but at least I am glad that I am no longer in the rut. I love this place, only minus people. There should be places without people, and this, coming from the socially non-challenged, extrovert who is known to possess more social skills than ever known, is frankly alarming. I've realized, perhaps too late, that there can be NO place without superficiality, and my question is, under all the clouds of smoke wreaked by joints and cigars (pardon me for not being able to differentiate a cigar from a cigarette), under all the alcohol fumes from vodka and whisky and brandy and blah, what lies? What exists? Isn't is just a void that yearns to be filled, the sense of insecurity, dissatisfaction? Then, why, why, why, why is it that the people who don't do it are branded as the freaks and are excluded from the social strata? Why is it that too much importance is attached to the most materialistic things there could be? There are too many things that elude me, that are beyond my comprehension, things that confound the hell out of me. The very fact that frivolity is chosen over sincerity, brawn over brains, the very fact that things that matter are shielded by the things that shouldn't, the fact that everything that should matter is facaded by curtains and curtains of ugly black. It is all of this that eludes me.
Why can't there be genuineness in every word spoken, kindness in every act done? Why can't idealism be, for once, chosen?
I am so tired of it all. If things don't turn out the way I hoped it would, I know I shall have the courage and the strength to face them. After all, I've seen the worst and this can, in no way, compare to what I've been through the past one year. But I shall hope, will hope.
So, well, this place is not exactly Eden--it takes a long while to figure things out, but at least I am glad that I am no longer in the rut. I love this place, only minus people. There should be places without people, and this, coming from the socially non-challenged, extrovert who is known to possess more social skills than ever known, is frankly alarming. I've realized, perhaps too late, that there can be NO place without superficiality, and my question is, under all the clouds of smoke wreaked by joints and cigars (pardon me for not being able to differentiate a cigar from a cigarette), under all the alcohol fumes from vodka and whisky and brandy and blah, what lies? What exists? Isn't is just a void that yearns to be filled, the sense of insecurity, dissatisfaction? Then, why, why, why, why is it that the people who don't do it are branded as the freaks and are excluded from the social strata? Why is it that too much importance is attached to the most materialistic things there could be? There are too many things that elude me, that are beyond my comprehension, things that confound the hell out of me. The very fact that frivolity is chosen over sincerity, brawn over brains, the very fact that things that matter are shielded by the things that shouldn't, the fact that everything that should matter is facaded by curtains and curtains of ugly black. It is all of this that eludes me.
Why can't there be genuineness in every word spoken, kindness in every act done? Why can't idealism be, for once, chosen?
I am so tired of it all. If things don't turn out the way I hoped it would, I know I shall have the courage and the strength to face them. After all, I've seen the worst and this can, in no way, compare to what I've been through the past one year. But I shall hope, will hope.
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