Thought crucible

for a brief moment of clarity in jumbled space... there lights in the box, a convincing path through the maze. a path that instructs the mundane. no twisted dissembling or ideas profane. no - not even the overdrove path of Desire, for the Light shines at it’s end only like the tip of a pyre. in the Visible, I see the solution an anticlimactic version of pure reason. Yet, as the box spins - devoid now of clear air, I shout, ‘Wait the fuck up’, in severe despair!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITAG6KagJ_I Unkown are those people whose love met with love. When we asked for lovely flowers, I got a garland of thorns my dove. Unkown are those people whose love met with love. When we asked for lovely flowers, I got a garland of thorns my dove. Happiness Buildings I searched, though Sorrow's sawdust I received. Happiness Buildings I searched, though Sorrow's sawdust I received. Of Desire's Melody I desired, though my eye meets pieces of cold stone. Heart's load clouded and went away, that Sad Thirst, I again got one. When we asked for lovely flowers, I got a garland of thorns my dove. Unkown are those people whose love met with love. left Behind, oh left so astray, oh I got so left Behind, after giving every friendship of a moment or two with. Who has the patience to clasp the Lunatics' hand. To us, even our own shadows oft appeared ghastly and bland. When we asked for lovely flowers, I got a gar...

My maternal grandma passed away today. At 87, she was a vanishing shadow of her glorious past. The cause unknown, she breathed her last, amidst just the hallucinated images of unborn twins, my grandfather, and the heydays of her life. Not a worldly soul around, it was an ironic death, having raised three and almost four generations of children. It was an inconsolable loss to the big branch of the family tree that she left behind. She was a great granddaughter, daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-great-grandmother! Here was a pretty girl, having won the heart of her husband when young. Married to an intellectual, she upheld the dignity of an almost First Lady with aplomb. As, the pages of her life turned yellow, much like her Vishnu Sahasranama, she was left to fend her dignity amidst property disputes, quarreling siblings and a dead husband. All alone, here in the US, far away from the warm embraces of my own mother and father, I am reconciling this great loss...

I wrote a poem about a week back, when i wandered around as the imaginary constant i. As it turns out, there were parts of the poem that didn't just look like mathematical allusions, but ideas we could associate with ourselves. The Engineer in me insists that the mathematical meaning in the poem is not lost and so, I figured I would write explaining what I really had in mind, when I wrote this. (It is amazing how the notation gave me freedom to do a duality of a biographical context of the imaginary context, as well as an almost autobiographical). i was thrown into a numeropolitan, painted with hues of pure emotion. i was thrown into a numeropolitan - a city of numbers. Numbers, big and small everywhere. This little guy was thrown in there - with no real meaning. There was no reason for his existence and in many contexts, emotion is almost the antonym of reason. And so, I said that i was painted with hues of pure emotion - absolutely no reason in it. Looking to find righteous comp...

i was thrown into a numeropolitan, painted with hues of pure emotion. Looking to find righteous company, amidst the condescending reality. i gazed unto the pinnacles of exponents, and the abysses of their complements. and the giant factory of Equation, churning strokes pregnant with information. i was just a figment of pure imagination, born to perform no real function. Yet, i feel like a fuckin' mistress, in the altitude of the high priestess. i searched the partials and the voluptuous rounds, and was chased like by a pack of angry hounds. i was going round and round in circles, and met a madman chased since the time of Pericles. "Stay and wait with me for my darling wife, any time now, she shall descend - the toil of Euler's life. Together, we shall escape into reality". to whom i said "why, it's your pop-in-law's identity!". And so, i roamed this universe, whose response to me was always perverse. and then it all came back to me, i had known what ...

/Written for purpose of fond reminisce down the line. Read at the risk of boredom :P / Its been quite a while since I transferred some of the muck from the boiling broth that is my head. Had been busy for preparations to start another phase of my life. Perhaps, the most interesting as yet. Because, for starters, my NOKIA 1200 wouldn't vibrate in violent blurts of Om Shanti Om, thanks to mom's BSNL-BSNL free connection going void, but also because most part of this phase will involve actual research which I am passionate about and diving into a culture I have known only in the sitcom shagging I have done for ages now. So, aided by nauseous-PJ-studded tips on packing to the States, the bags soon filled with clothes, books, cosmetics and stationery. A last minute coup had the bags filled with close to 8 kg of assorted masala pudies from North Karnataka and frantic discussions on baggage policies of the airplanes. Gosh! First time air travel is an experience I would not wish for my...

OK, notwithstanding the immense, mostly unfounded criticism by my friends in college, I thought I had to make this (rather long) point :) . Has the cinematography hit such a stunning pinnacle that the audience comes to expect similar performances from something like the white wall face of Ash? Surely, histrionics is the hinge to good Cinema, but can’t we – just for the sake of a brilliant story-teller agree to look over the expressionless and mind-numbing performances?! In all the brouhaha about ‘confused script’, ‘lame story-telling’, ‘expected ending’- have we chosen to forget what to expect and what to neglect when it comes to appreciating cinema. And I call it cinema and not a movie. You can expect a movie to have sudden twists, unexpected endings, and all the now-rather-cliched tricks of the trade. But Good Cinema – well it deals with the simplest of plots and what is crucial here is the way it is narrated. I agree there were blotches in the screenplay that could have been avoided...

There was once a just king by the name Rama and there was an evil king by the name Ravana. Rama kills Ravana and saves Sita. Now thats the Ramayana for you and me. Well, the genius of Mani Ratnam meets a rather subdued perspective of the Ramayana in an epic called Ravan. A perspective that echoes the same sentiment as the temple dedicated to Ravana in one of the many unusual temples that adorn this country. A perspective where Soorapanaka was considered a beauty that was unparalleled by anyone. A perspective that recognises the various Grays of Good and Bad - just like the artistic appeal of the can of white that mixes with the sea of Black in the opening credits for this 5 starrer entertainer. Set in the backdrop of stunning tribal locales, the opening scenes seem to reflect the chilling horrors of the recent Naxal massacre of the Men in Khakhi. Beera (Abhishek Bachchan) plays the eccentric dark protag, who dares to kidnap the belowed dancer wife of Dev(Vikram) - Raagini (Aishwarya Ra...

Bibek Sabharwal was tried in Finland and as the ever merciful courts of that country pronounced a death sentence, more than one prayer was answered. As the judges and jury and the grand army of conscience keepers listened to the chilling tales of pure terror, atheists believed in Devil. After gouging out the eyes of the young women, he delivered a psychotic account of the problem statement. And the statement was not merely a concoction of constraints and freedoms in a fixed set of physical dimensions. The statement as they said, would help crossing ancient barriers of understanding across a wide range of research areas. The solution lay not in the objective abstracts of Maths, Geometry and Space, but in an inward journey. He then tortured out an account of the inner landscapes the prostitute and the actress saw. It isn't sure how coherent or even truthful they were, but the Devil would have surely known the tricks. And as these vivid descriptions had spewed forth, he had seen a sol...

The Finnish papers had screamed how gruesome the death of Riika Haikkinen was. The blue eyes of the mother of one-year-old Kimi had been gouged out as the hollow spaces of her once beautiful face screeched of morbidity. The efforts of Olaf and the Polissi had paid off as the as yet undecomposed body and pale body of the young actress lay in the frigid depths of Scandinavia. The press traversed annals of national well-being and literary successes to dig out the files of Elya Linnanein - a teenage prostitute murdered in the same horrifying manner as Riika. Surely the recent developments pointed fingers to someone other than Elya's greedy pimp. I could see the dark side of what they call human psyche when the august presence of Bibek Sabharwal made itself known at the reception of Mysore Mallige - my humble motel among the thousand lakes in Finland. My mother's sixth sense about me possessing one had proved horrifyingly right as I stared at the stone cold body of Elya Linnanein. T...