Sunday, December 27, 2009

Spilt Milk.

We that have done and thought,
That have thought and done,
Must ramble, and thin out
Like milk spilt on a stone.

                             -William Butler Yeats

Adam and Eve.

Marc Chagall
(1912, Oil on canvas)

Saturday, December 26, 2009


Exams came and went. I went days without sleep, and I had to travel to a particularly godforsaken corner out on the outskirts of the city at 6 in the morning in the blistering cold everyday. It's so secluded, it's like falling off the face of Delhi. For exams. Tonnes of them. But, I live to tell. And the ordeal is over. Almost, barring one little bugger that will be dealt with on the last day of the year. And I shall know freedom. I shall taste the heady intoxication of fresh air after exactly 4 months. I will know joy. It is cold. COLD. I hate cold. If I had wings, I would definitely be flying south right about now. If I was an exotic furry animal, I would binge on chilly chicken till severe constipation kicks in, and hibernate till spring arrives. Sadly, I only screech like a bird and look like a polar bear. In fact, I have turned so white, high exposure shots fail to capture the thingamajig that is my nose. I am likely to be mistaken for the ghost of Christmas past. I hate being white. I had the best Christmas ever. Family flew in from places far and wide(with gifts that I am still stoked by), I met old friends from school. The kind of friends you feel like you "belong" to. That is something so rare, it surprises me now. I never realized how much I could crave for a sense of belonging. Strange, considering how wary I am of being tied down. Wary of feelings and words that evolve from strings to chains. Wary of people, wary of places, wary of time. Everything stagnates. I've been reading again. Heavy stuff. Makes me dream of strange things at night. I like nightmares more than dreams. I like cryptic ones more than anything. For two days, I've been strutting around in supremely fancy and equally painful pairs of shoes. And then bought another a few hours ago. I'm starting to look like those dainty delhi-brand GK-dolls I once coaxed A into running over in his snazzy car last summer, when we went out to smoke trippy shit. Retail therapy is chicken soup for a frozen-to-an-icicle soul. Adding a few books to the pile, I'm almost broke. Which is a strangely liberating feeling. I will now indulge in cheap thrills with valid reasons. Tomorrow, I will go shopping again for the third day in a row. And I will binge on chocolates with the voraciousness I remember being described in Les Miserables.

I feel numb. I feel hollow. I feel nothing.
The entire spectrum of my emotions has bifurcated into anger and apathy. Unequal parts.

There is a decision to be made. In view of my love for ultimatums and automated mechanisms, it will be made on the basis of the sequence of events leading up to midnight on New Year's Eve. I have no plans for the year end. I want to dance various parts of myself off. Including a major chunk of the brain that's giving me insomnia. The thing won't shut up and let me sleep. Opinionated little scoundrel. So... party, anyone?

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Of Yearning.

There exists no room for discontent if there remains nothing to hope for. Nothing to strive for, nothing to peg your faith on to, nothing to plan your days and wrap your dreams around. One might as well live deliberately, if there is left nothing to win or lose.

But then, maybe discontent isn't a bad thing after all.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

The Idealist Grumbles...

Choose your personal favorite cup of poison.

Guess what free will is all about. 

Friday, December 4, 2009

The Metamorphosis of Narcissus.

(The Metamorphosis of Narcissus - Salvador Dali - 1937)

I believe that art is not that which shows us the world as it is. It is that which lets us see a fragment of it through the eyes of the artist behind it. Which is why I nurture a strong dislike for the Impressionists and works from the Renaissance period. On the other hand, Cubist, Surrealist and Expressionist art fascinates me like little else in the world. It entrances. Hits you on many levels, bit-by-bit, blow-by-blow. It challenges your perception. Case in point would be the one above.

For the few who may not know, the legend of Narcissus goes thusly: Echo and Narcissus.

On the left, there is the figure of Narcissus, hunched over and peering into the pool. On the right, we see a decaying hand made of stone. It holds an egg, from which sprouts the narcissus flower. Notice how the two silhouettes are almost congruent.

And that, right there, is art.