Required: Idiot, one in number, age no bar, caste no bar, Mallu Manchester United Fan preferred

Doesn’t have that effect, does it? Let me elaborate…

Budding writers face problems that very few people do and low literacy prevalence is not one of them. Low literacy rate among the bloggers, that is.

Writers, who can overcome these hurdles, by learning to read and write, cannot rest at that for they shall have to acquire an editor now. For them acquiring an editor is cool and a very important step in the direction of literary stardom, for the general populace it is necessary that these Wodehouses-in-waiting get an editor each before afflicting the world with their creations.

I, as you notice, am yet to secure the services of a worthy editor.

Since the lack of a worthy editor has not come in the way of our newspapers to be published daily, an occasional blog post from my unchecked self sans a worthy editor will hardly matter. Anyway, a WORTHY editor like anything else, is just a matter of opinion, and as a personal discourse, not one person on the face of the earth is worthy of striking out a letter off my compositions, nay not myself.

This taken care of, we move onto the most difficult part of writing, viz. what should one write about. Politics I comprehend not and melancholic words I can scarcely rhyme. While an established writer can tuck himself in for a contented sleep after passing a write-up about “problems faced by budding writers” for a humor column, and they usually do, an aspirant can only choose a topic, drop it, choose it finally to re-drop it in the end while he waits for a literary brainwave.

Most humorists worth their Salt (NaCl, FCC 6, 6-coordination) overcome this predicament by turning to their wives to search for humor, and the obliging dearest seldom fails. While I have plenty of the former (predicaments), I had none of the later (wives) on the last count. I assure you of my unreserved efforts to the alter the situation, but I can hardly wait for Isha Ambani to turn 18.

Taking stock of the situation, I am left with two alternatives and none too easy.

One, I can indulge in some self-deprecating humor, which some say is the shortest way of taking a dame to bed. By some, I mean the dames themselves. A survey of British women has revealed that men who practice self-deprecating humor have the highest chances of taking a woman to bed. Another survey of the British female-kind revealed that most men who indulge in self-deprecating humor suffer from bad body odor. Neither do I have any chances of making a British woman read my self-deprecating humor nor do I believe that it will work for someone as well endowed with talents as myself, for all good humor, even self-deprecatory, must be rooted in reality.

Two, I can have one screwy blighter of my own who can feature regularly in my journal and spare me the pain of the choosing-dropping-re-choosing-dropping-in-the-end routine. Not that I believe George Bush has stopped being himself, or Vajpayee has lost his touch. One, these people can’t consciously stop themselves from being funny, it comes naturally to them. Two, even if they were to succeed in doing so, I think I they would still have enough farce about themselves to last a few generations.

However, what I have in mind is more intimate, personal stuff. Someone I know personally. You know, my personal punching bag, Mon propre shitpot. Some call it muse, and they come in all shapes and sizes, but most Indian humorists consider them as their close friends and also confer them with a nice mallu name.

This brings us to a discussion that led to development of yet another theory in our college days. The college I mention is probably the oldest and the most famous college in Delhi. The student strength of the college could broadly be divided into three ethnic groups, the Bongs (majority), the Mallus (the rest) and the rest of the rest. In the matter of Bongs, I shall refrain from commenting, but Mallus shall remain close to my heart. Also in certain aspects of the Mallu culture viz. their taxonomy, I consider myself an expert to an extent.

If you notice the last sentence in the previous paragraph ends like “… a nice mallu name.”

Bhaskar Bhushan, a friend of mine and a lover of all things Garhwali, once came up with the rationale behind sinister mallu names; you know, the method to the madness of sorts.

“Guidelines for mallu nomenclature” for the parents are as follows:

1.      The name you intend to confer upon the newborn must not be a monosyllable, lest you let his/her classmates have it too easy. (Joe is not okay)

2.      The name you intend to confer must not contain more than two syllables. (Josie is okay, Joshua is not)

3.      The name must not mean anything. (All hell breaks lose, a mallu child is named.)

 A very educative comment by the man himself should be incorporated at this juncture.

You should have given an example of #3. Jobin is okay, Shaju, Silja, Milja, Febin, Jimol, Boban, Mikmop are all acceptable names.

Rare few deep and meaningful conversations have been reported to take place in mallu households due to these guidelines.

Father: Let us call him Joy, signifying the happiness he brings in our life.

Mother: How selfish! Let us name him Chiru and let the happiness be universal.

So back to the problems of a budding writer, the explanation of the entire setup might have helped you to appreciate the first few lines of the post.

“Required: Idiot, one in number, age no bar, caste no bar, Mallu Manchester United Fan preferred”

Cleaning out my dreams for the usual affair,

I try to hide signs of time you weren’t there.

You sense her smell as our lips meet, something I won’t explain,

You walked out of our dreams midway, now you can’t complain.

I promise I was faithful in every possible way,

See, I do not mind lying if it can make you stay.

You need a reason to doubt, I need one to believe,

Soon as we find one each, its time again for you to leave.

Frustration is such a comfort in my seasons of mistakes,

Separation lingers on while one moment is all it takes.

Wondering why I’m keeping promises, I did not make,

The price I am paying for decisions I did not take.

Wading through broken memories, few questions remain,

They take us through that moment all over again.

I remember calling out, could you not hear my voice?

What else called louder, when you made that choice?

Any resemblance to a person or an event in real life is purely coincidental

Insights later…

“God is not fair. He loves me.”

I have seen your love and what has been,

A promise broken and a secret deep.

I was the dream you had not seen,

On the eventful night, you did not sleep.

“When the going gets tough, the tough takes a coffee break.”

- Tough’s wife in an interview to Tough’s drinking habit weekly      

…. And that is probably the only time this tough ever drinks coffee, if tough under consideration goes by a name that start with M, ends with L, and has R I D U in the middle, in the exact given order.

People have written ballads in extolment of coffee, some of whom I personally know. Others go overboard with adulation for it to show unswerving loyalty in a manner which suggests it gives them pleasures of the kind one does not talk about when old or children are part of the audience. For such, the worshippers and not the old and c., I have only one thing to say: next time you skim through the pretentious menu of the overpriced coffee shop, try a pint of beer sometime. It works better.

By now, you would have figured out that, I am no coffee worshipper, and I hate anyone who does so. To be completely honest, on a larger scale of things, I am a misanthrope, but I have a singular dislike for people with piety for the beverage.

However, it would clearly be a case of deceiving the audience if I say I do not drink coffee. I do drink coffee and in no small quantity for that matter. In fact, on very busy days, strong smell of coffee has been reported to emanate from my workspace, and a very similar scent has been sensed in restrooms as well. My boss has been seen noting a hurried point or two, presumably positive ones for my appraisal, as and when he gets a strong odor of the beverage with a justified presumption that Mridul Greenwold is working hard.

To cut a long story short, you must extend the story by at least a few sentences, for it to be noticed. Therefore, I resume. Coffee, one might say, is only my bad-weather friend (as in opposite to fair weather friends).

We are like two war-weathered comrades, having roughed many a fiery battles and breached many an enemy lines together. We first came together for 2003 War of Boards. We were together once again when boards reattacked in 2005. After the second attack, peace treaty was signed and we returned to our respective homes, into arms of our respective lovers. And when we thought we have already seen the last of each other, the chemists started their crusades and continued for three years, until truce was called and sanity restored.

The Joint Venture is mostly avoided but we would rather see each other, than face the battles of our lives alone. We do not share fond memories but the bond runs deeper than it seems.

Time for a few updates:

I am working now, so gone are the days of idle-atory at college, enter the days of idle-atory at work. They just can’t get me down.

I have also moved to a new place due to reason mentioned above which is very annoying. Moving, not the place. This means lesser time with family and friends and more time with people who will be your friends in due time. Place I am staying is great, couldn’t have asked for better.

With so many changes in my life, it’s strange that there is nothing I am looking forward to, except weekend maybe, but it has been the norm for last 3 years.

Few things I genuinely want to change in this world.

- My work schedule.

- The colors in the template we use for everything at work.

- The formal dress code at work.

- My shoes.

Sounds like work and world are interchangeable. “Tough luck mate, they got you down!” I hear you say.

Till ‘morrow.

Cheerio.

To those who have never had role models, this will not make much sense. To those who have or have had the habit of cultivating role models, this shall come as a moment of solemn reflection. To those who consider themselves to be someone’s role model, this shall come across as a realization.

This shall also come across, to all, as a product of unemployed neurons on one sloth of an afternoon.

An intelligible man once commented upon the habit of putting disclaimers upfront. I have been editing them out of my previous blog entries but today I let it in. This, he implied, brings into light your fear of not being accepted. Insecurity some call it. Right probably, but after typing out this shit you are already too tired to go back and cut it out. We shall not tear through the article, neither shall we look over our shoulders to double check. We shall trudge along at a leisurely amateur typing speed, careful not to leave our role models very far behind.

Speaking of which, I implore you to think for a while about this entity- Role Model. This is the person you emulated during the vital growing years of your life. I mean emulate in its complete sense. Not just when-in-Rome-do-as-romans-do routine, but proper walk-talk-rock like him/her thing. In the long run even this is practically the Rome routine but that is beside the point. Point being, what has become of them now?

As I dig up people I used to dig (clever, huh?), I am surprised, and not very pleasantly. Some are still around and probably will be for years to come. Some I am barely in touch with due to lack of time. Some I am not in touch with and time has got nothing to do with it.Also, some I forget, which in itself says a lot.

I am not sorry for them, or maybe I am, wrongfully so, but I have a theory to explain this. At this rate I shall have a theory of/for everything very soon.

Let’s set down a few postulates to explain the same.

1)      Role model is at a value higher than that of emulator on the tangent of emulator’s growth/change.

2)       Rate of growth/change of emulator is generally greater than that of role model on the tangent on which emulator is grows/changes.

3)      The role model and the emulator need not grow/change on the same tangent but to gain a perspective on their relative growth/change we observe the reflection of one’s growth/change on the tangent of other. This is generally the case where even if there is not much difference in their rate of growth/change we observe that due to disparity in the tangent of growth/change, the emulator is able to catch up and eventually overtake the role model.

Also in this case we grow to respect our role models nonetheless for we know that they grow on some other tangent.  

4)      Psychological state of a person can be completely defined by its position in space and time.

5)      There is no absolute frame of reference, no maximums and zeroes, only average Joes and weirdoes.

6)      Growth/change of one as a reflection on the other is given by the absolute change multiplied by the cosine of the angle between the tangents of the two. This angle, therefore, is the measure of disparity between the 2 tangents.

There arises, at times, if only to test our characters methinks, an eventuality when a person’s growth/change is in direction opposite to ours, and we conveniently presume our direction to be positive and the person’s negative. Since there are no zeroes and maximums, there arise no chances of it being positive or negative. Just because we have eyes only in the front does not mean we do not have the capacity to look around. Strange how we are always moving ahead and people are either digressing or downright opposing.

While we judge people by their position on our tangent, or worse still their rate of growth/change on our tangent, shouldn’t we be judging people, if at all, by their absolute rate of growth/change?

Truly, a sloth of an afternoon, huh?

P.S.  About the disclaimer thingy, I don’t think I suffer from the fear of not being accepted. Of not being understood? Probably. Of being misunderstood? Definitely.

Yeh na thee hamari qismat keh wisaal-e-yaar hota
Agar aur jeete rahtay yehi intezaar hota

Tere waade par jiyee ham to yeh jaan jhoot jana
Keh khushi se mar na jaate agar sach yeh aitbaar hota

Yeh kahaan ki dosti hai bane hain dost naaseh
Koi chaarasaaz hota koi ghamghuzar hota

Kahoon kis se main keh kya hai shab-e-gham buri balaa hai
Mujhe kya bura tha marana agar ek baar hota

Huay mar keh ham jo ruswa huay kyun ka gharq-e-dariya
Na kabhi janaza uthata na kahin mazaar hota

Yeh masaael-e-tasavvuf yeh tera bayan ghalib
Tujhe ham wali samajhate Joh na badaakhwar hota.

T R A N S L A T I O N
I N
E N G L I S H

It was never in my fate to meet my beloved.
Even if more years of life was to me allocated, I would have been still awaiting the prize cherished.

If you think that I had been living on your promise, it is a lie.
For, if I had faith in you, would not of joy I would die.

Woe betide, my friendship, that the friends give pious advice and sermons they deliver.
I need someone on whose shoulders could I weep, who could allay my grief and my fears.

Whom should I tell that the night of sorrow is full of pangs.
I would not have resented the death, if it comes only once.

Disgraced, as I was after my death, why didn’t I drown in a river or sea.
Neither, there would have been a funeral, nor tomb erected for me.

The marvels of ethical problems and your statements full of meanings.
I would have counted you, “Ghalib” amongst dearest friends of God; if only, you had not been a lover of drinks.

When you read this you understand what Byron talked about when he wrote:

“To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?”

All grossly unfair.

This is my first post for the heck of posting, With so much chemistry in my life right now its hard to think rationally, let alone creatively for anything worthwhile. Till happy days.

Truly something else!

If I lose grace, what use can I put my faith to?

If I lose both, why should I continue living?

But since I have lost none, its thanks that I’m giving.

On a very unpleasant Thursday afternoon, some considerable years ago, in the Middle East, in the settings of a law court of the governor a question was asked. Never again has this question been asked, and answered, with the severity that affects the human kind as it was then. What the governor asked the populace then I shall ask you now.

 Ladies and gentlemen, for the post may I now present before you – “Jesus who is also called Christ” and ask- 

“Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?”

And just to provide you with options of what all can be done, I shall enlist what all has been done by people who had to deal with the question and the person.

We can keep him in drawing rooms as show piece, take Him out, dust Him, shed a few tears for Him and then keep Him safe back in there lest He be hurt.

We can bind Him, nail Him and crucify Him, its tried and tested, it works.

We can keep him handy in our pockets putting Him to excellent use from crisis to crisis. (Much advised, especially for examinations)

 We can conveniently ignore Him on drinking binges and the nights that follow. (Much more advised)

 Most Christian take Him out every Sunday, some the Saturday before, but only after taking a bath, dressing up and wearing a nice cologne, lest he know.

Some, like me, don’t take Him out even then for I know I can’t fool him.

Some betray Him, or barter Him for better job, girl or place.

Some wear Him around their neck, some as white robes, some as cool t-shirts and some on their sleeves.

For some He goes well with incense, for some He goes well with a guitar. 

Some who profess to love Him can sit on his love, afraid to share or lose Him.

Best of all, some completely ignore Him; all they have to do is do nothing. By that they only postpone the decision.

I can go on but it hurts, all I want you to do is decide today, because you might make a foolish decision when confronted with the same during a crisis.

.

Circa 26 A.D., there was not one person who knew Him and realized what to do with Him until too late.

We know, do we realize?

“Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?”

PS:This post is stored under the category Infantspeak, for I speak only about what I know and understand, like an infant. Also because I do not know what is good for me and what is not. And lastly because there are some things I simply cannot do, not unlike an adult but very characteristic of a child.

Sun has drowned, fear grips in.

Down on my knees, I beg you please,

Make no noise, my soul would freeze.

I had a heart, I let it rot,

They say it hurts but I know not.

You crib about darkness, I’ve never seen light,

You damn the wrong, I’ve never been right.

All you saints suffocate me to death,

And I only thank you for my last breath.

rest of it muffled in hurried parting kiss,

words from my mouth, by luck did she snatch,

Or she would have heard of the Arsenal match!

“If I speak in human or angelic tongues,  but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body [to hardship] that I may boast,  but do not have love, I gain nothing.

     Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

     Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.  For we know in part and we prophesy in part,  but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.  When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.  For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

     And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

For people who do not know where this is from, this is a part of the greatest love letter ever written.

Blame his lame spirit, call it his wit,
He lost out a few times but never lost it.
He was no sprinter, nor would he last the long run,
He ran and he stumbled, clearly he wasn’t the one.

Bruised, he scrambled, keeping painfully at it,
But one blissful morning, he woke up and quit.
Now, he strolled past the playa’s, who sat awhile to rest,
And sat with some others, only at their behest.

He met with some wrong’uns; they formed a merry band,
And took a mighty U-turn, who cares for the end.
In the final picture, whatever their quest,
All fooled themselves, though some earlier than the rest.

No seriously, as they ask in the IBM promo, “What makes you special?” Think about it. The mind-boggling figure you share this space with, and all of them quite like you.You may be a result of try-outs of a new position, or worse, miscalculation of days or worse still, the bubble in the rubber. And that is just the start, literally. You might have been the sperm who won over others, but  thousands won that day. You share your birthday with thousands and your birth date with a lot more. Don’t be surprised if your very minute was hijacked as well. 

You shared your school with different thousands, and you fought with them for one of the front seats, or the last, if you please. If you go to a good college, you leave behind the billions and join ‘the’ million. Employed? Join the club comprising half the world. Unemployed? Join the other half. Millionaire? There are more than a million millionaires.Noble prize winner? A lot of you have come and gone. Married? Unmarried?  Nothing is out of the world and that applies for your girlfriend/boyfriend as well, and Single has always been a popular and overcrowded category around here.

I hate the IBM commercial, but it also makes me realize the vainness of the emotions like jealousy, hatred and most of all pride. I do not have anything particular against these except what a self-righteous person is justified to have. They just seem out of place. Love and other nice sounding words might give you a reason to live and feel special, but what purposes do these have?

And as some very, very wise man once said, “Sorry for the mess.”  

“In these hard times we can hardly afford a conscience or self esteem.”

                                                                                                         - Mridul

Three summers ago, during an examination, during an important examination, I asked the girl sitting behind me the monomer of PVC. Though I knew it, I wasn’t too sure. Simple task, easily done. Unless you are the kind with a conscience. Now my conscience talks to me in a booming baritone. No gentle whisper, no timid nagging. I think it needs to be taught a lesson. Or rather, I can’t make up my mind.

Anyway, I copied it down because it completed my section nice and round. It was not the first time I cheated and it was not the last. I fared well in the exam, in fact the best of all my subjects. But this is one memory I find hard to deal with. Maybe because it was an important exam. Or maybe because nothing is important enough for conscience.

A word in honor of all those who do not cheat. I have seen many geniuses, the kinds that do not need to cheat, but I know of a girl, bright alright, who simply would not cheat. I have seen her faring bad too, flunk; I’m not sure if she ever did, But has never cheated.I have a lot of respect for you, and everyone else who does not cheat. Thanks for keeping the ideals unattainable.

I am not here to praise anyone, neither am I trying to pinch your conscience awake. I did not cheat as a mark of respect of all honest  people. Kudos.

Not that I will not cheat from now on, but I heard another voice today. Lot milder almost lost. It was not conscience, for it had stopped bothering me a long time ago. 

For that, I’m not sure if I hate it or am grateful to it. 

Written for  a  real person very close to me.

You know Lord that I’m a broken man,
taking shattered dreams in stride.
And all the hope she’s pinned on me,
take shots at my left over pride.
You know that I’m grateful,
for making me the man that she so loves.
But Lord I pray you help me be,
the man that she deserves.

Love songs I know are too high,
and so are all her stars,
I might as well go fetching them,
but she still knows about past scars.
And when the stars are out and the day is done,
to show her all I can.
With all your help just grant me one,
last chance to STAY her man.

I might need a lot more grace,
but Lord you have your way,
no matter what, no matter why,
just don’t let me say,
“You know Lord that I was grateful,
that you made me the man she loved.
But Lord you never let me be,
the man that she deserved.” 

This is what came out  when I fell in love for the first time. A lot of people will disagree but I refuse to justify. Glad to still have THE person in my life. Love you kid.                                                                              

And they say that our hero would save us…”

Perfect start for a blog of a hero worshipper like me. 

Our Hero,
to do what He does the best, bash the odds. It’s amazing how the odds are always stacked against him even with all those superpowers. 

Our Hero,
Someone we love to love, for the lack of adorable people in our lives. 

Our Hero, not necessarily someone we look up to or would like to become. 

Our Hero, extremely handy, and a must for daily household chores. 

I fall prostrate in awe and thank my hero for being who He is.