im never myself

and never for myself

and that was why

i had dug down the sand

for some short messages

the bucket was deep

and the sand mostly dry

i took it out one after other

bucket in hand 

i emptied my messages

and my world went tring tring

no one knew where i had hid

such was the load

of unread messages

i was dog tired

but i still tried and tried

to keep the messages

away from my sleepy mole

but i couldnt

that is the quality of sand

Passion is the mousetrap.
words come
nocturnal, like desires; they sniff.

The aroma is irresistible.
The hunger for fame,
The greed for love,
The need for success,
The urge to leave a mark.

There could have been
A torrent of passion consuming everything,
A hurricane taking everything away,
A waterfall cascading, pleasing the senses.

But these words need a mousetrap.
Let us play around;
Unsuspecting -
Push our luck.

Will we get caught?
Who knows!
Let us give in to the greed!

1 - Contradictions

I think I know now
a lone tree and silent wind
can't be together

2 - Request

speak to me, waterfall !
can you hear my soft voice,
as I call out your name?

3 - Conversations

flurries, they speak to
each other, in sylvan tongue
and whitewash our words

4 - Expiation

Tangled web of desires
start to follow the colours of the day.
By then it is too late.

5 - Picture perfect

Consider the clouds:
wafting over the mountains;
blackening the valley

6 - Exploration

a lone traveler
all snow - an evaluation;
clouds his company

7 - Contrasts

Studies in contrast:
the white rabbit with pink ears,
green grass, red flower.

8 - Enervation

dreamy morning scene
so unlike like my cityscape
while I rush to office

9 - Music in the park

swans in a pond
so much colour around
its a symphony

10 - Regret

steps to my heaven
scattered with spoiled steps
unforgiving past

There was no warning at all.
The snow flakes came down dancing
And the new joy
Of running out to the sidewalk
To catch the flurries
As they drained out.
I hung my nose out to catch them.

Some words are always prophetic.
Mama had scolded, back in time,
'Son, be careful, you catch
A cold too soon'.

Forty three years:
A mother's words.

My hair was under wraps,
My gloves were pure leather,
My feet had boots strapped almost upto my knees
My ears had plugs
And neck covered in a shawl
And the ski cap hung tightly to my forehead
My overcoat dared not dance with the wind

And then they came;
These flurries of my life.
They had no fear.
They were perfect like crystal.

May be a child
Could have put out a tongue
And caught those snowflakes
Dancing down the aisles
And sidewalks of a street.
But I am no more one.
This is my busy life,
I have children of my own
And I teach the young and the old.

Is there any shame in catching
The flurries as they dance?
Shall I stick my tongue out
And let them melt?
No, No, Not yet! I held back
And I hung my nose out to catch them.

It is not everyday that you actually meet someone who has the mission of making a difference to the lives of others. I have tended to think of such persons as bombastic busybodies unnecessarily interfering with well-meant but ill-suited advice. My good friend of college days, used to refer to what he termed the 'Dale Carnegie syndrome' ( For those who didn't know - he was the famous writer of the self help masterpiece ' How to win friends and influence people'). We have many followers of this genre, made of our own stock now. The latest book of such ilk that I recently read was ' Who will cry when you die?' by Robin Sharma of Toronto. It is a surprisingly well written book and has many gems reinforcing the humanness that we need to enjoy our lives and to carry on with our lives effectively.

I have myself been in need of reaffirmation of my sensitivity, and had been looking for divination of the reasons for my personal obsessions, to understand the nooks and corners of mind from where my ghosts have been waking up, and to disentangle myself from the sudden bouts of irritation and anger which has been marking my behaviour recently. Robin Sharma has been a help. There are passages in his book (ideally read one chapter a day) which have jolted me into thinking about myself in a different light and also elevate Dale Carnegie in my esteem. Digressions aside, let me get back to what I started to relate.

I had been invited to attend the meeting of the local plant and flower lovers' association ( I understand it is an honour, especially for some one like me who lives in an apartment and owns no property in Bhubaneswar. I was expected to be at the meeting at 10:00 a.m. sharp; a tough task for someone like me, who revels in late night reading and extended morning reveries. I did manage to start from home in time and reach the park where the function was organised. Unfortunately, the gate keeper at the park did not have any intimation that I will be a guest and did not allow my car in. I had to drive around and find a place to park and thereafter lug my weary legs to the spot where the flowers and plants were gathered. I arrived to a grand welcome from the patrons of zinnias and gerberas. The poor folks were not probably expecting the outburst I made when I reached there. It was out of my character as well. Mr. Mohapatra was the person who had invited me for the function; he was of course very very embarrassed that his guest was making such an ass of himself. To his credit he kept his counsel well and to my credit my own irritation was quite short-lived.

One hour so among the flowers, some photos, and soon I was back to my office. It was quite a surprise to meet Mr. Mohapatra at my office later that afternoon. It was a sudden decision by him to drop into my office and look me up. After the usual pleasantries we settled down to chatting about what Mr. Mohapatra does. He is a successful businessman and industry leader and a creative genius as well. He has set aside a big part of his time to creating nutritional supplements for the rural folk and runs a pilot project of synthesising a wonder pill, which he distributes to the under privileged children as part of mid day meal.

His other activity is to advocate quality consciousness and creating the right attitude towards quality among the businessmen and executives all over India. You guessed it right, he is one of those persons who we generally classify under the genre of motivational speakers. I was quite impressed no doubt, as he counted the names of institutions and companies who have made use of his talent. A well read person with a powerful grasp of the idiom and an ability to reach out to the emotions of the listeners. I have no doubt he had all the ingredients of a powerful communicator.

At the end of our discussions, which went on for many enjoyable hours, he gave me a gift, which I value very much. A sixteen page leaflet style publication, with a yellow cover. The back cover carried a brief introduction of the author and a smudgy photograph. The front cover had a very unflattering title - " Life's little instruction book". The contents were dynamite. Like the nutrition pills Mr. Mohapatra manufactures, these were small pills of wisdom, to be taken one at a time. Small pithy sentences such as " Never overrate your capacity to change others", "Always accept an outstretched hand", "Gratitude is wealth, complaint is poverty", etc.

After reading through one page of the booklet, I sought Mr. Mohapatra's permission to make photocopies and send them to my colleagues. He readily agreed. I have not done it yet, because I realized that over 500 wise adages cannot be digested in a single day and these are better spread around slowly. I now have a mission; to send as short mobile messages to my colleagues everyday one from the big collection so graciously lent to me. It is my way of honouring a person of eminence; this blog as well.

What i wrote so far probably explains part of the title. Definitely there is no nonsense here. Nonsense is what I write. Nonsense is good if it has entertainment value. Poetry is good if it captures emotions, if it is musical or if it is cerebral. T. S. Eliot is cerebral -

"we measure our lives with coffee spoons"

cannot have been written in a moment of spontaneity. Dylan Thomas is musical and cerebral -

"The force that through the green fuse
drives the flower drives my green age
that wilts the roots of trees
is my destroyer"

There is music here and definitely the urge to draw up and conjure images.

The problem with reading great poets is that they make you aware of your frailties. One suddenly becomes aware that nonsense is usually what gets written. Own pomposity takes over. I have no test for what I publish. If I did that I would never have keyed in (penned) a Blog. I have tried to be serious, emotional, mystical, comical, tried to laugh at myself, tried to entertain with mt turn of phrase. Don't know if I succeeded, but there have been moments of exhilaration, when a good reader like P.K. Madhavan, who so well exposed to good writing lets you know that he liked it. Or when Rajesh Vora trumpets to the world at large that Nandan has it. Or even when I get a message that my absence from the blogosphere has been too long and is now noticed. Or when Rediff puts the blog on the home page.

One year , and 52 blogs later I still do not if I am sermonising or dishing out nonsense. But nonsense makes good verse, if the blurb or the reviews of the book 'The Tenth Rasa' are to be believed. I have not yet bought my copy, I plan to do it soon. It is probably the best collection of nonsense verse from India to be published. I understand that it also includes translations from Indian languages as well. I am not certain if the Malayalam poet 'Kunjunni' is represented in the collection. One of his verses I can never forget runs like this

" Get me a lip,
Get me a palm,
Get me a matchbox,
Let me smoke and enjoy a beedi"

Ogden Nash could not have written this, - the American sentimentality can carry him only to

"Candy is Dandy
But liquor is quicker"

William Carlos Williams attracts me more when he writes

"So much depends
On the red wheel barrow
standing by the side of
the white chicken"


or when he writes

"This is just to say
that the food
you left in the fridge
was so delicious"

One of these days I will catch up with some living, and some long departed writers who got caught up in their own nonsense. I will soon own a copy of "The Tenth Rasa". But before that happens, I also plan to catch up with the " Book of General Ignorance" - but that will be my subject matter for another blog. Till then...

I have been a member of the ILand now for one year. Thanks Balakrishnan, Sandeep and all others who make Iland such a wonderful experience, thanks Rajesh Vora (the Tamil Gujju) and other friends, who actually read what I wrote, fortunately not in iambic pentameter, but mostly in mysterious, unfathomable words, and made out meanings. Thanks all those living and dead painters and artists, whose works I have shamelessly copied and pasted along with my words

No picture this time, I may add one later though. but there is certainly an attempt to versify. Dedicated to Di for whom my generation did hold a candle in the wind.


I feel I am at the centre of the world,
It can only revolve
As long as I revolve

Not yet, not yet
My words need to be controlled.
Truth is a penguin lost in the icy seas,
Or a dolphin gasping for breath
In the oily lake's waters,
Or the clam hoping for the wave
To take her back from the sand,
No, it is a tiger dying from the wounds
Infected with human greed
No acts as yet, mere words, words, words
And nothing else.

How can I continue like this, away from my usual self?
No nonsense, this! let me (di)versify.
Let me call it a day.

What
is the best thing
a man can hope for
in a day of dire misfortune?

a few foolish thoughts
having no bearings
in the reality
of the surroundings?

Till drought comes
Water
I will dam these breasts of yours
till no tear goes waste
I will bind your flow
till no seed dies of thirst
Water
you gave me life
Now I will fill your grooves
from your current
draw my strength
make my arms my tentacles
that no man dares to swim
above the tide
Water
for you I will build canals
and then I will bask
till the rhythm of my dreams
draw out clouds
and make them come down in torrents

Next to no one,
Next to nothing,
Next to nowhere,
I am here in this lonely city;
Lost in the winter of apathy-
Waiting for a call.
Can I know when
The phone will ring
Transfering the homely spring?
Will you remember to let me know
What you feel when
You find that the night has flown?
This is no game of love.
Here far apart hearts have to meet.
Give me back the warmth of the southern sun
Make me feel no more forlorn.

This is in some way a celebration, a celebration of having done 50 blogs, of having found more than 50 friends, opened out my inner self, done that on a consistent basis and what not.

It is not easy to compose ones thoughts when James Bond is racing away on the mini screen and Halle Berry looking enchantingly beautiful. I am not exactly a James Bond fan, but I haven't seen most of them, though I have read with eager anticipation each and every one of the original Ian Fleming novels.I grew up with the Sean Connery starrers.I was fan of the macho. I learnt that wines needed tasting and cigars flavours and a true gentleman also needed love fast red cars. Famous heroines, more famous villains. What a way to grow!

But why am I writing about James Bond? This was meant to be a celebration!

When we were truly young, no celebration was complete without Subbu. I do not know why I liked Subbu , picked up friendship with him, shared his way of instant geniality, loved his inane rhyming. There is something remarkable about him, a magnetic pull which attracts some and repels some. He was a joke a moment type, I was the serious kind, reading 'Seminar' (now defunct magazine which was banned during the Emergency) with breakfast, read Pable Neruda to sleep. I was the arts graduate, he the engineer. I was the gangling youngster with no style, he was the young man with style. I liked to act that art movies with unknown faces attracted me more and secretly slunk away to watch Amitabh Bachhan cavorting with his lady in 'Amar Akbar, Anthony' and Subbu was more at home with slapstick comedy but ever ready to bear three hours of pure slow drama.

So what is the connection with my celebration?

Quite simple, This is my fiftieth Blog and I need to dedicate it to someone and who will be better than Subbu, my friend, who I am certain will read it and enjoy it and add his comment. 
   
Thanks everyone, tyhanks Rediff for giving me a voice.