Narrow lanes.

Brick-lined curbs.

Scattered rows of human hearth.

And then the never ending road

Stubborn not to end.

Loopy smoke

Jaded clouds

Smiling men in rainbow shrouds

Walking down the treaded path

Stopping by the bend.

Eager eyes.

In teary mess.

Drinking down the loneliness

Peppered with the bitter snack

Of love not making way.

Hatred frowns.

Freeze in time.

Lavenders with lilies rhyme

Joyous dance the young at heart.

Lose the squandered day.

Power-FOOL People

It sometimes feels silly how we all revel in the "sense of power" that we think we wield in our tiny little spheres.

This feeling that makes us feel worthy, formidable, respected and more than anything a little "powerful" is much like a heady drink. But not knowing where and when to stop pushing the buttons can only hurt one's ego. And 'powerful people' generally have a 'super-strong EGO'. And a hurt ego is like a festering wound. It never heals, no matter how much time has passed or how much rubbish has been heaped over it, just to keep it from surfacing every now and then. A strong ego along with a strong memory is recipe for "injury" - A injury which never heals and in many ways is proudly self-destructive.

Again, there are people who feel "powerful" just by being manipulative. They think they can prevail by the virtue of their high office alone. "Bosses" are often labeled under this category. But out of the hundred odd whose future this 'one' boss smugly believes himself to be fashioning, sitting in his plush cabin, there is always one who takes it all with a self-assured smile that indicates that 'the legacy of feeling falsely powerful' has been furthered. And the cycle goes on.

But there is a certain obvious pride in having a consistent character. Not having one only makes the associated 'EGO' look out of place and ludicrous.

As they say, somethings are just meant for " Neighbour's Envy. Owner's Pride".

Attention Earthlings !!!!!!

I wonder why my other blog never gets enough attention.
Even from me.

It has been subjected to such utter neglect that I, like that vicious step-mother in Bindu, did not even wish my blog a 'Happy Budday' on the 15th of this August. And it had just turned a fumbling one - that precarious stage in a blog's life when it is unsure if it will see the next summer of clicks and comments or join thousands that augment the cyber-mortality ratio every year. That tender age when it needs all the care and nurturing that the world in general and its single father/mother in particular can provide. ( Note the 'it' which puts the gender of the blog under the 'neuter' category- Another outrage of modesty borne out of confusion and callousness)


What are it's faults, I ask you ? What terrible torture does it inflict on it's readers ( or does it have any I ask ) ? How can one ever hope to improve upon its import? Does it at all have a future ?


Will posting scathing reviews of otherwise popular films help ? Or do I need to embed videos of rural lasses breaking into a jig in all their florid glory? Or do I write something so repulsively communal that my blog is renamed 'The Involved Shiv Sainik' or 'The Enraged Sangh Sevak' ?


Is the writing too tepid ? Or the views too balanced ? Or is it that a little suggestion of the carnal is so flagrantly bypassed every time, almost justifying the 'neuter' gender issue raised above ?


I think I should just quietly put my contacts to use and ask one of my friends studying MBA to do a market feasibility report on my blog ? If it will see another summer without the above 'extras' or silently perish ? If I have 'it' in me to fashion a complete makeover for it and 'jazz' it up ( whatever that means) a little ?


Or blast a galactic highway through all the above suppositions and nervous speculations, and quote Ogden Nash again( for reference read the last to last to last post).


I think I will do that. ( Suggestions are more than welcome though)


Yours truly,
The Unemployed Indian.

My Room-mate for Life

Pain shares its room with me.

Dry, desolate and dreary.

Sometimes crying out in unheard wails,

Weeping in tears of moist salinity

I look with innocent wonder at his wet cheeks,

Admiring the defiant ambers of extinguished hope.

There are moments, when some profound deep emotion

Stirs within his bleeding heart.

His eyes show only a thin screen of gathering red.

A shade not as crimson as the dying tide in the lap of the setting sun

But a shade closer to a mountain stream

Bathed in the blood of fallen knights.

Defiant in death. Glorious amidst gore.

A shade which is more an admission than a mystery.

I discover that he feeds nonchalance to fight despair.

Gazing at him in honest awe, I wonder.

Pain shares his room with me.

Dry, desolate and dreary.

Dust gathers on my books and his,

Reminding us both of a prolonged slumber.

Yet, pretense makes us look beyond

Our horizons of comforting agony.

Life escapes in a shameless trickle

Dancing a naked, vulgar dance of crude mockery.

As a victor to a vanquished, as a master to a caged beast.

Me, quiet on my callous couch-

Remain a silent spectator to this torrid tussle.

Ignorant if to enjoy or empathize.

My friend weeps in sincere surprise

Or sense of loss. I wouldn’t know.

Pain shares his room with me.

Dry, desolate and dreary.

I amuse myself with his poems sometimes.

They leave my mind crippled and heart numbed.

I feel a lurking trauma unfathomable in disguise.

Still, at every sunset when I steal glances at him

I see dusk diffusing from his forlorn face to fit the sky.

His features the image of apocalypse.

He frightens me sometimes.

Yet, at times, Silent, Serene and Solemn

He meditates in search of some primitive peace.

I worship his poise at those times.

I admire his creations which speak of him.

Telling a tell of frozen despair.

I feel they are not for love or life.

For love touched him, warped him and left him torn.

A Cosmic joke stares back at me.

I decide to console him not.

Let Pain be Pained.

Let Pain be at Peace.

Not meant to mean a thing.

Siblings of my tortured soul

Dancing to their grave.

Dragging feet on Existence

Life and Death fondle Pretense

The butcher comes out brave.

Every stare dipped in drug

Tethered to some sorrow.

Tranquil tremors mock at me

Apprehensions peep to see

Will there be ‘tomorrow’ ?

Sinking voices clutter thought

Mindless masks in place.

Lust-drunk fingers feel for her

Stealing across barbed wire

She blushes half-undressed.

2008 - 2007 = 1

It's a little late perhaps, but, as we Bangalis are of the habit of prolonging our Bijoyaa greetings till Kaali pujo, I hereby take the opportunity to wish you all

A Very Happy and Prosperous New Year

in the truest Bangaali spirit and the attendant languorous bliss.

Well, it has already been three full days into the new year and it's still the 'same old story' with my life. Nothing seems to have moved an inch.

Complaining and complaining profusely is not in my nature. So, I hereby preclude all such aspersions which are on the verge of being cast on me, of being a 'hopeless sulker'.
I am actually content that nothing seems to be changing that much with me or my life. Some how, I have grown to become fond of stagnation which, I guess, I take for stability.

So, here's hoping for an Indian batting collapse in Adelaide, a drowning monsoon in Kolkata, a glut of bandhs and hartals to provide lazy afternoon siestas to middle-aged Sorkaari clerks, numerous ways to celebrate my infinite unemployment, a new set of 'gulp-downable' gyaans on a multiplicity of issues, a final adieu to my college, 'spreading sweetness and light' everywhere (i.e being true to my name) and helping at least one person realize the goal of his being and in the process exploring the same probing question for my own sake.

The New Airtel ad

The new AIRTEL ad really moved me. The idea that communication can dissolve boundaries between States and join people has that sort of an effect on me. Always. It gives me goosebumps.

The people behind making this ad really deserve praise. In times when everything from soap bars to sedans are marketed using the attention holding abilities of the unclad female body or star-power of film personalities, the idea of portraying a simple human story woven into the framework of an eternally relevant message is undeniably brave and positively reassuring.

The simple story where two little boys from two sides of a barbed wire fence decide to play football on what is understandably a 'no man's land' (LOC) conveys a simple message, but that which has a universal appeal. There is a certain sense of defiance in the way the two kids cross their borders to engage in a sport, ironic with a blissful disregard for human boundaries, consumed by their juvenile frivolity and characteristic innocence.
A swarm of thoughts flooded my mind on catching the ad for the first time on TV today.
It reminded me of Frost's 'Mending Wall'. It reminded me of the futility of divisions among humans. And how we all are a party to it.


I congratulate the team behind the concept of the ad. AIRTEL has been a leader in the way they market their product in a responsible manner and some of their previous advertisements bear ample testimony to that.

Here's another from their stable that touched me. Long back.




Video: Courtesy: Youtube.com
Logo: Google.com