What if I say I feel like writing a poem? Its been long since I have updated Gridlocked. What if I say I don't understand to whom I can tell what I have in my mind? Neither do I understand if I can actually tell that to anybody. The bigger question is: it must be said or not? I can't cause myself become an insult and embarrassment. I can't reveal how badly I have lost the battle to my ego. But I do realize that I need to give up a few battles. Its the war that must be won. That's the objective. I won't write any poem.
Its not maturity to know how to keep things to myself. Not at least according to what all I have in my mind. There is nothing that is attempting to hold me. I may let my words free even if some person could make some sympathy apparent in his eyes. It won't be a battle to be won or lose. Selection of that person could amount to maturity.
I wish I could have all the maturity required to beat my ego and emotions. I will some day have all that wisdom. But that will be too late. There would be, according to the present heat I have in my mind, nothing left to gain or lose. I don't know if I can wait for some person to realize the words given to me. I wonder if the person was aware of what was coming out of his mouth. 'His' can be non-trivial. I know why I wrote for today. And I understand it is foolishness. I wish I could prove myself a fool. It could be of so much help. I could have taken others as wise and heeded to all they said. A fool is always happy.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Saturday, July 7, 2007
My Woe
Darkness surrounds my forlorn soul,
engulfed in the bleak tides of sorrow.
Lost I have, the semblance of being whole,
and no more can I envisage a bright morrow.
The cruel blows of melancholy leave me enervated
and hopelessly do I cry for assuagement.
But my imploring often ends up desiccated,
for all I perceive is tribulation and torment.
I am drowning in turbulent torrents of affliction,
without the promise of extrication and mirth.
To misery, I satiate its addiction,
it feeds off my laughter and grief takes birth.
I have strayed into the lurid depths of suffering,
and the path to atonement is gravely obscure.
No longer do my prayers meliorate the buffering,
of this woe that seems to have no cure.
With each fleeting moment, I plummet deeper,
into the unfathomable reaches of pain.
Now I plead for a rendezvous with death’s keeper,
so that peace I may hopefully attain.
This poem was written by an old friend of mine. He now lives in Chicago and the only contact I have with him is through facebook. I feel great every time he writes on my wall there. When he left of US a year back, I felt a deep pain thinking that I would never come to meet him again. The chats I had with him after that, then the facebook connection made me feel that he is still there. he write great poems. I couldn't read much from him, but what all I read were hear-touching.
In the evening I was with so many of my cousins. I have quite a few cousin sisters I have never spoken. I really don't know why things are that way. We all went out for dinner with our elders and had lots of fun. My uncle from US is returning to his country on 12th. My aunt and cousins will be here for a month more. I am surely enjoying my time with them. Today's evening was another of the great times. I was there with them till almost 12 midnight. Even my other aunt and cousin from Riyadh were there. My cousin from Kyrgyzstan was there too. It was nice meeting him. He has lost good weight!
I have some busy, rough and unusual times ahead. The next week will see many of my relatives and cousins coming from abroad. I looking ahead to meet them. Then I have to attend my cousin's marriage. I am still not sure about that. I have my first mock CAT on 15th. There is is a recruitment program by Infosys. Though I am not much interested in doing any job, I have to keep my mother satisfied. She is paying for my education.
engulfed in the bleak tides of sorrow.
Lost I have, the semblance of being whole,
and no more can I envisage a bright morrow.
The cruel blows of melancholy leave me enervated
and hopelessly do I cry for assuagement.
But my imploring often ends up desiccated,
for all I perceive is tribulation and torment.
I am drowning in turbulent torrents of affliction,
without the promise of extrication and mirth.
To misery, I satiate its addiction,
it feeds off my laughter and grief takes birth.
I have strayed into the lurid depths of suffering,
and the path to atonement is gravely obscure.
No longer do my prayers meliorate the buffering,
of this woe that seems to have no cure.
With each fleeting moment, I plummet deeper,
into the unfathomable reaches of pain.
Now I plead for a rendezvous with death’s keeper,
so that peace I may hopefully attain.
This poem was written by an old friend of mine. He now lives in Chicago and the only contact I have with him is through facebook. I feel great every time he writes on my wall there. When he left of US a year back, I felt a deep pain thinking that I would never come to meet him again. The chats I had with him after that, then the facebook connection made me feel that he is still there. he write great poems. I couldn't read much from him, but what all I read were hear-touching.
In the evening I was with so many of my cousins. I have quite a few cousin sisters I have never spoken. I really don't know why things are that way. We all went out for dinner with our elders and had lots of fun. My uncle from US is returning to his country on 12th. My aunt and cousins will be here for a month more. I am surely enjoying my time with them. Today's evening was another of the great times. I was there with them till almost 12 midnight. Even my other aunt and cousin from Riyadh were there. My cousin from Kyrgyzstan was there too. It was nice meeting him. He has lost good weight!
I have some busy, rough and unusual times ahead. The next week will see many of my relatives and cousins coming from abroad. I looking ahead to meet them. Then I have to attend my cousin's marriage. I am still not sure about that. I have my first mock CAT on 15th. There is is a recruitment program by Infosys. Though I am not much interested in doing any job, I have to keep my mother satisfied. She is paying for my education.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Can you keep secrets? Things to yourself?
With the start of colleges started days with sunlight and as a consequence a lot of humidity. By the time I reach college in the morning I already smell sweat on me. Forget the thirst and forget the water coolers in the college. There is only one left near the old library. I wonder if the managment knows the colleges have started and the students can feel thirst. They did think about hunger a little and went ahead with the second canteen just to add a little variety and extend the existing menu to some south Indian dishes.
I spoke to my uncle sometime back. He was at a movie theatre when I called him. We spoke about the letter he had asked me to write in which he wanted the US consulate to know that he is no longer interested in pursuing an immigrant visa to their country and that they can cancel his existing application. I have already given him the latter and he has liked it. We also spoke about the present book I am reading. Its on Network Marketing. I don't expect anybody to know much on this. I had some misconceptions and doubts, and I am increasing my knowledge on this business technique.
I had nothing to write when I felt like writing today. I am tired to writing about the times i had woken up or slept. I don't feel like typing how my day was and what all I did. I don't want to write what I will be doing tomorrow. I want to avoid facts. Truth is always apparent. Its all in the air. Just the right receptors are required.
I spoke to my uncle sometime back. He was at a movie theatre when I called him. We spoke about the letter he had asked me to write in which he wanted the US consulate to know that he is no longer interested in pursuing an immigrant visa to their country and that they can cancel his existing application. I have already given him the latter and he has liked it. We also spoke about the present book I am reading. Its on Network Marketing. I don't expect anybody to know much on this. I had some misconceptions and doubts, and I am increasing my knowledge on this business technique.
I had nothing to write when I felt like writing today. I am tired to writing about the times i had woken up or slept. I don't feel like typing how my day was and what all I did. I don't want to write what I will be doing tomorrow. I want to avoid facts. Truth is always apparent. Its all in the air. Just the right receptors are required.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Am I being heard?
"Aawarapan", a part of "Terabithia", a review of "Tuesdays With Moorie" that I found after the end of "Five People You Meet In Heaven" in that book, and the first 20+ pages of "Get A Life" gave me the entertainment for today. The time I spent with my grandmother, uncles, aunts and cousins and of course friends gave me the reason required to appreciate the quality of life I am living. Until a few weeks back I had felt myself smiling daily when I laid myself for sleep. I don't go to bed that way now a days. I am unsatisfied. The reason being CAT as I figure it out to be. But I suspect some other activities and "images" too. I can see some images with no necessity to even close my eyes.
Tuesday I had spent many hours with my grandmother at her residence. I even happened to clean my grandfather's room. We had left it almost untouched as if he would come back to use it. There was just a cloth put to cover all the things on his table and it had all gathered dust on it. The dust increased as we started to learn to live without him. We had to wipe it so that the healing could happen faster. It wouldn't work, I knew, even as I cleaned the table and discarded all his medicines including the ones that were ready for him to be taken the day he left us.
There were books. Many. On religion, astronomy, astrology, magnet-therapy and mythology. There were dictionaries - English, French, Urdu and Telugu. There were his diaries. Dating back to 1949. The diary for 2007 being the first one to be opened by me. He wrote everything. The people he met, what they did, where they lived, many phone numbers and everything he could. Though he wasn't writing details for the last few years, but perhaps he knew he was forgetting things and he required some help to remind him of them. I had to discard many such records he had made. I didn't know what to do with them. When he was alive he used to tell us that everything would be useless after he left. But I still have his old diaries. It will take a lot of my heart if I have to call them useless.
His clothes, old, new, his sweater neatly folded and saved in a plastic for the next winter, his woolen socks, his muffler. It was all there. There was no next winter for him. At least with us. Allah knows how a grave feels like. Now my grandfather too knows that. Under his clothes, as it looked to me at the first sight, was some cardboard piece covered in a newspaper. As I unwrapped it, I found an old photograph that had been preserved from all seasons for more than 60 years. It was a group-photograph; of course in black and white. There were names under it and I searched for a Muslim name. I found one. I narrated it to my grandmother and showed the person. He was my grandfather's father. He was a medical doctor.
I found many other photographs I had seen before. I found my mother's school photograph. Some certificates. Many receipts from banks and of paid bills, all records of the money transactions he had made in these years. I had to clear all I found useless. It pains my heart to call them useless. But we had to let it go.
I had a look at his collection of colorful stones and rings made of silver and some golden metal which I am sure is not gold. It must be bronze, copper or brass. I found an old camera. I had never seen such a thing before. It was a big black box with some nut like things attached to it. I will see later what it is and how it used to work.
He had everything of use to him. Blades, scissors, pins - of all sorts, papers, files, tapes, everything. He had a world of his own. He didn't share much of it with anybody else. He was still close to us. But he had a world inside that first room of his house that was known only to him, that had seen more than 35 years of his life. We all have our own worlds that we don't share much. Someday when we leave, it comes to light only to be cleaned and forgotten. There is no way we can show others what we had in our hearts. I don't know if Allah gives that chance to share my heart when we all finally reach heaven. Maybe heaven will make me forget all of it. I can feel it in my throat now. I doesn't go down well.
I asked my grandmother and uncle to sell this house and move to a new one. This one is very old and is not built on columns and beams but thick walls and it is no longer a good and easy place to live in. When I think about seeing this house being sold, I know how it can feel. If I had money right now, Rs. 35,00,000, I would have purchased it and kept it untouched for the rest of my life. I can't do it. Some person is going to buy it, tear it down, and erect a new structure there. I have tears as I write this. I remember every inch of that house, the smell of the old doors, the feel of the heavy walls, the deep ceilings. Everything. It will all go into mud. I don't have that money.
I remember the trees of the house that were brought down some years back. I remember the pain I had felt then. The chirping of the birds that used to perch on the trees is still fresh in my mind. I can't forget that sparrow with only one leg that used to eat vegetable waste daily before noon. I remember the holes I used to dig in the mud to play and then fill them again. There was a stone beneath which I would to save coins. The raindrops of the season fill my years now. The thought of the soil that had turned black due to the used tea powder thrown there daily for years by my grandmother makes me feel the perfumed dirt on my hands. I used to play with it at times. It was not dirty. I can't resist change. I wish I could just preserve it. My blog preserves so much irrespective of what I desire to be saved. It can be an emotional baggage. My grandfather is gone. The home will go. My words will leave unsaid. Is there a chance?
Tuesday I had spent many hours with my grandmother at her residence. I even happened to clean my grandfather's room. We had left it almost untouched as if he would come back to use it. There was just a cloth put to cover all the things on his table and it had all gathered dust on it. The dust increased as we started to learn to live without him. We had to wipe it so that the healing could happen faster. It wouldn't work, I knew, even as I cleaned the table and discarded all his medicines including the ones that were ready for him to be taken the day he left us.
There were books. Many. On religion, astronomy, astrology, magnet-therapy and mythology. There were dictionaries - English, French, Urdu and Telugu. There were his diaries. Dating back to 1949. The diary for 2007 being the first one to be opened by me. He wrote everything. The people he met, what they did, where they lived, many phone numbers and everything he could. Though he wasn't writing details for the last few years, but perhaps he knew he was forgetting things and he required some help to remind him of them. I had to discard many such records he had made. I didn't know what to do with them. When he was alive he used to tell us that everything would be useless after he left. But I still have his old diaries. It will take a lot of my heart if I have to call them useless.
His clothes, old, new, his sweater neatly folded and saved in a plastic for the next winter, his woolen socks, his muffler. It was all there. There was no next winter for him. At least with us. Allah knows how a grave feels like. Now my grandfather too knows that. Under his clothes, as it looked to me at the first sight, was some cardboard piece covered in a newspaper. As I unwrapped it, I found an old photograph that had been preserved from all seasons for more than 60 years. It was a group-photograph; of course in black and white. There were names under it and I searched for a Muslim name. I found one. I narrated it to my grandmother and showed the person. He was my grandfather's father. He was a medical doctor.
I found many other photographs I had seen before. I found my mother's school photograph. Some certificates. Many receipts from banks and of paid bills, all records of the money transactions he had made in these years. I had to clear all I found useless. It pains my heart to call them useless. But we had to let it go.
I had a look at his collection of colorful stones and rings made of silver and some golden metal which I am sure is not gold. It must be bronze, copper or brass. I found an old camera. I had never seen such a thing before. It was a big black box with some nut like things attached to it. I will see later what it is and how it used to work.
He had everything of use to him. Blades, scissors, pins - of all sorts, papers, files, tapes, everything. He had a world of his own. He didn't share much of it with anybody else. He was still close to us. But he had a world inside that first room of his house that was known only to him, that had seen more than 35 years of his life. We all have our own worlds that we don't share much. Someday when we leave, it comes to light only to be cleaned and forgotten. There is no way we can show others what we had in our hearts. I don't know if Allah gives that chance to share my heart when we all finally reach heaven. Maybe heaven will make me forget all of it. I can feel it in my throat now. I doesn't go down well.
I asked my grandmother and uncle to sell this house and move to a new one. This one is very old and is not built on columns and beams but thick walls and it is no longer a good and easy place to live in. When I think about seeing this house being sold, I know how it can feel. If I had money right now, Rs. 35,00,000, I would have purchased it and kept it untouched for the rest of my life. I can't do it. Some person is going to buy it, tear it down, and erect a new structure there. I have tears as I write this. I remember every inch of that house, the smell of the old doors, the feel of the heavy walls, the deep ceilings. Everything. It will all go into mud. I don't have that money.
I remember the trees of the house that were brought down some years back. I remember the pain I had felt then. The chirping of the birds that used to perch on the trees is still fresh in my mind. I can't forget that sparrow with only one leg that used to eat vegetable waste daily before noon. I remember the holes I used to dig in the mud to play and then fill them again. There was a stone beneath which I would to save coins. The raindrops of the season fill my years now. The thought of the soil that had turned black due to the used tea powder thrown there daily for years by my grandmother makes me feel the perfumed dirt on my hands. I used to play with it at times. It was not dirty. I can't resist change. I wish I could just preserve it. My blog preserves so much irrespective of what I desire to be saved. It can be an emotional baggage. My grandfather is gone. The home will go. My words will leave unsaid. Is there a chance?
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Contain, reduce and absolve
The blog is still open to all and had rejected some requests of updates. I even refused to delete the blog when my cousin asked me to do so. He said he could smell some bad stench from the screen when he has the page opened on his computer. Somehow, I write again.
My heart explained to me yesterday and the day before that, and also on the day before that, and even before that, that I must write something. I was explaining back to it why I must not write anything. I loose my will to my heart today. Finally. I could fight only for 10 days. I had to move beyond 319 and embrace 320.
I have had several ideas and emotions I could have well written here amounting to several thousand words in these 10 days. I was thinking that keeping things to my own self can be considered as maturity. I was reading many other blogs all these days. Some were more blatant. Some made me wet my eyes. And some relied on my brain to keep my heart from resenting stagnation of my blog. I didn't think much before starting to write for today. Or starting to write today.
I was wanting to put up something on Flowing Emotions. Thoughts that my ideas and words will be immature reduced them to ashes of burnt pages that are never useful again. Perhaps if I have salvaged some faint fumes that I must realize sometime later when there is no other smell to relish. Not that I have perfume around me right now. Its just the feeling of being wrapped in a cozy warmth. I cherish even tears. Sometimes smiles.
There is a verse in the Holy Quran that says that Allah's has put love in the hearts of men and women. I don;t remember the context neither do I remember the exact words of the verse. It cleared some doubts in me that were hunting me. I was trouble with the psychology of some people who were terming love as an illogical and imaginary emotion. I am glad I can read and understand. I recognise the power of education every now and then.
If those who have been reading my blogs and those who have read this post till here get a question of why exactly I had stopped writing and what has made me write again, the rest of the post is for them - another paragraph after this. I thought it was immature not being able to contain myself. I am into the same belief even now and so from now on most of my talk will be indirect or at least not open. It can be obfuscating. I intend to be that way.
Some people with discrete motives and half knowledge were troubling me with their actions and resultant actions of their thoughts. I had to learn myself out of that syndrome of being taken unreasonable. That amounts to maturity too. At least that is what I think. If I explain what I discussed with my father here today for more than an hour, its surely going to stir up something idiot. I just now felt like using some very dirty word in place of "idiot". I have to refrain. I have done it all through my 20+ years now. I will continue.
My heart explained to me yesterday and the day before that, and also on the day before that, and even before that, that I must write something. I was explaining back to it why I must not write anything. I loose my will to my heart today. Finally. I could fight only for 10 days. I had to move beyond 319 and embrace 320.
I have had several ideas and emotions I could have well written here amounting to several thousand words in these 10 days. I was thinking that keeping things to my own self can be considered as maturity. I was reading many other blogs all these days. Some were more blatant. Some made me wet my eyes. And some relied on my brain to keep my heart from resenting stagnation of my blog. I didn't think much before starting to write for today. Or starting to write today.
I was wanting to put up something on Flowing Emotions. Thoughts that my ideas and words will be immature reduced them to ashes of burnt pages that are never useful again. Perhaps if I have salvaged some faint fumes that I must realize sometime later when there is no other smell to relish. Not that I have perfume around me right now. Its just the feeling of being wrapped in a cozy warmth. I cherish even tears. Sometimes smiles.
There is a verse in the Holy Quran that says that Allah's has put love in the hearts of men and women. I don;t remember the context neither do I remember the exact words of the verse. It cleared some doubts in me that were hunting me. I was trouble with the psychology of some people who were terming love as an illogical and imaginary emotion. I am glad I can read and understand. I recognise the power of education every now and then.
If those who have been reading my blogs and those who have read this post till here get a question of why exactly I had stopped writing and what has made me write again, the rest of the post is for them - another paragraph after this. I thought it was immature not being able to contain myself. I am into the same belief even now and so from now on most of my talk will be indirect or at least not open. It can be obfuscating. I intend to be that way.
Some people with discrete motives and half knowledge were troubling me with their actions and resultant actions of their thoughts. I had to learn myself out of that syndrome of being taken unreasonable. That amounts to maturity too. At least that is what I think. If I explain what I discussed with my father here today for more than an hour, its surely going to stir up something idiot. I just now felt like using some very dirty word in place of "idiot". I have to refrain. I have done it all through my 20+ years now. I will continue.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Syed Zubair Hasan
The Road Not Taken
TWO roads
diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. 20
- Robert Frost
I didn't like the number 318 that I made myself write another post. There is a reason why I rejected 318 to be the last. Its an even number. I wanted an odd. So, it can be said that I am superstitious with odd numbers. Whatever it is, I prefer having odd numbers present themselves before the even ones.
If this sounds foolish, there is no question what the rest of the blog can be. I am not happy writing all this. I had once thought of going big miles. I don't; remember what I had in my mind when I had started writing this blog. But definitely I didn't know I would take that number 1 and add 318 to it.
This blog now is open to everybody. I have removed the restriction that were allowing only the invitees to read it. If at all i start writing on this blog again, I will bring back the restrictions. I have a private life. And I love myself. If I sound ironic and if there is a doubt that the last sentence had something in it, then its my pleasure to have that thought generated. If there in nothing in that sentence, then I am better off...
318
Burn the libraries, for all their value is in the Koran.
— Caliph Omar
A little more than an hour back my cousin from Gulbarga called up and the first thing he asked me to do was update my blog. He said he really wanted me to update it and that he always felt relaxed after reading the updates. It made me very happy that somebody was so interested and I wanted to thank him for the consideration he always shows.
I don't know when I will be writing next on this blog. Perhaps this post might end up being the last one. This is what I want at least for now. There are too many things happening and I don't feel like putting them here or sharing it all with anybody. Those I think should know things will be told by me personally. I really find nothing that I can write here. I have no reason why must continue.
Sometime back I used to write thinking that I was relieving myself. Yes, of course I was doing that. Not anymore. I will find better and more personal ways. I am done with this and I have to move on. I have begun to find it immature writing everything here. As I have mention above, this is all what I feel for the moment. It can change. Perhaps even tomorrow itself. I don't know if I'll retreat and write something tomorrow. And if I continue retreating. And for the record, I have bought a new mouse some days back. I am extremely sorry if I had ever written any nonsense on this blog that went on to hurt, confuse, trouble or cause any kind of problem anybody. But it was never nonsense. I will stand for everything.
Don’t be humble. You’re not that great.
— Golda Meir
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