Purple Haze

The splendid stuff looks green
On the surface, without a sheen.
Rolled into a pure white paper
Nothing looked more clean and safer.

Passed around with a whimper,
It belonged to us like a finger.
The distance between us was short,
And the pleasure that struck me was tart.

Slowly as the lungs heaved,
None of us ever bereaved.
The smoke sank in deeper
As we kept floating higher.

My life was colored purple and grey,
As my moods danced to a rhythmic sway.
And then I began crying,
For all the memories that came flying.

But in a jiffy I was delirious,
Don’t know what was hilarious!
My mind was a purple haze,
Sliding past a maze in a daze.

For what must have been many hours,
I had none of my human powers.
Lost in the world of delusion,
My dream was one big illusion.

That was when the days were glorious,
With an attitude that was spurious.
We romped our way through life,
Like a comet tearing the skies.

But now my life is no illusion,
Nor is there any confusion.
The smoke crept through my blood and veins,
to shatter my life to despicable ruins.

The haze has vanished,
and so has my life.
But there is no point ruing,
The day I started doping.

What's in a NAME?

Ambarish. I love my name. I adore it. An unique identity. One of it’s kind. Fashionable and presents the image of a suave aristocrat. A rare spectacle in my state amongst the more prevalent balajis, aruns, srinivases, santoshes, venkats and the krishnas. A peculiar happening in a city where most of the grandchildren have their grandparent’s name and hence a whole family survives on just 2 or 3 names. Bless my dad for giving me such a name and also bless him for not giving me the name vandhiyadevan which he thought suited me better. His intentions were noble, I agree, but bless my mom too for not letting him do that. Bless my dad again for not letting my mom name me Balaji. Imagine my life with a name like vandhiyadevan, a legendary Tamil warrior. My friends would have called me vandhi, short for vandhiyadevan which translates to puke in Tamil. So much for the legendary war hero! I would have been famous, no doubt, for people would have just called me just for comic relief. My name would have been in everyone’s mouth, fitting for its Tamil translation.


I was christened R.Ambarish when I stepped into my earthly abode, r for my dad’s name, Ravichandran. We tamilians do not have a surname, just the father’s name which constitutes the initial before the name. Ambarish means the sky god, which my friends are so much familiar with now and frown upon, after my innumerable rants. But to stick my thumb under their noses, it was with this explanation that my first job interview started, which ended with me bagging the job. It’s the name of an epic character from The Mahabharata, the great-great-grandson of Arjuna, again a story well known in my friends circle. All was well till then, until something happened on that fateful day. My dad came to know about a famous (?) numerologist and with my uncle as his accomplice embarked on the journey that changed my life forever, from extra-ordinary to truly extra-ordinary. The astrologer summoned all his knowledge and prowess to totally mutilate and annihilate my beautiful name. All the numbers added up to a staggering preposition and the consequence is the present form, S.R.Sriambharrish. The result of all the calculations was the extra r and h and the sri which is supposed to enhance my wealth. Must say that it hasn’t done much till now! At least he didn’t end up adding an x,y or a z in my name.


I had to endure the occasional jibes at the extra r and h in my name, what with people driving cars with their mouth when pronouncing the extra h. Point driven home my friends. As if this wasn’t enough, there was always the embarrassing juncture when I had to explain how my name was among the last few names in the class roll though my name was ambarish. My friends just called me ambu, which would have been the case even in the original form. This was ok, actually good and I liked it pretty much, though I despised the occasional ambi, amba, amber and ambuli. The nick name I would have liked to have had is ambush rhyming with George Bush, which gave a sense of grandeur and power. But all this I could endure with a wry smile.


My life went on, until another defining moment arrived. I was the day I cannot forget ever, the day I filled the passport application form. It was a bright shiny day, but there were thunderstorms in my world. Huge, dark, gloomy clouds lumbered over my head. The realization hit me like a typhoon, that I hadn’t suffered anything at all compared to what was to come in the near future. There it was, looming large in front of my eyes, the column which asked for my surname. What was my surname? It was the expansion of SR, Srinivasan Ravichandran, Srivasan being my great-grandfather’s name. Back to square one, the square I hate the most. The square of the commoners. The srinivasans are back in my life. The name that spells terror to me. The name, when u call out makes at least 10 people turn in a small crowd, thinking that they were being called. The name that a kid in every third bench in school has. The name that I had ridiculed all my life. That was the first blow. The second one struck me even harder. I was filling the applications for a MS degree in the USA. I was entering my surname in the given column when the name got truncated. Srinivasan Ravichandran had become Srinivasan Ravichand. I transformed overnight from a Tamil Brahmin down-south to a northerner. Chandran became Chand and I became stunned. The column didn’t have enough space to contain my surname. My sufferings and anger became manifold. Woe was I, when a horrendous realization dawned upon me. People in the USA referred to others by their surname. So I was going to be called Mr. Srinivasan Ravichandran, or worse Mr. Srinivasan. I fought with my dad and made him agree that he made a terrible mistake 21 years ago. But now it’s too late. I cannot possibly change my name in all the legal documents, for there were simply too many. It would take a name with many more `lucky’ syllables in it to endow me with the kind of luck to get the herculean task completed before I die.


So, am still living with it, afraid of all the ignominy I would have to face in the faraway land. My mind is still a vortex of misery as I sit now waiting and trying not to think of the unspeakable torture that awaits me. Who was the guy who said ` what’s in a name?’

the guy who couldn't complete anything...

In days of yore, in the court of King Akbar, there lived a man, secretly called the perfectionist, who used plot in liaison with the king. Unofficially regarded as the 10th gem in his court. The secret taskmaster of Akbar. He went around disturbing people’s mundane activities too, in the name of finishing it well. Well, not for long. One fateful day, he rubbed the wrong side of an old lady. She cursed him to imperfection. He would never complete anything in his next birth.

Let’s travel a few centuries down time…into the city known for its mouth watering delicacies, the Mecca for the worshippers of dosa, vada and sambhar, madras of mushrooming mega malls. Down it’s by lanes we walk and stare right into the rebirth of the perfectionist, presently completing (?) a sumptuous meal. Since a few centuries have passed, the full power of the curse had worn off, but the hangover was still there.

But no one told anything about his luck, did they? Well, God had plans for this guy. ‘Son take lots of luck with you, if you not gonna complete anything, you goddamn require a lot of luck’. That was quoting God, on that fateful day, feeling sorry for his favourite child. Well, even gods can’t revoke curses, if you didn’t know that for a fact. The woman was forced to be reborn as a politician in 21st century India, and god thought that it was the fitting finale that she should get. Right now, she’s in the heart of bihar, managing lallo’s cowsheds, destined to make it big in politics with her unmatched experience in dealing with the cows.

During his childhood, his parents tried to nurture artistic skills in him. He was given a pencil and a paper to draw upon. The guy unleashed his mind. Ideas started prancing around…of palaces seated atop peaks, of sharks involves in heavenly dances underwater, of cheetahs piercing through the wind. With lots of thought and deliberation he settled down to dram a small little house with a well outside. When the well neared completion…zap..chg..pmm..pfft. This was how his interest made noise when it died out. But still his parents laminated it and sent it to the HINDU young world where it got selected for its unmatched simplicity and ingenuity.

Let the scene shift to the guy’s school sports day. The guy started as favourite for the high jump. But as he came near to the pole he walked off. There went his interest again. But the crowd watched in horror as the next guy jumped and broke his back as the cushion tore. Our guy watched it sipping a can of coke. That’s luck for you!!
Well, his Midas touch continued with his incomplete recipes as people though that they lacked a certain this thing that gave it a certain that thing.
And somewhere along the line someone got inspired by his life and made a motion picture called Forrest Gump.

Lets come to the crowning glory. There was this time when our guy was head over heal in love with a girl and decide to tell her about it. He created a nice surrounding and as he was about to blurt it out, he jus stopped. It happened again. The strange feeling, to stop whatever he was doing. The intoxication ended. Something alien had clamped his heart and locked his mouth. Then it all happened in slow motion. Along came another guy and lo and behold! He whips up magic out of nowhere and walks away with her to fairyland.
Is that the end of our hero? Let’s see…
Two months later they got married and headed for Greece. One month later they came back and headed straight for the family court. The beginning of the end.
All the readers who felt sorry for him feel happy.
For, he just escaped wedlock with a growing species of humans, who think that their own gender should get the 1st preference… even if its within the confines of the four walls of their bedroom…

So once again the day is saved, thanks to the powerpuff..oops.. the four letter word.
Now I have been writing for long and I have to… hey..zim…zap..zzt…pffft…

OBITUARY

Obituary...

Name - desire to watch the da vinci code..
Born -after reading the code an hearing about the on screen adaptation
Dead - 2 days back.. As the minorities gleamed before the government’s eyes
the long time desire got lost in a quagmire..
bereaved by – code fans all over the 5 states in India where it got banned. Goa, Punjab,
Tamil Nadu, Andhra, nagaland.


Finally the day has come and before we can realize it’s gone.
Finally the government has brandished its petty minion nature in banning the motion picture to safeguard its minority vote bank, which speaks volumes about the cherished leaders of our beloved state.
Finally my hopes have been successfully smashed.
Day before yesterday, as I was sipping hot coffee and skimming through the morning papers, something burned my throat. Didn’t no if it was the news or the coffee.
There it was in bold. An article stating that the da vinci was banned. Plethoras of reasons were given for banning.
The most amusing and ridiculous amongst them was a line stating that it hurt the sentiment of the Muslim population.
Can anyone please explain to me what connection the da vinci code had with Islam.
People are just waiting for a reason to portray themselves as the crusaders of minority rights. All this just a publicity gimmick for garnering votes.
Politics has cut deep into our society and smashed the very base of our fundamental right to speech and right to information.
Politicians target more the entertainment field. Their 15 minutes to fame.
Nowhere else there is more publicity. Taking to the roads for petty reasons rather than directing their efforts to something constructive.
Here are some things that they attempted, as in attacking the film industry recently
attacking kamal hassan for having a caste name for his film tamil virumaandi
unnecessarily torturing kushboo for her comments on the present day women
not allowing to show fanaa in theatres. Though it was not official, everyone knows it for a fact that it was masterminded by the ruling party.
Taking up to the roads to prevent tamil films from having English titles.
Finally the bottom-line.. the da vinci code.

This is just the tip of the ice berg, the more recent ones. There have been many more any and am sure many more will follow.

THE EXODUS

Among the clouds, in the skies,
where human beings look like flies,
an evil gleaming eye sees,
a crowd of humans, praying for peace.

Down below, people look up in panic,
as the plane’s antics become frantic.
It spits forth a pair of ‘deaths’,
Destined to win better bets.

It hits the ground with a roar,
burning up people on the floor.
A huge fireball explodes,
and gulps them in its stride.

The remaining life on the land bolt,
running along with nothing to hold.
Burdened with sacks on their back,
their knees tremble, as they walk on track.

The country where they were born,
Moments before, became another’s barn.
Familiar sights pass, of palm groves,
providing rest for nesting crows.

The glorious sight of the setting sun,
the cascading rivers that spell fun,
the majestic scene of standing trees,
for the last time now, people see.

With a brilliant silhouette as background,
People trod, banishing familiar ground.
What else do the people ask?
Other than a future that will last?

It is their for sure their destiny,
that they’ll loose hard earned money,
While their homes, occupied before,
Present a sight of blood and gore.

The time has arrived,
to bid farewell to their home.
The houses where they grew,
with memories fresh and new.

With a fervent prayer on their lips,
and children clinging on their hips,
the women and men leave their home
and thus begins the exodus.

THE AGD SYNDROME

Just as the bald eagle soaks the board in white,
We sit back as bored as bored can be.
Ducking our heads to avoid the stinging bite,
For we fear the raucous noise at our bloodshot eyes.

We look unto him for he has unparalleled concentration,
Unfazed by the rattling noises of our stomach.
Nothing stops him from torturing us with deliberation,
Neither the fluctuating current nor the chiming clocks.

For us it’s often a battle of wits,
To sit through without hurting our heads.
But seldom do we match his wits
For his stare saps half our threats.

The screeching sirens our only savior,
As only it can stop him forever.
We bask in our minute of glory,
As the next hitch enters with fury.

REMINISCENCES OF A CONFUSED MIND

As three and half years of my college life have come to an end, time has come to put pen onto paper.
Now is the time for retrospection. A general question everyone asks themselves is, ‘what I have achieved in these years?’. I would beg to differ and reinstate the things I have felt, thought, seen, learnt and unlearnt.

I still remember how pleasant it was as a tiny toddler to enter school. Entry into college was in complete contrast. It was a rude awakening. A complete shake-up. It was the first time many of us were going to stay alone. Our lives were placed completely in the hands of our seniors, the futile attempts of the hostel wardens notwithstanding.

Though hidden sources forewarned us of the shattering experiences of ragging and associated events, we, being suave wannabes, shrugged away the realities and believed ourselves to be invincible. Let me leave the gross details to imagination. Ragging, though started off in a lighter vein by an unassuming soul, assumed staggering proportions. The dual combination of mental and physical ragging tore us apart. As an upshot, we lived together like never before and like there was no after. The Spirit of unity flowed through our veins and we became comrades-in-arms. This was one thing that hostel thought us in plenty, which would never have hit us with our parents. Nostalgia flooded our corridors. We learned to adjust and accept. We learnt to adopt and adapt to the changing situations. There were many challenging situations which required immediate, clever getaways. Small fights to be solved amicably. Plethora of awkward situations to be doled out slyly.

The way we managed money was another thing we learnt. Now we were adults with full fledged bank accounts and ATM cards, which we swiped at our whims and fancies. Though most of us ended up overspending and asking for more (there were some who saved too, to our amazement!!), it thought us the basics of spending, sharing, insights into accounting, money management and where not to spend (?).

No memoir can be complete without mentioning the most important commodity that keeps us running, food. Though the initial few weeks of hostel food offered a welcome change from the monotonous food at home, it soon turned out to be bland and insipid. What used to be an eagerly awaited blare, the dinner siren, turned into an unnecessary din that came to be frowned upon. This led to increasing forays into the eateries adorning the roads as well as the refuge for the connoisseurs. People fought for titles of who had the longest hotel-eating streak, which leads us back to details of paragraph no 4.

Semester exams were one of the least things that bothered us, we being a bunch of optimistic, happy-go-free lads. The ground reality of exam warrants another story, beyond the scope of this one. The innumerable night outs, mounting pressure, unsurpassable exams, butterflies in the stomach and the usual freaking out afterwards can never be explained in words.

Apart from the chai and chit-chat phenomenon, there was something more to our friendship. There was a golden thread of understanding between us that only people living in 3x4 cubicles next to each other could forge. Is it the physical proximity or the metaphysical embodiment?

This was the last stage of ‘no strings attached’ friendship, which gains a negative perspective ripe with cunning forebodings, jealous pangs and hypocritical attitudes, faster than a pupa turning into a butterfly. I strongly believe that friendship, just like any other human emotion is in its purest form when our life starts and gains evil intonations, identical to a rolling snowball from a zenith transforming into an avalanche that could eat away life, in both the cases.

As much as it has thought me to stand up on my own, hostel life has made me look irksome to others (especially when am at home). Irrefutable freedom guaranteed comes with its flipside, the haughty and headstrong individual who has increasingly less regard for advices and experiences. But in a way this is what makes you a man (chauvinism not intended :-)) who can stand up to the intimidating world outside his spectrum.

Many incidents made me ponder a lot. I have a simple mind, sometimes gullible. My heart paints a rosy, perfect picture of the world. My mind asks me to beware. Eventually my heart wins the tussle and I end up getting snubbed (hopefully not slaughtered) by the world. Not that I can’t re-battle, I don’t want to. I don’t want to fight at every juncture of life’s turnings. I don’t want to turn my life into a battlefield, an arena of mental turmoil. Many questions haunt the corridors of my mind. Why are hypocrites the way they are? Why do they have to wreck havoc in others lives? Why isn’t selfishness a virtue? After all, we are born alone in this world. Isn’t it fitting to place our needs before others?

I have no other choice. I Am a rat surrounded by hypocritical snakes, waiting for one wrong move. Living with cynics, hypocrites and sadists has rubbed these qualities on me. In any case, I am also a chameleon trying to learn the colors of nature to save my skin.
I always knew these sort of people existed but I picturised myself to be a messiah who could turn them around. But, with only hope our principles cannot last long. There needs to be something concrete to strengthen it up.

Somewhere along the line I learnt to live in Rome as Romans do. Here again rises the question of idealism vs practicality. I have witnessed the heights of hypocrisy and cynicism. So slowly and surely I keep getting sucked into these murky waters and hope against hope to stop, before it becomes apocalyptical…

Writer’s note : please forgive the alternating strong and light-hearted paragraphs. After all, life’s the same way, ain’t it?