Seine Wörter

Sein Wörter sind ja schön,

Aber liebe sie nicht zu sehr,
Er sagt wie es ist richtig,
Aber es ist nur sein Meinung,

Glaub nicht die Wörter seines Leids,
Denn sie sind falsch, leider,
Sie sind nicht über sein Leid,
Denn Sie sind nur Gedanken,

Er fängt seine Zeilen groß an,
Und zieht ein Komma am Ende,
Er versucht einige Wörter zu reimen,
Und er nennt das ein Poem

Nimm nicht seine Wörter ernst,
Sondern denke Mal ohne Angst,
Vertraue nicht alle seine Gedanken,
Sondern verstehe was er sagt,

Lese alle die füllen richtig dir,
Oder schreibe selbst für dich,
Lerne nur was du brauchst,
Oder lese diese nicht.

--

Eine Antwort von Usha Krishnan ma'am:

Wörter sind Augen der Seele,
Wörter sind wie Tränen aus den Augen
Wörter verheilen und verletzen
Aber Wörter sind alles was wir erinnern

I see you scoff when I ask you about your day, too tired to explain events that seem trivial to you. And yet, I pester you, asking you to share it all, to talk about all those colleagues whose name I hear and whose faces I picture, constructing them pixel by pixel with what you tell me about them, agreeing with what you feel about them.

You once told me that people change based on what happens to them. I'm trying hard to follow you through your day, to look at your life, to see how it looks from your own pair of eyes, because I'm afraid to let go. I don't want to be disconnected from what you change into.

End Game?

As we edge towards Monday, the lift of the spoiler-ban for Endgame, my arm twitches to write about the film that has affected me like none other has. Okay, I'm not going to lie. I needed all this time to process it, to come to terms with it. This isn't a review, I'm not sure what it is. It is perhaps a moan of satisfaction after one of the best nights of my life. A moan I am able to let out after a week of watching what is the greatest movie I have watched so far, and perhaps the greatest one I will ever watch. Oh what a night it was.

It took one night. One movie to ruin every single franchise I've enjoyed so far, for me. It didn't entirely ruin it. Perhaps, for the first time, I understood the gravity of the conclusion of a franchise of this magnitude. A franchise whose movies - the only medium I've interacted with it on, defined to me its every character (except Spiderman of course), making me fall in love with each one of them, making me watch them interact with each other, staying true to themselves while accommodating each other. I now understand the magnitude of this effort that must've gone into Harry Potter, into Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings, but this was like a fan walking into Disneyland for the first time.

The big picture here was overwhelming on another level, way bigger than my alleged intelligence could fathom, much less, process, and it stayed true to what it stood for, not losing its track, not diluting its philosophy and was brave enough to choose and execute its own conclusion. This was the first time my heart was taken in a roller coaster - my mind has been, enough times, by a lot of movies, but I have never had such overwhelming feelings, one after another, just overlap like that. Endgame earned its laughter, its 'wow's and its tears, and, of course, a permanent place in all our hearts.

Avengers: Infinity War was one of the most anticipated films of the decade, a huge milestone in a franchise that I watched being built brick by brick - if not from the first ever foundation stone, at least shortly after it began. And while Infinity War lived upto its expectations, it set the bar really high for its sequel Avengers movie. Incidentally, my time with MCU began with Avengers before I started with the Iron Man series, and ended with its fourth installment of the firs MCU film I ever watched.

As I entered the theatre with my brother, my ideal companion and comrade when it comes to superheroes, I asked him how they could make a movie better than Infinity War. "Endgame": sounded like a loose reference to Sherlock Holmes, two of whose most iconic actor-caricatures were starring in it. These were the two people who had specifically mentioned the title of this film in other films, long before it had been announced to us. I was worried. The hype was just uncontrollably chaotic. We all had our theories, we turned each movie, each line, each hint of a clue a thousand times in our heads, as had a billion people across the world. Our brethren, co-fans of a cinematic universe that deserved its fans.

We take movies seriously, my brother and I. We watch each movie deeply, immersing ourselves into details that matter, questioning each stance, each decision its characters take. My brother taught me to listen to the background score and to listen to the story that the music tells. We watch a movie over and over again until we know its every scene to the minutest detail. And then we watch it again, because now we like it. We have never felt that to be a waste of time, but never before has a movie rewarded each re-watch of each of its prequels.

The Russo Brothers knew what they were promising us - they knew how high our expectations were, and signed up to fulfil it. The hard, genuine way. We knew it ten minutes into Endgame, when the story spat on all our theories, clearing our brimming cups for the upcoming drama. There was no music for the first half - we didn't need music to keep us grounded, we knew exactly how our people were feeling about the the world Thanos had created.

And we sat there, our hungry senses stuffing themselves with all they were getting, hungry for what we were watching and hungry to know how they were going to snatch the world from his "generous" hands. We weren't rushed, we didn't want to fast forward into the future, we were merely feasting on every scene of the movie, living in the present, meditating on each frame. We didn't want to let go of what we were watching, hell, we didn't want this film to ever end. We knew they were going, some of our best heroes were going to die. We were just happy to see some of them having a life. Oh, I'm sorry Steve, about the bad language word.

We had evolved with these men and women - Tony's iconic "I am Iron Man" quote at the press conference and his heated arguments with Pepper, Natasha Romanoff's brilliant fighting techniques, Captain America's good heart, Bruce Banner's gentleness, Fury's secrets and Thor's weird quotes had etched themselves in our hearts forever.

And we sat there, savouring one of the greatest three hours of our lives, thanking the writers for strumming the strings if our heart in this manner. These eleven years were perhaps all about them planting those moments in the strings of our souls, waiting to play them like music when the time came. Perhaps they were able to do that with the soul stone. Who knows what all they had to sacrifice for it? We just saw the masterpiece unravel itself in all its glory, for us to possess, to watch and re-watch for the rest of our lives.

You ask me to review the movie to point out its flaws and rate it? I choose to see through its flaws, even the ones that I noticed, because I do not consider myself worthy of judging it. I felt so about Inception, I felt so about The Dark Knight, I felt so about Thani Oruvan, Papanasam, A Wednesday, Vikram Vedha, Vada Chennai and Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. But I have never felt this small in front of the makers of a movie - in front of a movie itself. I never realised that so much could be done on a theatre screen.

I've watched and teared up at the end of countless shows, but none left am impact that lasted as much as this one did. I do not seek to dilute the greatness of any other show, I love all of them. This is merely out of my inability to express how grand, brilliant and all encompassing this was.

You ask me if I can talk about MCU any longer? I can do this all day.

One last time

We suit up, listening to Captain's voice commanding us to, putting on our Marvel merchandise apparel, a good number of them screaming Tony Stark's name in the form of bright, shiny arc reactors on our chest, but none brighter than the brightness of our faces as we walk into the moments of revelation of the conclusion of one of our most favourite stories ever.

As the moment approaches, we relive all those days when we laughed and cried, in rapt obedience to the writers' nudges, watching, rapt, the screen lives of characters that unfailingly became a part of our own selves, when Yinsen asked Tony to not waste his life, when the old, Einstein-like Dr. Erkinske made Steve Rogers promise that he'd continue to be a good man, when Thor chose to sacrifice himself, thereby deserving the hammer, when Fury made up a small lie to unite the Avengers, when Tony and Bruce's plan to develop an AI to protect the world backfired, all those joke with people calling each other names, all the way up until that snap in infinity War.

The fever of anticipation reaches a zenith as we walk into the okay looking theatre. My brother makes a note of observations to mention on the theatre's Google review, with me pitching in points but we both know we don't care. We know that we are just trying to rush time into giving us the movie we have waited so long for.

Incidentally it has been exactly a year after we watched infinity war, and we know this day is going to be memorable. We tremble in anticipation as we push ourselves through the crowd of Marvel fan brethren, wanting so desperately to reach our seats on time.

As the words "Marvel Studios" come on the screem, we curl up, our hungry eyes sitting unblinking behind 3D glasses, finally seeing what we waited so long to. We are going to have this moment. One last time. And this moment is ours. My brother's, mine and Marvel's. And we'll own this and give it our everything. Whatever it takes.

Winter fell

The first episode of Season 8, "Winterfell", begins, reminding us of the sweetness of the Pilot episode of Game of Thrones, "Winter is Coming" its name baring the similarity it admits to portray.. a young Northern boy running to see a king and a queen arriving at Winterfell, Jon hugging Arya, lifting her up, this time in a long awaited reunion, as they both discuss Needle, his gift to her.. A glimpse of Winterfell, and a short interaction between Sansa and Tyrion, this time with those beyond the fourth wall relating with each face seen on screen, their eyes, quite like Arya's, as they look upon their favourite characters walk back onto the screen one last time.

These pleasant scenes do not put our hearts at ease. Perhaps the scenes themselves know that they seem to be dim reminders of the past that made us fall in love with these people, and that their attempts to tranquilise watchers of GoT before they suffer being told the terrible ending that's lurking are failing miserably

"Winter is coming".. "What is dead may never die".. Quotes of famous families now seem statements that reflect the inevitable doom that is about to befall the great Westeros, and, perhaps all of civilisation. We watch, with bated breath, to know the magnum of the tragedy that is about to befall the already broken Stark family we love so much, and all the others.

One is reminded of the grim prophecy Harry's old Snitch revealed, "I open at the close". Like with that line scribbled away by Dumbledore, Season 8 is more the final reckoning of what was bound to come, than some twisted, edge-of-the-seat interpretation of a prophecy misinterpreted by all. It is the arrival of dread, the manifestation of the most terrible of our fears, and it's here.

While the stories that are read to us through an audio-visual voice in April have been long-awaited conclusions to sagas we have followed for a decade, Avengers, kicked off by another hero named Stark, whose possible death we wait to behold, merely promises to add to the morbid experience we are all going to face, with the characters that've shaped our stories. And while the gloom promises to be as long as Winters last in Game of Thrones, a strange feeling of belonging engulfs our souls as we sit, in solidarity, with the rest of the world, separated by a million factors, but our hearts beating as one.

Who said we need wars to bring us together? This millenium stands testimony to the quote that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, not merely in bringing harm to others, but in bringing souls together. Fortunately, the writers of today are extremely sensitive to this, and while they battle fiercely to dodge theories and speculations to deliver the high that fans desire and deserve but are so willing to let go, giving in to the incessant dance of their restless intellects, and still deliver a poetic and justified end that a great story must have, they smile, weaving treasures with their fingertips, crafting legends that shall be remembered for all time.

And as a fan, I put my pen down and curl up in front of the screen that so easily touches my soul, and hit the play button to see my favourite story unfold. One last time.

The Sound of Music

It was yet another of those solitary nights – one of the gloomier ones when I walked slow, sans purpose or thought – but it wasn’t a quiet time. Unlike my surround that night which was still except for the scratching sound of a stray dog far too busy rummaging through garbage to mind me, my insides were agitated, flinching at the prospect of thoughts that were plummeting towards me. Questions I had hurled at the universe had chosen to boomerang back towards me, promising to put me into that seemingly endless abyss of pointless brooding.

I decided to stab the mood in the back – to busy myself in finding out where this thought train sprang from – and arrived at the answer before I could arrive at the road crossing I was heading for. It was a simple question a friend had asked earlier that day at a cinema – why are our days, our lives so dull?

My mind went back to the movie we had been watching – do we need edge-of-the seat stunt sequences? A terrible, dark arch enemy with a horrifying motive who sits all day planning our end? Nail biting twists at the possibility of anything good happening? Or a clingy love interest who’d push me to be a better version of myself. Well, I’d be lying to myself if I think I’d say no to a little romance, but, no, honestly, I’d love to pass on all the drama, for peace does indeed lie in the simplicity of everyday things, but the question remained.

I plugged my beloved earphones into my itching ears and played my favourite background score by Hans Zimmer. It was “Imagine the Fire” from “The Dark Knight” from Nolan's Batman trilogy. It is said that walls at least 17 metres apart, within a closed region are required for the human ear to discern an echo, but even through the distance between my head and feet wasn’t even half that number, my whole body was suddenly shaking in inspiration from the echoes that spoke volumes of the greatness of this cowled, dark, brooding fictional character. And somehow, perhaps since the music was being played for just me, I sort of identified with him. Suddenly, all that mattered was that I was in action. My pace quickened. My feet, longer craving to get to my destination, took a longer route, just so that I could uninterruptedly continue to listen till the track ended.  And then it hit me. What was lacking from life, what filled the dullness of life was the lack of music. That’s what we need more of. A background score. Or, like the Indian films, at least a song now and then to distract us, to lose ourselves in.

As I took off my earphones, I started wondering as to what role music truly played in our lives. From greeting us with familiarity in an alien place, to forging relationships, why, to even calming our temper when we’re waiting for an agent to pick our call, it was all music, single handedly holding onto the ropes of our emotions. Why, even newborn children unanimously fall asleep when they listened to a lullaby!

I had read of people’s heartbeats synchronising with the beats of a tune while they listen to it. It all seemed very poetic, and perhaps even had some scientific backing to it, behind all the pseudoscience that it smelled of, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I was looking to see the effect of a tune on a mind. I thought of how a simple tune could take one back to their childhood, or bring back the memory of a loved one. Of how a mere sound could invoke in one, fervent devotion to an unseen deity. It was both strange and beautiful. How could beats from a percussion instrument inspire one into action, and how could the melody of a flute subject a formless soul to a soothing ache, even move someone to tears? How could some beats push a person to stand up and dance? Or at least nod in phase with it? How could some tunes aggravate/intensify passion? How could it light up the eyes of lovers looking at each other? How could simple notes make one relive and forget pain? How could the simple pursing of strings play with the very fabric of time that wraps around all that we know – the personal time that we are all prisoners of? All this achieved by a collection of frequencies that can be generated by the simplest among us?

Perhaps science fuelled by mathematics wasn’t the way here. Perhaps, like the scale of quantum and the scale of relativity, the human emotional realm was yet another phase where the physics of common sense – in this case, perhaps physics itself, as we’ve known it, ceased to exist. Perhaps dry philosophy littered with pseudo-jargon terminology was indeed the way to go. Even if it wasn’t, something told me that subjecting surreal music, this apparent engine of life, to the mundaneness of blind math was a blasphemous disrespect its sanctity. Perhaps leaving it unanalysed and to treating it the way it has always been, with the occasional stare of wonder, of awe, was a means of worshipping its grandeur.

And so I let go of the compulsive instinct to subject this phenomenon to the microscope of cold logic, and decided to immerse myself into the positivity it radiated. And then science swam towards me, picking me up in all its warmth and holding me in a tight embrace. I felt the thrill that filled me, with the Lagrangian method of swimming with a tune, and the fulfilment I had, when, like the Eulerian approach, I lay back and let the tune slide across my soul. I witnessed interference of waves, forming crests that lifted my spirits and troughs that held me tight. And Doppler’s effect when listening to “Yeh Dil Deewana” on a long drive. It was liberating beyond any words could explain.

Perhaps we are all like Captain Von Trapp from The Sound of Music who need to evolve from whistlers to the singers we were born as. And perhaps we can grow with the nourishment of music. Perhaps we needn’t find out this way. Perhaps all that was needed was to give in and let the tune take care. What could be better?

Home

A thatched roof, they say,
Holding shine and rain at bay,
A place that's warm and safe,
Sans discomfort or srife,
Where one's greeted by smiles,
And faces and sounds familiar,
Where neither men,
Nor food is alien,
Where smiles, not words welcome,
They call many things home,

But who knows the true meaning of it,
Of a home's open doors,
That it lies not in an array of bricks,
Or in frangrant smoke of cooking food,
That home's a force that beckons,
A warmth that calls, arms outstretch'd,
Into the arms of a woman,
Who's waiting to serve the love she holds.