Gratification

I see within me, a desire,

To see, to know, to do,

That stimulates action

From this inert body,

And from a subtler mind -

A prompt that comes from a formless entity,

That moves this physique about,

While I stop to marvel at this daily miracle,

I cannot hep but wonder,

What happens within my soul,

When I receive the thing I seek,

I wished to learn and I later did too,

But what changed within I craved to see,

And when I did, I sat, dejected,

For I saw no tangible change,

Neither in the body nor in my mind,

But was it indeed so?

Yes, I am but the same man,

That I'd been before this -

But if I were to ask of me,

As to what I've truly gained,

I see there's space in me now,

A space to freely breathe -

A block that'd stashed my chest,

A desire that pushed me forth,

Is now cleared from the space that'd been,

Now giving me space to swim,

No formula, nor physical law,

Captures the essence that's changed,

Oh be it seeing, or learning,

Or a desire for anything,

It's the quench that matters,

Not fulfillment,

It's just the cleanup of desire,

Oh how I wish there's another way,

To clean my heart of this?

I'd be free from pain,

And even the vain pleasure of gain,

A truly free man indeed.

Written at 8:42pm 29.12.2016 at room. Changes at 3:40pm on 30.12.2016

Cities

It's all land - some fertile, some barren,

Some with civilisation, some without,

Some meadows and lawns,

Others cluttered with buildings.

And then there are facilities,

Some with more, some with less.

What could vary is the tongue spoken, clothes worn,

And the litter and glitter that meet the eye,

But beneath all, what lie are roads and shops and houses,

With people living and breathing the same air,

Their hearts beating as one-

Yet, they draw these boundaries, naming land,

Buying and selling earth like property-

Does man own land or is it otherwise?

Knowing all this, though, they separate soil, even waging wars,

Arguing on whose city is better,

Oh it is all meaningless,

For, upon looking at streets,

Can one even identify,

Which city one stands on?

Written on 12.8,2016 at 12:15am, aero structures lab

The Pupa

Now, for growth, I crawl into my cocoon,
Lying down snugly,
As the portals close,
I must stay here,
Albeit hot,
For the world out there is unbearably cold,
None is my friend and none truly cares,

I must lie here, locked with my fears,
So that when it opens, to reveal a new me,
I have wings that spread,
Letting me fly.

Senses sharpened,
Alert and strong,
I flex my wings that grew,
Behind the darkness that seemed naught,
Unblinking and clear,
I take off into the air,
Never to return to this miserable ground.

7:53pm same building 14.11.2016

Poems Written on Supermoon Day

Perched atop a building yet not,
Shimmering from a pond beneath too,
Pouring forth endless, tranquil light,
Showering me upon me indescribable bliss,
He smiles, shining in all glory,
Giving me peace that none could,
Ridding me of the miseries of life,

Oh who said the moon merely reflects light?
Does he not purify that which is hostile and hot,
Transforming it into a pleasant coolness,
An embrace dear even to the stone-hearted,
And a light known even to the ones born blind,

He's a friend to the lonely,
Giving comfort to the oppressed,
Loved and adored by all,
Not just a celestial orb, but a deity,

Seated upon a heavenly throne.

At 7:28pm solo at lakeside 14.11.2016

A nameless feeling engulfs me,
Stilling my mind, my thoughts,
As I stand, arms open,
Bathing in its splendor,
Its pale light cleanses the soul,
Painlessly ridding me,

Of the nails that pierce my spirit,
My heart slurps as it feasts

On the sumptuous meal of bliss

That it so selflessly serves,

Its carvings add to its lustre,
Proving again and for eternity,
That in imperfection lies beauty,
While retaining its beauty, it defines perfect,
As being thoughtless and silent,
Not sharp or curved,

It hovers in mid space, a celestial sphere,
Imperfectly round, yet contenting,
An orb that foretells not future,
But a one that spreads peace.

On the terrace of the residential building adjoining Sarovar Udyan (Whitehous apaerments?) 7:48pm on 14.11.2016

Song on the unity of India

(To be sung as a Carnatic Ragamalika)

Pallavi

विलसति मम द्रुमो,

लोकेSस्मिन् बहुदेशावने – भारतमिति

Charanam 1

இதுபோல் ஓர் மரம் கண்டதுண்டோ?

அதில் எண்ணற்ற பூக்கனிகள் பூக்க,

மொழிகளின் பூக்கள் விதவிதமாய் மலர,

இம்மண்ணின் மணம் நாள்தோறும் கூடுதே,

Charanam 2

जैसे धर्मों के फल पक जातें,

वो पुरानें के रस में भीग जातें,

आने वालोंको गले लगाके,

नए संस्कृतियों को जनम देतें

Charanam 3

Men and women from patches of land,

Each having different hues of sand,

They all stand, hands held, hearts beating as one,

Preaching the virtue of coexistence to all.

My entry for a contest held at IIT Bombay (Submitted at IIT Bombay's PRO on 6.11.2016)

Credits to my brother, Vijay Ganesh for his insights and suggestions

वाक्यविचारम्

"विद्या ददाति विनयम्" इति कथ्यते, परन्तु एतद्वाक्यम् सत्यम् अस्ति वा, इति कदाचित् चिन्ता वर्तते मयि. अलम् पठित्वा अपि कतिचनमानवाः विनयेन विना वसन्ति। तेषाम् पाण्डित्ये किमपि दोषम् नास्ति, परन्तु सुज्ञाः सन् अपि ते अहङ्कारं पालयन्ति एते जनाः। मया अस्मिन् विषये किञ्चित् विचारम् कृत्वा निशीदितम्, विद्यया सह विनयम् अपि पठनीयम्, इति।

किन्तु विनयम् कथम् पठ्यते? पुस्तकात् वा? न तु! ईदृशम् सुलभम् भवितुम् न शक्यते।

पुस्तकात् अथवा श्रवणेन लब्धम् विनयम् उपधा इव भवति। विनयम् अधिगन्तुम् उदाहरणानि आवश्यकतानि भवन्ति. तदपि सत्सङ्गे एव प्राप्यते।
अतः सत्सङ्गम् कल्याणाय दुर्धरम् अस्ति।

Resolution

The slate is wiped clean again,
Another festival, a new start,
A resolve-inspiring confrontation,
Resulting in a baptism within,
Absolving me of the guilt of past action (bygone),
Cleansing the conscience, turning a leaf,
Planting a mental seed of positivity,

Sometimes eyes must remain in one's self,
And not floating above, perceiving things objectively,
The pristineness they inspire to be dwelt upon,
Imbibed, relished and reveled in,
And while the soul soaks in it,
One welcomes change, embracing it wholly,
Stepping upon fleeting moments of joy,
To rise towards betterment,

They may laugh at my momentary resolve,
Ridicule my jump into action,
They know not but I do,
That I'll make it work this time.

A Battle Fought Alone

When facing unexpected bother,

Perhaps even anticipated fear,

When suffering in pain or sunk in sorrow,

Or when awaiting a never-to-come tomorrow,

When lost or facing the inevitable,

I give up on life,

Withdrawing from the burden of choice,

And the truth of consequence,

And when that happens not,

My world shrinks to naught,

I see myself trapped,

In my own being, caged.

In a cell made of my own spirit,

Struggling hard to get out,

Such is the agony of discomfort,

One that leaves not no matter what the effort.

Oh how can the indivisible soul escape itself?

Can one possibly outrun oneself?

Such thought clouds the exposed mind,

Forming a protective shield,

And as romance guards the fickle brain.

The soul fights a battle in vain,

Dying from the wounds of battle,

It resurrects to a wiser, freer one upon a higher mantle,

The ship of time carries the burden away,

While I gaze after it as it makes its way,

The hitherto claustrophobic soul rises,

Taking in fresh breaths,

Unclenching its vain fists in relief,

While I wipe away images of the grief,

Doors open as if they were closed before,

And a cool breeze seeps in like it was routine,

Some battles can only be fought alone, I sit back wondering,

Laden with vague memories and stark learnings.

If it'd been real or merely a dream,

For it had all happened too soon,

But perhaps it doesn't matter, if it was thought or fact,

What matters is that my soul is intact,

As I revere my experience with newfound respect,

I slip, slowly, back into comfort with myself.

Written at 1:08am on 27.10.2016 at Aero structures lab, IIT Bombay

A Writer's Little Stumble?

A recent discovery of mine is that when my mind doesn't have a grip, its creativity is at its best: it has nothing to do with me, the guy who takes any initiative: it is my mind, yes - a bundle of thoughts of which I am sure, I am the only witness, but my mind - it has a,well, a mind of its own. Perhaps its movement is controlled by some law of inner nature that is yet to be discovered by science. Creativity when under pressure seems to be a corollary of this fact. In recent times, half sleep states have churned out some pieces of writing that have surprised me. to the extent that I end up wondering if it was indeed I who wrote it. But thankfully I have been conscious at those times and possess the memory of writing every word - albeit on another plane, and that puts any doubt of whether I am possessed, at rest. The most noteworthy example would be "Come, visit me by my grave" - a piece I woke up thinking I had written in a dream. Specific details were new to me when I re-read the article - I supposed that this is what writing hangovers felt like.

At such times, I gladly hand over custody of my pen to my mind, letting it do as it pleases, giving it the authority to google synonyms for words as well (yes, I do that a lot). There are times when I go through what is written and then correct it, and those when I consider the words far too holy (forgive my impertinence) to be tampered with. I believe the state of my mind can be fathomed by those who read the work - at least the ones who know me well.

During one such unguarded moment yesterday, my unsteered heart took a turn that I had been consciously avoiding - one that had never forced itself upon me - a dare that I had sort of given myself but had chosen to not take up - I expended some ink on writing in Tamil. It wasn't a great piece, just a couple of cliched lines that are usually passed as dismissive statements in my mother tongue laden with philosophy but often never meant. I wasn't particularly proud after I wrote it - it had sounded better in my mind, but not great on pape- well, on the screen. I still thought I'd let it be.

I often disconnect with my writing once I publish it on my blog (that'd explain the spelling mistakes in my old articles) but this one stayed on in my mind - not its content but the fact that I had written something in another language. Well, you can laugh, but you've got to understand this: it takes quite a bit of tuning to get into the mode of writing, especially when it is poetry. Language isn't natural but feelings are - it takes a lot of canals to force formless, shapeless emotions to form phrases that truly represent them, in a way that every reader, irrespective of the era, should be able to connect to exactly the same feeling. Such channeling takes a while to adapt to, be it in any language. Command over the language is secondary. You need to think in words. Yes, it's a sacrifice to be a writer. We don't do it only because we like it - I like to call it mental pregnancy - the experience needs to be delivered. And I've tuned my mind so well that it's one big slut - it gets impregnated by every silly sight these days (I'm probably the only happy guy to say that).

Tuning the mind is similar to tuning a radio - each language is a frequency and once you're tuned into - each commercial frequency value is a language, and once you want to tune out of a frequency, it takes a lot of effort to tune back into it. Tuning into a different language takes a lot of time too. People unable to express themselves are the ones who aren't able to hear anything other than noise on the radio - ultimately, it's all a question of right training and so anyone can become a writer. Anyway, so, this Tamil thinking that generated Tamil writing got me - um, thinking. I worried that English had deserted me. At least I wasn't guilty since I hadn't initiated this transformation.

Yeah, Tamil is my mother tongue - and for the record, I like it, but so what? Does that mean I should only do "Tamil" stuff (whatever that means)?

Did I disturb the membrane? Burst a bubble? Start a sequence of ripples? Ok, I think I'm blowing up a simple matter. I guess I'd rather not speculate, and instead, sit back and watch.

Written at my room on 20:57 on 25.7.2016

The Scientific Huntsman

He holds his pen in position and takes aim,
Targeting a phenomenon with his experimental viewfinder,
Loading his weapon with observation,
He fires his tests about,

Nature writhes, and struggles to hold on,

Putting up a fight before she gives her cub, phenomenon, up,
While the latter lies motionless but alive,
As the scientist-hunter picks her up,
Mercilessly locking her up,
In the cage of a Law,

Trapping phenomenon on paper,

The cub dwells in the zoo of publication,
Ogled at by other men of science,
Who click pictures, citing her in their zoos.

At times, the club's mother prowls by,
Clenching her paws in rage,
She flings disaster upon mankind, that heartless race,
Which took her child away.

Written on 23rd Oct, 2016 1:40pm at H13 mess, IIT Bombay

'Pon the Hill of Bliss

Perched upon the peak of peace,
A hillock I seldom wish to descend,
I look down upon my friends,
Who stand beside yet far below,

The cool breeze caresses me,
Sans hands yet reaching within,
Engulfing me in a warm embrace,
Cleansing my soul of the sins of yore,

Eyes closed, I look around,
A view beyond sight, yet possible to behold,
It is a nameless hue, yet one I know,
That fills the space around, and that within,

The mind-moon shines, radiating its coolness,
Its pale light enveloping all,
The night is young and so it shall be,
For now and for all time to come,

I dwell in it, my very own hill,

Filled with a wonder known only to me,

An infinite expanse of platonic bliss,

Endless, pure and everlasting.

Written between 2:47pm on 22.10.2016 and 1:35am on 23.10.2016

Falling Prey to Senses

Falling prey to his sensual rogues,
Caught in the delusion that it is a vogue,
Having lost his calm and cool,
He is but a hoodwinked fool.

A carcass in the jaws of the carnivore,
Choosing to be devoured,
His body burning in the flames of desire,
His mind turning ignited by the fire,

Ignoring counsel and words of wisdom,
Dismissing it as coming from a boring herd,
Like a zombie he lives life,
Oblivious to his miserable plight,

He lets his senses sway him about,
Lashing things left and right,
His mind losing its grip fast,
He stares, helpless, unaware, lost -

And today's society likes and cheers,
Like cynics afflicted with the same plague, his peers,
He follows as sheep, aimless and adrift,
Throwing empty words of fashion and logic,

He is but a moron, devoid of thought,
Misguided by his fellows who share his fate,
One day he will face a hurtful fall,
Knocking sense into his hardened skull,

It will fill him with compassion for young ones,
Who choose the path he'd once tread on,
But lo, his tongue is tied, for a herd he's joined,
One he'd named and mocked.

Written at Biosciences Lab, IIT Bombay 15th Oct, 2016 (7:20pm) - improvised on the morning of 16th Oct

On Music #2

Emerging from the abyss of nothingness,
Particularly bright in the darkness of closed eyes,
It beats the heart-drum, pursuing its strings,
Swaying my mood about,
Stealing my focus with ease,
Oh who discovered this marvel, music?
The key to joy in life

Life

A thing like the one beside it,
Yet different from it,
Composed of matter like the former,
Yet comprising of something else altogether,

One knows somehow that they are different,
For they live, breathe, feel and eat,
What distinguishes life from inert matter?
Is it stirring or some biological factor?

It is alive, be it a single cell or a large creature,
But because of cytoplasm or some physical feature?
One may detect life through these but what defines it?
Is the Unnamed Conscience described by a formula on a chit?

How can one define a phenomenon by its effect?
A feeling by an inanimate compound?
Would that not mean, that a beaker of a hormone,
Has feelings too?

Do you think that naming your subject,
Lets you know it all?
Our definitions are indicative and useful, yes,
But not even remotely wholesome,
Theories and hypotheses have come and gone,
With each one eventually brushed aside,

Life is subjective, not an objective entity,
Felt by oneself, not others -
Yes, empathy is that magical bridge,
That connects lives across this material dimension.

Perhaps we are to learn,
That objective may not be whole -
That Another exists,
In a manner unknown -
Another Nameless Being,
That understands it all...

A page from my diary

The past few months have been, well, different - starkly so, in terms of a lot of things, and, in particular, writing. The discovery that I could write poetry has certainly been emotionally rewarding, and has raised my literary confidence to levels that I never knew, existed. I feel truly free in the apparently two-dimensional but truly multidimensional world of words. Poems come to me at ease, flowing forth as a fluid would flow when there is a significant pressure difference.

However, poetic as this experience with poetry may be, it has taken a toll on my writing. There is now an urge to dramatize every little thing, and I spend my time involuntarily looking for metaphors to describe them, even worse, desperately trying to rhyme words. I find that while this poetry phase has brought out a couple of good (sorry) poems, what I've incurred substantial losses. Strong opinions have now almost completely been replaced by strong emotions that overwhelm me. I tear up more easily than ever, and even otherwise, have become quite sensitive. My vocabulary in speech has received a blow, and I find it difficult to frame full sentences, at least on paper. This post itself stands testimony.

I realize now, that I have tuned myself to write poetry, and why I stay in this frequency, it is extremely difficult to come up with prose. 60+ poems seems like a good number, and I am considering tuning myself back to the prose frequency - but I do not know what the repercussions will be. I'm slightly tired of putting commas after phrases and starting new lines with capital letters. My more recent poems have become soulless and stale, and this can definitely be counted as a sign. I miss writing long articles where I digress to point out something totally different and then connect it back with the big picture. I miss framing sentences that have poetic metaphors.

But then again, what if my natural current state is to compose poems and not articles? I did not choose poetry - in fact, I believed that I wasn't capable of it, and it came to me of its own accord. Am I disturbing that equilibrium by attempting to go against the flow? Will this result in me getting stuck in a no man's land where I'd be incapable of writing anything? I'm not sure if I can handle that - oh, I'm not talking about missing the appreciation - with all due respect to you folks, I have only a handful of readers, but you people appreciate me even without my writing. I'm worried about there coming a time when my heart is filled with content and my fingers refuse to budge.

This might sound silly, but it feels like a big step to me - perhaps I should write a few more poems? Perhaps touch a hundred? No, the quality is bad already. There are quite a few poems that I've written and kept to myself on a personal medium, for I find them far too sensitive to share - and  then there are half baked ones that I am incapable of completing. I feel inadequate to compose now - perhaps I should take a break. At least from poetry. And I must be ready to digest the fact that I might never be able to compose another poem - that doesn't hit me badly, I feel pretty satisfied with the poems I've written. I couldn't bring myself to write one as good as, say "The Admirer", or "On the Partition". My poems have become dull and repetitive. I'm not dejected or something - I don't need a pep talk now, I'm just weighing the options before making a choice - an obscure one at that. To you, it, I might seem melodramatic - why would there be the question of a choice between one form of writing and another? Well, there is. And I'm not looking for suggestions, I'm just thinking out loudly. And choosing to publish my thoughts. You may choose to ignore this post - in fact, I might tak it down some day, but as of now, I'm just letting it be.

And I don't have to tell you when I make my choice. You'll know.

Learning

Who taught a child to smile and cry,
No human teacher conditioned by education or books,
Nor a twisted doctrine infested with narrow opinions,
It comes from within - not a physical within,
But a one that appears dark but is filled with enlightenment,
Giving out pearls of wisdom in a wordless tongue,
Spelt and understood by the heart,

Oh this world is littered with theories,
Driven by misunderstood logic,
People taught to know and merely apply theories,
The intellect declaring its undue supremacy,
Trapping men therein,

Oh conscience should drive man,
Learning propelled by experience-
And simple application of common sense,

Science must be limited to books -
And morals taught independently like music,

For some things deserve more than to be questioned or analysed -

For the tools we have are but limited -
And so is our mind,
And most of all, time is less,
And regret is sticky,

Do we analyse our food when hungry -
Or a drug when sick?

Acceptance defines life, not logic,
Theory looks good on paper not in practice-

What is needed is not an understanding of all-
But a balance of understanding and acceptance.

Written at 7:24pm at new SAC on 29.9.2016

Another Poem

A flimsy, fragile body,
Prone to suffering and irreparable injury,
Yet filled with desire for adventure and pleasure,
Spending years in their pursuit,
Propelled by a drive that is yet to be perceived,
With a momentum that has its ups and downs,
But seldom fails to bounce back after a low,
One that shall cease on that fateful day,
When that drive within passes away,
The surprise though is not this drive,
Nor the will that helps him thrive,
For such impulse pervades nature,
Fuelling creatures with the desire to live,
It is that formless devil that haunts his life,
Clouding his judgement, his sense,
Not tangible yet gloating -
Blinding him from his doom impending,
They call it ego, they call it arrogance -
That unplottable tumour, the human's demise.

Completed on the night of 29.9.2016 (Started writing weeks back) at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

On Music

Playing in the mind within,
Or on an instrument without,
It stirs one's soul like nothing else can,
Be it a tune, a hum or a melodious shout,

It sinks into one and reverberates there,
Broad and deep, it starts chiming from within,
Filling the emptiness behind closed eyes,
And pulling the strings of the heart as it does..

Soothing one in inexplicable ways,
Bringing tears to ones eyes, harmonising thoughts,
It  saddens, elevates, inspires and elates,
A real key to control emotions.

On Old Age

A life of dignity, of honour,
Filled with mementos of respect,
And anecdotes of valour,
A person feared and respected by all,
Approached for advice and justice,
And revered by several,
Is brought down to a feeble creature,
Unable to fend for itself,
Toothless, wrinkled,
Curled up in a bed,
Pitiable and dependent,
Until reduced to a heap of ash,
Is it time? Or that which they call fate?
Oh what do words matter?
When the person is dead and gone?

On the night of 29th august 2016 at Aero structures lab

On Mumbai

Sown together from seven islands,
My new found love,
Glimmers by the light of its own soul,
And is reflected by the sea full of vigour,
A city that never sleeps,
Alive, not merely awake every moment,
Busy, yet patient,
Wealthy yet simple,
Its rainwashed buildings stand as monuments,
Of tireless yet humble effort,
Adding to the beauty of this utterly magnificent land,
Its banks filled with righteous wealth,
Its people flourishing with the grace of the Mother,
A melting pot of cultures,
A mirror to India,
No wonder a delight to residents and visitors alike,
The epitome of simplicity,
She shines forth,
On the map and in our hearts,
The true capital of Bharata.

Written on 24th August, 2016 (23rd night?) on a drive along Worli Sea Link

Fear When Alone

Solitude is the true test of one's might,

And that too, at an unfamiliar place at night,

When the mind rises after an activity,

It sees one's ambience and charges up its creativity,

Conjuring images at a distance or on long hallways,

Perhaps only sometimes, not always,

Ideas from that book one read,

Or a movie of someone rising from the dead,

Plot ideas fill one's mind,

Paralysing one with a fear of a unique kind,

That ghost in a film one probably laughed at,

Now flashes stark or seems to watch from one's back,

Oh, the anticipation of danger,

Seems far worse, there is nothing stranger,

The heart beats fast,

As long as the panic lasts,

Perhaps until one finds a familiar lane,

Or a friend or a cane,

The fear that sprouts, it awakens one,

Bringing springs of life that are indeed fun,

The fear might stay on for a few seconds or maybe longer,

But the jerk it gives is a jolt that will linger.

Written on 16th Aug 2016 at 2:38am at Aero structures lab

The Lady of the House

She comes from nowhere, enters a household,
All to bear burdens,
Of new parents, of her man,
Of a child, yet to be born,
She gives herself, holding nothing back,
Yielding to his wield as he holds her in his embrace,
Bearing immense pain, yet giving him strength,
His pain becomes hers, his joy too,
His parents hers, she gets a name new,

A lifetime in the kitchen, she transforms -

From a woman to a daughter in law,

Then a mother for life-
With a heart as supple as her bones,

And as resilient too,

She lives her life, giving and toiling,

Her dreams locked away,

In a corner of her large heart,

A life, nothing short of penance -

Penance that consecrates her house,

And yet she bows down,

In front of husband sibling, even offspring,

Truly deserving to be,

The head of the house,

*Started on 21st June (possibly B001), completed on 22nd July, 2016 (C504) IIT Bombay

A House

A product of engineering,
A roof for humans,
A shelter - an umbrella of security,
Against unfriendly people and weather,
But is it merely a structure of bricks and mortar?

Housing people of several generations,
Its walls are stained with sentiment,
Its floors with memories, every room etched

With the feelings of its inhabitants, even visitors,
Perhaps it is something to do with hearts beating for a long time-
They induce life into even lifeless bricks -

Life of the immortal kind,

Turning the structure into a body,
That lives on for centuries-
An old person perhaps,

One who even emotes to those who listen,

In a strange, ghost-like way.

Written on 19.6.2016 at 4:30am, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

The Bed

A home within a home,

A flat piece of heaven,

Be it soft or hard,
A cushion, for body and heart,
The most wanted comfort zone,
A source of peace to reach out for,
In times of distress, heartbreak or fear,
A lap for you to sleep on,
A shoulder to lean on,
To dream when lost, or to mull over things,
A refuge when sick,
Nothing short of a mother,
Ever available, but hardly thought of,
Clothed in a bedsheet of your choice,
It awaits you, night after night,
Drenched in your tears of yesterday,
Wrenched dry when you jump on it in joy or play,
Giving your body rest and your spirit hope,
To go out there, and live another day.

Written on 19th June, 2016 at 4:17am, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay (lying on my bed)

On Inspiration

It is purpose that propels life forward.

Purposelessness breeds stagnation - a state over which death would be preferable.

                                                                                                                            - A thought

At times when the human sees only void,
When one lacks purpose, that fuel of life,
Something comes to one's aid,
A source that inspires one,
In a manner that is straight or tangential,
Often subtly, for that is how one accepts,
It could be words, an example,
A thing of memory or a person,
A life account, narrated or read,
Sometimes a mere signal from naught,
It could even be an unrelated sight, or hurtful words,
That plunge one into into action.

In many cases, the inspirer knows not,
Sometimes even deserves naught,
It could merely be one's image of something or someone,
A mental projection induced by one's heart,
Perhaps by a narrator or book,
But such power it releases,
From a source the human known not,
Somewhere within the chest (heart) I feel,
Unleashing such strength,
Stirring one in to action,
Perhaps generating art -
That marvel that the world celebrates,
A wonder that amazes even the artist,
Or perhaps an achievement that turns heads,
Making this person an inspirer.
It matters not whether the inspirer deserves this title,
Or if credit is given,
For the human life is divided between
Displaying and living life,

It is that power that one must marvel at.

It could last for years until death,
Or perhaps just for an instant,
Producing genius, or perhaps nothing at all,
The true surprise is not the result,
But that spark that shakes one off,
The spark of life.

Written on 7.6.2016 10:36pm (conceived at 10:00pm at mess, written now at B001, H13, IIT Bombay)

A Glimpse of Life

A story only too common,
Lived and relived by countless humans,
The bawl, the struggle to crawl,
And later learning the scrawl,
The completion of education,
The pursuit of an occupation,
The marriage, the progeny,
The struggle for money,
The investments, the banking,
The holidays and camping,
The retirement, bereavements,
Death, then inheritance.

A path tread on by nearly the entire swarm,
So much that its every thorn is known,
Problems only too mundane,
That they can be plotted for each woman or man,
Cycles more precise than the best ever clock,
Studded with events to which friends flock,
Some moments, precious to close kin,
And others, known only to two or one,
Be it fun, work, love or even hate,
It all fits into one big template,
The thrill, the pain, the emotions,
It all feels new to the one who lives,
Strange indeed is the human's life,
For no one looks for where the difference lies,
The difference between what is seen by hotel staff,
And that by of the newlyweds, waiting to start off,

Perhaps that's where the difference dwells,
Between living one's own life and watching another's,

The difference between the emotional subjective,
And the logical, observant objective.

And while it all sounds great, I wonder,
If it'd be a terrible blunder,
To expend my life walking the old, ridiculous road,
Taking the trouble of carrying such load,
But such thought is snapped in an eye's blink,
And before I even stop to even think,
I am pushed into the eternal wheel of gloom,
By forces of hunger and fate, where I lie 'til I face my doom.

Written on 5th June, 2016 at B001, Hostel 13, IIT Bombay

The "Bigger" Picture?

I visited a country,

A so called enemy nation,

I saw roads and streets and people,

All like in mine,

I saw lives that went on like ours,

People who knew my land, people who didn't,

People who hates us, and those who didn't,

But people all the same,

So same, in appearance, character and heart,

That I could barely spot them as different from my own,

The grassroot is the truth,

People are the country,

And if such be the picture,

What can be bigger than that?

And if so be the case, who wages wars?

Written on 2/6/2016 at 7:30am at B001, IIT Bombay after reading some answer on Quora

The Greater Good

Men in suits, holding positions,

Who see themselves larger than they are,

Or rather, others as smaller than they are,

Taking decisions of state, looking at the larger picture,

Those powers, the pay - it is indeed for this,

For them to think beyond themselves,

To forget family and individuals,

And to see the country as one single body,

And while we elect them to do us good,

They are forced to think of a country - a name to place their love in,

A name through which benefit does reach us,

But in rare cases, something that matters more than our lives,

These men are to overlook smaller things, yes,

But are they to sacrifice the small for the big?

To overlook morals and values and the 'right',

While their heartless decisions affect man, woman and child,

Oh, in what way are these men better than terrorists?

Ready to indulge in heinous crimes,

Well, they have hearts, unlike those men who have a choice,

Hearts which they are trained to lose,

Perhaps they are indeed unlike their fellow people,

Both greater and lesser but never equals,

But then again, is it not due to the brains of such men,

That we all get to live in peace?

The greater good, that's what they call it,

And it's seen at all levels,

Not merely country or a governing body,

Do you see the father toiling away,

Or the mother losing her sleep?

Man's goal is happiness, they all say,

But is it his own, or that of another?

Conceived while watching Person of Interest, on 31st May, 2016, and written at 4:11pm

When in Pain

It could be a mere irritation,
A throb or a serious affliction,
That settles in gradually,
Or arrives suddenly,
But when it does, you attention shifts,
And it wards of any intention to live,
Convinced that your ache is the worst one ever,
You struggle to fast forward to a time when it vanishes forever,
Regretting not having used your healthy time well,
You vow to do things that you'd shelved,
Braving the agony, you move forth and live life,
Be it alone, or in the company of parent, sibling or wife,
And, one day, perhaps soon, perhaps later,
The pain goes, leaving you better.

Written on 31st May, 2016 at B001, H13 IIT Bombay

On the Partition

One single land it was, and had always been,

A woman raped by many a monster, seen and unseen,

A home invaded and plundered by thieves many,

And yet, she welcomed all, sheltering friend and enemy,

Embraced them as her own progeny,

A land, rich in resource, culture and tranquillity,

Each creed blending into her, joining the countless others,

Eventually becoming loving, tolerant brothers.

She bore the anguish, yet remained fertile,

But now I wonder if it was all futile,

For the last clan who came,

Was human only by name,

A new clique, the first of its kind,

That did not see India as its own land,

Merely an asset, a farm at the most,

To cultivate money, resource and labour at low cost,

They didn't rule India, they enslaved her every subject,

Heartless men who conquered, brainwashed and burnt,

Claiming to help us, the backstabbing tyrants,

Plundered our riches, with no shame or guilt,

They governed us pitilessly, watching our people bleed,

Drinking or blood like parasites or weeds,

And even when the time came for them to leave,

Sans remorse, they pulled more tricks from their sleeve,

Their filthy rage made them plan another blow,

Never had one ever sunk so low,

Modifying their old trick of divide and rule,

They chose to employ the method of divide and leave,

Who were these men, wretched souls,

To decide the fate of a land from which they merely stole?

Containing its progress, to earn bloodstained bread,

Milking its udders until they bled,

And now they picked authority's knife,

Slicing India into two, twice,

Leaving behind three pieces that chose to fight,

A treacherous motive in plain sight,

Yet the world listened and so did we agree to split our soil,

We answered to wealthy men, whose richness came from our toil,

Venting our rage at brothers till till that day,

Thinking not twice, before raising swords to slay,

Smearing the two nations in a bloody bath,

Murdering civilians for hatred that existed not,

No pain, no slavery taught us that which was plain,

That by fighting ourselves, nothing did we gain,

One land became two, which later became three,

We call it independence but till today we aren't free,

The wounds are yet to heal, it still doesn't feel right,

To see that two people with a common past, are at each other's throat.

*Conceived and written on 30th May, 2016 at 6:26pm at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

The Face

Truly original,
Like none ever before,
Crafted so beautifully,
Unique yet unanimous,
With the same organs at the same places,
It unites and distinguishes,
The very identity of a human,
Better than a fingerprint or other pattern,
So singular it defines a person,
Housing the eye, the most alive part,
Displaying complex emotions
As simple expressions,
Sitting on the 'face' of the seer,
Entirely descriptive but indescribable,
Etched in the memory of the one who sees,
But unplottable even be the one who sees it,
It is nearly one with the person it defines.
Perhaps the greatest miracle by Nature,
Born to humans but undesignable,
Creation of a new one humanly impossible,
It is the surest proof,
Of a power greater than man.

Conceived and spontaneously written n 27th May, 2016 at 2:48am (B001, H13, IIT Bombay)

The America That Was

Gone are the good old days,

When going abroad meant the US,

An image of a heaven to us all, young and old,

A mental picture of paradise on earth,

The home of our favourite characters,

Of Disney, of Hollywood,

Of Superman and Batman,

Whose products brought big smiles to our faces,

Be it stationery, a peculiar machine,

Cereal or movie merchandise,

Its dwellers seemed to us seasonal relatives

Who came out of nowhere,

Consuming only 'mineral water'

At a time when it was hardly known,

Fussing profusely over hygiene and discipline,
'Enlightening' us about right and wrong,

Merely since they live in a more developed land,

Making short trips once or twice a decade,

Before disappearing for eternity once again,

Only to talk over phone or chat,

Once a week or even less,

We laughed at them, and we still do,

But the land has always seemed a place for awe,

Perhaps a bloody history but a flourishing now,

It commands respect, turning heads,

With the likes of Google and other such wonders,

And a few lucky ones among us,

Getting to go on a trip,

For a few months, if not more,

With others teary, waving at them,

As they walked past those guards,

Past those counters at the airport,

To return changed, smiling, in a cool jacket,

Laden with goodies.

But over the years, with many moving there,

That land seems to have lost its lustre and respect,

Merely a land where we dump our brains,

Gone are the days when only the best of us went,

Today it's the average, perhaps even less,

Students who flee from India's system,

Chasing after another, only to get trapped there,

A world of liquor, of credit cards,

Of large, dull schools and no home,

Lost to their family, but for a trip or two,

Smiling for pictures but living in gloom,

There is life there, who am I to talk?

They talk of experience, of research,

And a term called 'exposure',

Much like other jargons used to mask truth.

The whole world's getting crowded,

Why blame just one land?

Well, this is just what I've heard,

I've seen, known. and feel,

Oh how I wish I'd gone there when it was still nice,

On an airline I've heard called Lufthansa,

Too bad, I'm old now, and I no longer want to,

It's a boring old land now,

With nothing there that I don't have here,

But despite all, my memories,

And dislike for it,

America will always

Have a special place in my heart.

Conceived and written on 27th May 2015 at 2:08am, spontaneously at B001, H13, IIT Bombay.

On Independence

A nurse upon his birth,

A mother for nourishment,

A parent for food and study,

A doctor for health,

A farmer for crops,

A barber for style,

A ruler for order,

An engineer for a roof,

For comfort and travel

Hundreds of thousands of faceless people,

Helping him in ways he knows not,

Receiving all this, he does his part as well.

Someone to depend on from birth to death,

And still he claims independence.

Written at 6:26am on 20.5.16

The Fear of Death

It comes from nowhere, gripping you in an instant,
With you staring like a kid into the darkness,
In a fixed gaze into the cold eyes of inevitability,
The state lasts for not a moment,
Fleeting, agile, transient,
It comes, traps and leaves,
Leaving no trace of having ever come

*Written weeks back. Improved and published on 16th May, 2016 at 6:50am, at Placement Office, IIT Bombay

Sharing a meal

I have often wondered as to what can be the greatest bonding between two people. To my pessimistic - or perhaps, highly opinionated eyes, no person is selfless, and any activity - well, most of them at least - that they may involve in, seems either pretentious or one that caters to the selfishness of one or both parties.

A meet - particularly one between two leaders which signifies a link being forged between the groups each represents - should at least be honest, if not entirely selfless. The selfishness, while being minimised to the requisite amount, should be admitted openly - and I feel that no better activity than sharing a meal achieves this.

Eating signifies not only the mortality and, to an extent, the vulnerability of each candidate - it also signifies an honest catering to hunger, that one innate feeling all organisms have, thereby instilling humility in them and subtly urging them to consider the well being of fellow organisms in their decisions. I'm sugar coating it here - some such meetings could result in even terrible decisions like (just picking some extreme examples to defend my claim insensitively) waging wars or killing someone - but there is almost always an element of compassion, however  narrow the leaders may be - compassion for their countrymen, soldiers, or for other terrorists in their organisation, for instance.

Another advantage of having discussions over meals is what I like to call satisfaction spillage. Several of our decisions, much like our tone, and, as my father often points out, even our writing, are influenced by seemingly irrelevant factors, one of the most influential one being hunger. The satisfaction accompanying a sumptuous meal is quite overwhelming even to the most heartless of people, and is one that can 'spill' into the purpose of the meet and help mellow down several outbursts, particularly words, and sometimes even major decisions to much less cruel ones. Agreement and settlement of disputes is relatively easier when accompanied by food. Who'd want to go through the trouble to argue with a mouthful of food?

Discussions carried out alongside eating reach the heart, chaperoned by the food that enters the stomach. Further, an inadvertent connection is forged between the people who eat it, and cook who prepares the food. A connection is also established with the land on which and the roof under which, it is eaten, thereby capturing the heart of the visitor(s) among the two (or more), making it a sacred bond that will prevail for all eternity.

Pushed out of sleep

A sudden push out of blissful oblivion,
And an irreversible one at that,

A steel shield forming within you,
Sealing the soul, preventing it from entering itself,

Knowing that sleep is inadequate, having time, or heavy eyes do nothing,

But reinforce the helplessness that grips you,

Necking you ruthlessly, headfirst into a no man's land,

Leaving you there, stranded,

Staring into the darkness for hours that seemingly stretch to years,

Leaving you there, half awake, half struggling to get back to sleep,

With the sound of the clock ticking in your ears,

Up until dawn dusks upon you, with tired eyes and a weak body,

Sans energy, sans courage, sans any motivation to live.

*Written on 14th May, 2016 at Placement Office, IIT Bombay at 6:40am (a poem not written on my phone/laptop and not published from my laptop for the first time)

Unwinding

After a hectic day or week,
Perhaps on a day that just seems bleak,

A part of a routine,
Or perhaps just to try something new,

One chooses to take off one's mind,
And let go of all sense just to unwind,

It could be a vacation,
Or just a visit to a relation*

Perhaps a change of activity,
Or just spending a little time with family,

More popular ways include intoxication,
By drink, by sexual means or other creative modes of recreation,

Be it any method, it involves a suspension of worry and thought,
Proving the inadequacy of logic and intellect,

Letting one's actions be run by feelings,
And satisfying those little fancies,

In any case, man's needs well cross the realms of materialism,
And such activity proves the existence of emotional needs,

It extends to speak of man's innate desire to be intoxicated,
To be crazy, to let his hair down and to slump,

Sometimes one deserves do laze,
While for others, it is an excuse, an addictive craze,

That which varies is when and where they do it,
In fact, what defines one as a person, is when he find this fit.

*I dislike the use of the term 'relation' - I always prefer relative, by the rhyme demanded it here.

Written on the night of 10th May, 2016 (spilled over to 11th) at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

Seeking a Source

No, this isn't a philosophical article. And I hope the image doesn't make you think this is comic book fan talk either. Do bear with me and read on.

Gone are the times when man's basic needs were merely food clothing and shelter. In fact, there were times when I wondered why clothing had to be mentioned as a need, but now there is no room for such debates - with extravagance "evolving" into comfort and comfort into necessity, the aforementioned list has grown from merely three items to several. As one wonders which of these needs to be mentioned at the top, one's eyes involuntarily look around, scanning for an unoccupied plug point.

Man invented machines to simplify life - to reduce effort - and to eventually become independent, but today, man has become pathetically dependent - a parasite, greedily looking for electricity. Ironically, this pursuit for power, in addition to mocking man's desire for 'power', points to the fact that technology has turned humans into emotionless robots that feed on electricity. We have films that explore the dangers that can be brought about by the advancement of technology but hardly anyone stops to see the detrimental effect that it has already had.

Machines have gone far from being helpful little tools that simplify our lives - they have become little goblins that drain our attention, our energy and - well, our electricity. It is disheartening to see people in shopping malls, airports and, well, pretty much anywhere, hunting around for a plug point to connect their devices to. Battery backups and power banks are rampant, but they seem to only make things worse. The care we once had regarding packing for trip has now reduced to merely charging our devices. Of course, is an advantage that our tickets, among  several other documents can be carried by electronic media, but the attention our devices demand is much more than that which our paper documents did. Smiles and other expressions are fast being replaced by emoticons that seem to me, to merely mock true emotions, and people seem to have forgotten to emote.

I thought it would stop, but the transition from bad to worse - or rather, the unending race towards the worst, is only accelerating. Texts have replaced phone calls, and expression of affection to mere sending of images, and it doesn't seem long before humans forget to see each other's faces. I wouldn't be surprised to see newer disease names coming up in the near future, further complicating the already complicated human life.

Change is needed badly. People should want to see people's faces, hear friends' voices. Our interaction should be with living, breathing people, not with devices that heat up.

And now, clicking the publish button, I am shutting my devide down to go out for a nice walk.

Dreams of Clean Hands

How hard is it for one,
To keep one's hands clean in today's world?
A world filled with corruption and greed,
With misery connecting to every deed,
A time when people are all connected by money,
That inevitable entity, in the form of cash or electronic stash,
Which passes through many hands, some pure, some filthy,
In a world where some crooks are caught red handed,
While good men's hands turn red for no fault of theirs?
Alas, is there no way one can stay safe,
Untouched by the dirt of sin?
Is there man or woman who is truly pure and free from grime,
On this planet rampant in crime?
Is there a place one can run away to,
To save oneself from this ocean of filth?
Nay, even death does nothing, for even the graveyard isn't pure,
Such is the omniscience of sin on earth.

The Author

She felt powerful as she seated herself. It wasn't the instrument she held in her hand, that was merely a tool, only useful to the one with experience. Or, creativity at least. She felt the energy flowing through her, as she seated herself comfortably at the 'cockpit' as she liked to call it. An entire world waited to be created by her. A world which thousands were willing to dive into, to wet themselves in and stay in forever. It was interesting to see how a full universe with infinite dimensions could be fit completely into two dimensional paper. Perhaps it was the reader's heart.

The Airplane

She stops not for for an instant,
Ignoring the pressure inside her trying to tear her apart,
The heavy organs on her bosom toiling away,
Her arms spread open, balancing her body,
Air screeching over them at a terrible pace,
Her nose braving against it, deserving praise,
Her bones bend in response to all that she bears,
Flexing in unison instead of succumbing to the force,
You sit in her belly, her womb,
Which, if not for her mercy, can become your tomb,
Casually eating, reading or sleeping,
Ignorant of the dangers your journey could be holding,
She holds you in her tummy, shielding you from the heat,
Displaying not an iota of the pain she feels, to achieve such a feat,
The daughter of human creators - of Wrights, Lilienthal and Cayley,
Conceived also by the likes of Valmiki and Subbaraya,
A true beauty applying simple physics in a manner that is incredible,
With rigorous calculation going into every particle,
She is a marvel, a monument to look at in awe,
The airplane, the mother of atmospheric flight.

Written on the plane (from Bangalore to Mumbai on 5.5.2016, edited just before publishing now.

Pulled Out of Sleep

I don't know how and when I got there,
Or even what the place was,
A palace of sorts,
A realm of bliss,
A Universe whose lord I was,
An arena of contentment,
Sometimes it was blank nothingness pervaded by peace,
Sometimes a dream about an unfulfilled wish,
I was settled there, firm and nice,
With absolutely no want in life,
When I heard hushed voices, an alarm or some noise,
Sound that was rammed into ears that existed not,
It penetrated a membrane, creating my physical self,
Pushing me back into this miserable existence,
Right from that instant of disturbance I longed to go back,
Into that state I was dragged away from,
That very dream or that very silence, I don't know,

I rolled over and tossed about in protest,
But no darkness, no position, no silence could do the trick,

I knew it was futile but still continued to try,
That even if I slept it would be a new world, certainly not the same,

Hating the world for bringing me back here,
What had I done wrong that I be wronged this way,
By ungrateful mates, who had ruthlessly destroyed my day,
When all plans fail as one struggles to rest,
That, I'm sure, is life's toughest test,
Inability to sleep proves the power of fate,
Destroying man's faith that he can reach any height,
I roll back and shut my eyes, hoping to get there in vain,
And finally give up, and go live my day

Typed on my phone on 1.5.2016 between 1:00am and 1:15am when Ashit Gupta, Prasad Halimani and Upendra Yadav's voices woke me up after a four hour sleep (after several sleepless nights) at 12:53am and I couldn't get back to sleep

Unemployed

He steps out of his university after three years or so,

Filled with memories, some delight and some sorrow,

Remembering, the day walked about in glee,

On the same road, but after a long journey,
A journey whose end was yet to be seen,
Though, for his friends, the path seemed already clean,
Yes, he was passing out, with nothing but a degree,
While his peers were worry-free,
With a job, a seat or a or a family business, their hands full,
He sat sad and afraid, yes, but faithful,
A month at home, a year at home,
Filling applications, but with results none,
Sending his resume to many a stranger,
Questioned by relatives, suppressing his anger,
Attending classes, teaching kids,
Scowled at by parents,
He'd been strong, yes, but who wouldn't break,
With everyone pretending to worry for his sake,
Speaking of the same thing, letting his heart ache,
Not even concealing that their concern was fake?
He learnt the hard way that none did love,
Wisdom rammed into him with one great shove,
He wished he had his friends by his side,
So he could lean on their shoulders or just go for a ride,

Of course they loved him, and wanted to help,

But far too busy, they could only hear him sulk,

He'd been strong and steady,

And for any job, ready,

But who could talk to heartless recruiters,

Who fill their cups before a word one utters?

They repeated the same old lines,

Ones he had heard countless times,

They asked pointless questions with no possible replies,

Worrying more about his past than ever might his wife,

Advice drew to him like iron towards a magnet,

From every corner, from neighbour, shopkeeper, even a harlot,

Words of faith, of honour,

Nothing would touch him, he wore an invisible armour,

But some days were just tough,

When he'd feel he had had enough,

What was the difference between having a job and not?

Why did it seem that his life had shrunk to naught?

Did a busy look and professional clothes truly make one worthy?

Didn't such views seem silly?

Why did people want to trust a man in a tie?

Were they so naive to think he wouldn't lie?

Every single night, he cried himself to bed,

Trying hard to forget what they all said,

Every morning he awoke to a bright dawn,

He knew he would make it one day, but till then this had to go on.

Written between 24.4.2016 and 25.4.2016 at Room B001, H13, IIT Bombay
This one is sort of forced, and I'm not taking it down, since I consider it to stand as a monument to forced poetry that turns out to be a disaster. Sorry.

On Music

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who couldn't hear the music

- Nietzche

Putting on headphones is a symbolic indication of - why, to quite an extent even literally amounts to cutting the rest of the world off - to take a dip into the emptiness of one's soul - a feat that would seem impossible to the lay man without the aid of this magical entity called music. Without it, who would have known that so much bliss can be experienced in one's self?

Be it during travel, a short nap, a break in between work - at any time, in fact, listening to music is one of the greatest activities of pleasure that man has known. The glamour of watching music being played or sung and the like is not what I wish to talk about here. In fact, for the time being, let us suspend the grandeur of lyrics as well, and concentrate merely on the tune - that magical collection of frequencies that soothe the ear, the mind and the heart. A tune that is produced from the vocal chords that we know so well, perhaps a bamboo stick with holes, a stretched skin or some complicated instrument. Whence it comes is immaterial - the output, the sweet sound is all that matters.

Unfortunately, science fails to quantify the pleasure that man experiences - perhaps pleasure is too obscene a term to describe the pure joy that fills a man when listening to music. As a listener, I am not very keen on seeing the performer; I'd rather close my eyes and hear it radiating (convecting, rather) from within. The key to truly enjoy a tune, according to me is to listen to it long enough for it to sink into your self: and then, the soul sings along. Music is the one entity that can reach the heart straight, for it s not the lips, but the heart that sings along, beating in rhythm to the beats that are heard. Perhaps that's why they're called beats in the first place. I read somewhere that music can make your heart beat in synchronisation with it. Such is the level of acceptance that accompanies music - it is so intense that an involuntary muscle beats in tune with it and the pleasure of listening to is needn't be explained.

To me, a tune is like an amusement park ride that the heart takes. It could be a nice, simple swing or a roller coaster ride - if you pick the ride you like, you'll love the experience. A field that involves just the heart and no intellect can be extremely emotional - overwhelming indeed, but that's the point of it.

In vocals I love how lyrics and tune support each other, with the tune being a springboard of sorts, catapulting lyrics into your heart, and the lyrics being a skeleton for a composer to make his tune. An aerodynamicist will agree with me when I say that with listening to instrumental music, you can have Lagrangian and Eulerian approaches: in the former case, you let your heart follow the tune, stretching and wringing itself in sync with the rhythm, while in the latter you stand by as an observer, merely drinking in all that you listen to. In any case, be it any form of music, love is occasionally at first, um, listen. A listener, and the tune he listens to, evolve relative to each other with every listen - even if one dislikes a tune in the beginning, he slowly begins accepting it. I have heard people say otherwise, but this is my experience. The tune, being insentient, cannot exactly evolve - it is the listener's heart that evolves, getting stirred at its depths by the beats at the background of the tune, and on its surface by the melody - all this makes me wonder if the heart is liquid. The acceptance phase is akin to one starting to like a book, because he tells (reads) the story to himself - or like people accepting their own point when trying to convince another because they are listening when they themselves say it. Upon listening to a tune for a sufficient number of times, one sort of 're-composes' the tune for himself, albeit in a subtle manner, not unlike a professor re-discovering a theory subtly while explaining to his students or while understanding it. This, I believe, is the crux of the process of understanding itself.

Some tunes, I find are natural: if the beginning of a track or song is hummed to me, my heart would want it to take it along a particular direction - a route, if you will, and I find some compositions taking the exact same route. This has happened quite often with AR Rahman, Illayaraja, Hans Zimmer, Salim-Sulaiman, Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy, Vishal-Shekhar, Anirudh Ravichandran and Mani Sharma among others. Hans Zimmer has sometimes surprised me with tunes that take a route that enjoy much better than what I would have chosen to. Some tunes seem forced- a noteworthy example would be John Williams' track titled 'Buckbeak's Flight' from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban's OST. It sounded unnatural the first time I heard it, but I fell in love eventually. A lot of AR Rahman's tunes, particularly in the 90's seemed to connect to tunes that I had unconsciously hummed to myself as a child long before those tunes were released, and I have, hence, always considered him a natural composer. Pretty audacious of me indeed, I truly apologise: this is straight from my heart. There are cases when a tune I could never conceive or relate to, collides tangentially with me, subsequently becoming one with my heart - such as Noor-e-Khuda by Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy. Augmented repetition in a tune, such as in Bommani Geesthe and Manwa Laage capture my heart. And then there is the case of the ticking clock - a trick used to indicate the critical passing of time in a film scene, by composers like John Williams in Forward to Time Past, Hans Zimmer in Mountains and AR Rahman in the background score of the upcoming Tamil film, 24. Another repetitive feature is what I like to call the pleasant scream - a tool I find, used by ARR in particular. One can find it in songs like 'Endrendrum Punnagai' (Alaipayuthey), 'Ae Sinamika' (O Kadhal Kanmani). I found another instance in 'Dil Dhadakne Do' (Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara) composed by Shankar Ehsaan Loy.

As a child, I remember having wondered if there were only a limited number of tunes in existence, and, if one day, all of them would get used up soon (I used to think of the limited number of swaras or notes which would impose a limit on the number of tunes that could exist) - quite like I had thought about concepts in science, and even inventions. I have felt a keen desire to have born earlier, so that I could have composed a couple of tracks to have in my name, (and made some scientific discovers too), but today's composers are proving to me time and again that beautiful tunes can always be composed.

However, I don't see myself as a composer in this life. I am, and will always be - an avid music listener.