Today...

is officially the last day of college.

Cheers to everyone who made it, and to those who are yet to.

Project Clapton-Dylan

A few months back I was extremely jealous of a friend who had gone to London to intern, and during the course of her stay, managed to sneak herself into an Eric Clapton concert at Hyde Park. She was gracious enough to mail me about her experience. This had me trapped within extreme feelings of throttling her neck out of jealousy OR making love to her out of admiration. Neither is unflinchingly acceptable in sober human society and thus I refrained from expressing my true feelings; as usual.

Today a friend writes on his blog about meeting 'a man in a white suit' who had told us as far back as 1963 that the answer was blowing in the wind.

Fuck man!
Now I know people who've seen 2 of my biggest heroes. AND I haven't met either.

I've wriiten about Clapton on this space. Maybe someday I'll be able to write about Robert Zimmermann and his most famous incarnate that my bastard friend went to see - Cheers to you man, though I'll attempt to murder you with frantic queries about the performance the next time we meet.

Next major goal in life :
Find enough resources to drag my arse to London & New York to catch Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan live. Before either dies. I probably have 2, at the most 3 years to accomplish such a feat. Wish me luck.

This morning...

while glancing through photocopies of a batchmate's notes on International Humanitarian Law, I came across;

Art. 6 of the ICCPR : Guarantees the rt. to self detioration.

Kingdom of Heaven

I have always loved war movies. Don't get me wrong, I'm no war mongerer, or wisher of ill upon the masses. I just like them war movies. Especially because of the repeated emphatic and often cliched visualisations upholding values such as Strength, Honour and Truth.
War movies are of 2 kinds - I've seen many of both - ones depicting modern warfare, and others that tell of battles fought between armies with swords and spears.

I believe it takes a lot to kill a man(implying human - I guess I'm still a traditionalist in some senses), and the advent of modern warfare using missiles and bullets have only made it easier to commit the worst crime that man could ever commit.

Today I saw Kingdom of Heaven, a film that took me to The Crusades where men stood face to face holding extremely sharp objects that evidently could only be used at close range, and had to do with their bare hands what now can be accomplished by firing objects from a distance.
I believe if there could be right way to kill a man it would be through fair combat without any firearms. If weapons are required then shield, swords and spears must suffice.

Amongst the 2 kinds of war movies I mentioned earlier, it is the latter kind which I prefer, no matter how weak or overdone its story actually is. I would buy a Rs.100 theatre ticket just to watch one overtly passionated and tragically brilliant battle scene. I'm like that. I like these films that show heroes being born and raised not to become successful but to grow to be honourable, even if it might be at the cost of aforementioned success or one's own life.

In KoH, Lord Godfrey (Liam Neeson) tells his son Balian (Orlando Bloom) to "speak the truth even if must mean imminent death".
Much later Balian would go on to refuse becoming the heir to the throne of Jerusalem by decietful means, even though it meant avoiding war between the Christian forces and Saladin's. From where I stand, it is irrelevant whether Balian was right or wrong. What is important is the choice he made.

I'm not one who makes much of morality, nor do I act along the lines of such austere ideals in my daily life. But I still like to believe they exist, or rather existed.

ps: However, KoH seemed to me to be nothing out of the ordinary as a film. In fact, it has given me reason to believe that the makers of the film, know little about an entire community portrayed in the film. Namely the Muslims. For example, in the film every conversation between a Muslim and a Chirstian ended with the Islamic greeting "Assalah-walehkum, Walehkum-assalah". Even the ones between King Baldwin IV (Edward Norton) and Saladin, and also later between Balian and Saladin.
I had thought the same greeting was used at the beginning of a conversation and not at the end. The only defence - if any - that maybe extended to this folly is the fact that it is an American movie, made by Americans, and for Americans.

Of Social Networking

With the coming of the season's finale of college life, my batchmates are flooding each other's Facebook profiles with 'picture tag' notifications. That is, people have been gleefully clicking pictures of one another and putting them up before the entire virtual world to appreciate.

While I bear no reservations against such inane activities, I find myself a tad bemused by the entire concept. Especially in light of the rapid popularity of Web Portals such as Facebook, Orkut and the more recent Twitter - I found out about the last one through an article in The Hindu. Apparently even celebrities have started using these portals for their own publicity.

I find the concept of splurging one's personal memories before an unknown audience a little disturbing sometimes. I often wonder if the popularity of such mediums to broadcast one's daily/special affairs are a consequence of the world having shrunk/come closer or of having grown increasingly lonelier. I'm afraid I don't have an answer. God bless.

Of Being a Boy

Last night a friend and I were sitting and reminiscing the good ol' school days and the games we played then. During our discussion we realised that there were so many things that both of us did when we were kids, that were similar in nature, especially considering our different schooling backgrounds - he read at Modern School, Vasant Vihar; whereas I've graduated from the more convent(y) boy's school, La-Martiniere for Boys, Kolkata.

For one, while still in junior school, we'd both look forward to the last day of school before summer holidays. The last day before breaking for summer was always crazy. I'd go to class and then with the coming of the first teacher - who'd inadvertantly be the class teacher - all the kids would throw up their arms and call for a free period ma'am. Please Ma'am. The class teacher would relent after some vocal coercing and take us out to the field and get us back at the end of the hour for the next class. The same ritual would be repeated in the next class and throughout the day, with us ending up on the field right through the day. This is turn was repeated annually.
It was in these free periods that we'd find imaginative ways of playing real games, without adequate sporting gear to support us. Basically all you had to do was figure out how to make a ball. Then hand cricket, table-tennis - on benches beside the field with tiffin boxes making the net, and catch n' catch were made possible. We made balls out of little stones wrapped in layers of hankies, cellophane and rubber bands.

Also about being in school, the field was like the space where we belonged. Our activities inside the classroom would often be inspired by promised rewards of "20 minutes on the field" if we would finish our essays on time. All one had to do was get to the field. Everything else would be taken care of there.

Another common game from our childhood was Hide & Seek. Both my friend and I noted that in H&S you come across 2 distinct set of characters.
a) The risk takers;
b) The perpetual hiders.
Both of us obviously fell in the former category. This comprises of the people who wouldn't idly remain hiding right through the game - the latter weren't found often and ignored, thus they would remain in hiding even after a new game had started and the denner had been changed. Both my friend and I were the types to go looking for the denner clandestinely, in order to earn a dhappa - I spy. Apparently it was called dhappa in Delhi also. In my formative years Hide & Seek was great fun.

A few years later a new trend would be noted in both my friend's school and mine. That is the practice of playing "Marampeeti" or "Bombards" as we called it in La-Martiniere. This is an inane game that requires only a tennis ball and a fairly large group of unruly boys. The object of the game is to pick up the ball and hit the person standing closest to you. Obviously the latter is not a rule. You could aim at anyone, you just had to hit. If you missed then the ball would keep rolling till someone gets to it - there were some awesome tackles and dives occuring at this stage - and resumes hitting people till he's dispossessed. The best part is there are no further rules in this game and no teams. Though towards the end of school the games would turn into Science v. Commerce classes, with each group thirsty for the others blood.
We played this game regularly despite the warnings from the school administration, from 7th Std till 12th Std. This game was about pure personal satisfaction and not about winning. Hell you couldn't win this game - there were no points - only hit or get hit. It was the best game I'd played in school.

I remember spending most of my time playing during my childhood. Some random game or the other, in school and in my housing colony. I don't exactly remember my first wet dream (apparently most others do), or any special father and son talk (the only serious talks my father gave me were accompanied by beatings - and I deserved every one of them). Just vague images of those sweat filled hours playing in the dust, some memorable cuts with gory blood spillings, and the admonitions afterwards (admontions in general too) make up most of my childhood memories.

I miss my schooldays, though I don't think I would be able to go back and do the same things again. It was a great time but now I feel I have lived it to the fullest, and thus it holds no further attraction to me but for memories. Its something that makes me glad and a little bit sad at the same time. I had a good time in school and our teachers knew that boys were just boys. Just let them play. Schoolteachers, especially junior school ma'ams were really sweet as far as I can recall.

Cheers.

Vote for Praja Rajyam

Tommorrow is election day in Andhra Pradesh. This time alongside the Grand Alliance of TDP & TRS, and the erstwhile ruling Congress Party is; the Megastar Chiranjeevi's political venture, The Praja Rajyam Party. If Chiru wins then he comes to our campus in July/August for our convocation to hand us our degrees.

I have sufferred in Nalsar, and if I had a dying wish, it would be to all those domiciled in AP to vote for Chiru's Praja Rajyam, so that I can get his autograph on my degree. I think surviving five years of Nalsar leaves me entitled to this much. So please. Wake up and vote. And bring Chiru to Nalsar.

I heard a PRP slogan recently that goes:
Twinkle Twinkle little star, Chiranjeevi Megastar!

Please again.

Araku

The sharpest turn on the road was the highest one on the hill. It was here that despite the consistent glare of the sun, the air turned abruptly sweet and cool. The warm gusts showering my face through the half open window had ceased. I could breathe easier now, I had been in a bus for over 17 hours. It was finally about to begin its descent into Araku Valley.

I had once attempted a trip to Araku about a couple of years earlier. I was pickpocketed at the Station while attempting to board an overpacked General Compartment on Godavari Express. It was my first solo trip to anywhere but it failed before it could even start.

On Thursday I began my second attempt at a solo trip to The Valley to finish unfinished business. My friend and longtime travel companion - the one who almost made it to Pondicherry before passing out on the hostel steps - had similar plans of finishing his trip. So off we set after the day's classes got over; he heading south, and myself heading north. 

My journey commenced with a 14 hour bus ride to Vishakhapatnam from where I took another bus to Araku Valley. The latter ride is roughly 5 hours through winding hilly roads. Upon reaching Araku, I promptly looked for a cheap place to dump my backpack and clean up. It turned out that Araku's lodging expenses are slightly high. I got a really shabby room with an Indian toilet and tap and bedbugs for Rs. 200 a night. My arrival was greeted by a Telegu Desam Party (TDP) rally - elections are 'round the corner - most of whom were nice people I met and chatted with over biryani and beer at Venkateshwara Bar & Restaurant, a local pub where people were dropping by in scores from the rally for a quick beer. 

I had come to Araku to score weed armed with a map drawn by the friend mentioned earlier - he'd been here before - and a name without a face; Danesh Anna. I found him quite easily after figuring his name was Daaneshwar Rao. It is from his place my real journey, one that would lead me to the heart of adivasi Andhra, began. At Danesh Anna's place I met a lower caste baba called Goondu Raja. He offered to take me around town and maybe help me find stuff I was searching for. I didn't trust him. He was too friendly. And I'm always wary of Godmen and Cops. He however seemed really pleased to have found me and dragged me along to a market called Shukra Baazar where I met an iconic gentleman called Lumboogodi Baba or Lumboo Baba. 

Lumboo Baba was your typical sadhu with a grimy yet content face. He showed me stuff I was interested in purchasing but did not have the quantity to meet my needs. So he offered to take Goondu and myself to his house. I refused. My mistrust was clear on my face. Lumboo Baba would then proceed to pull me towards him and whisper calmly, "baba, prem se aaye ho toh prem se rakhenge; dushmani mein aaye ho toh hi fikar karna, kyonki nahin chorenge. Daro maat." It roughly translates to, "if you come in peace, you shall find it. If you don't fuck around, you have nothing to fear. So fear not." It reminded me of Bob Dylan singing 'to be outside the law you gotta be honest'. I decided to follow him.

We left the market place and found a TDP truck awaiting to take villagers - mostly tribal, Araku's major population comprises of Adivasis and low caste Hindus - a large number of whom were hanging from all sides of the truck. Having a swollen foot I was having second thoughts when Goondu hauled me up and sat down, wrapping himself around my left leg. I had no idea what was to come. Riding on the back of an overcrowded truck is extremely risky and exhilarating. As soon as the truck jolted to life, people started losing their grippings and began to scream and curse and fall off. The remaining held onto each other instinctively. And you never held onto the person holding you, but rather someone else, thereby forming a chain of humanity swaying precariously at the mercy of a irate driver and kuchcha village roads. Meanwhile Goondu protected my leg with his entire 5 foot frame. The ride had turned into what someone I know would call a Human Kindness Experiment. 

We finally reached our destination, Dumriguda. Dumriguda is a tribal village on a forest covered hill, 25 kms from Araku, towards the Orissa border of Andhra Pradesh.

Here I walked across two hills and a stream with a swollen foot to get to Lumboo Baba's place. It was a 6km walk and we stopped and smoked often because of my foot. However Lumboo Baba kept talking to me through it all. He explained to me how things worked here. People knew tourists when they saw one in Dumriguda, it doesn't have too many outsiders. One musn't draw unneccessary attention upon oneself, election times are cop alert times, and cop alert times are bad times. 

We reached his place without incident. There I met his family and recieved my first satisfying nourishment in what had been a long two days of travelling. The baba first fed me rotis, then made me tea. His 4 year old daughter, Radha, filled my bottle after noticing my difficulty in drinking from their matka - I spilled water all over my crotch. Later we discussed business and I had found what I had come searching for. 

But Lumboo Baba wasn't done with me. I guess he realised my love for weed, and he figured I could recognise what I wanted when I saw it. Also, maybe our tastes matched because he offered to take me to a village called Kinchumunda where he promised I would find something special. He, however, warned me not to touch or take anything that I found there.

I had already smoked a lot of weed by then and there comes a time when every smoker is teetering on the fringes of his consciousness grappling to find distinction between instinctive fear - which is a good guide in these situations - and mere paranoia - which is a result of weed induced high. I had found what I was looking for and was already satisfied with the way the day went. I wanted to get out of here before sunset. Mission accomplished, there was nothing left to achieve but that goddamn nagging curiosity. I'd found what I want, but what about that of which I know nothing of?  Can I trust these madmen? For all I knew they could just kill me and drop me anywhere in the forest. I was alone and no one knew where I was. People knew I was headed to Araku, but this was 20 odd kms away and going further. And I had heard stories of Chambal Dakoos as a kid, who fed travellers well and offered them shelter before killing them in their sleep. 

It is at times like these that I choose to really upon my gut. I looked up to find the sun already setting and the sky wearing a lustful bright pink-orange hue. The trees in the forest swayed sombrely, as if smiling at my childish insecurities. It was beautiful. I decided to go. 

Baba took me to a forest in Kinchumunda, though winding lanes and pathways amidst bushes until you trip onto a clearing in the middle of nowhere. And you find a small square plantation of the elegant, long and slender Cannibus Indica - locally referred to as Shilavati, one of the most potent forms of naturally growing ganja in the world. It was beautiful. The smell...fuck I stood there breathing with my eyes shut for what seemed like forever. I couldn't let go. It wasn't time for harvest yet, thus Baba wouldn't let me break any bit of the plants. 

He showed me another such field before leading Goondu and myself back to the bus stop from where we headed safely back to The Valley.

It hadn't felt like I was leaving college till I got back from Araku. I guess I just wasn't ready yet. Life hadn't matched upto the times I had in Goa earlier this semester until this Araku trip. I felt alive again. Free, and excited. I was travelling hard and non-stop. And I scored great weed, but its not the scoring or the weed that makes a high great. Rather its the fact that you feel you've earned your high. Thats what makes it special. I think thats what makes smokers more possesive about their stuff as compared to drunkards who are willing to buy everyone drinks after they're half a bottle down themselves. Its because of the effort required in finding good weed.

Further, like most important things, only you can judge yourself in this regard, and shall reap awards from the self accordingly.

The Araku trip has rendered an otherwise colourless last semester of college into some sort of a last minute rainbow. I believe I'm ready to leave. Welcome brave new world.

ps: Also this is the 42nd post on this blog. A nice way to reach the enlightenment margin I think.

The Farewell Match

Last evening the reigning football champions of Nalsar played their final competitive game on campus. They dominated, persevered and also had a lot of fun. The most good looking player - guess who?? - if not the most talented, got injured and was carried off the field in an ambulance with sirens blaring and lights flaring and all. It turned out to be a false alarm. His left foot is abominably swollen and hurting, but no bones broken said the doctor. Painkillers have been a lifesaver for him.

The match was great fun, and also The Jah was found smiling upon these oldest of warhorses as he awakened a storm and strong winds in time for the game, which otherwise had promised to be a scorcher considering the average temperature has been hovering close to 40 Degrees Centigrades all week.

WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!

It feels real good to be one, no matter how small or low the standard of game/play is.

Cheers and May the force be with us all.

Of Heroines

My return to my esteemed University was amidst tremendous excitement due to a spate of 'sexual harrasment' accusations levied at some boys from my batch by a couple of girls. These boys are - and I say so without any misgivings or shame - my friends. And they did pass derogatory comments against the aforementioned women, for which they have been held accountable and demeaned. However, the comments passed if taken into account would reflect only their genuine feelings about the women and NOT Sexual Harrasment of any form; which in turn seems justified to me - retrospectively - if you take the women and their reactions into account. But thats just me.

However, this post is not to justify the misconduct of my friends or comment upon the lack of character and backbone shown by the female fraternity of NALSAR in general. The aforementioned incidents brought me to consider females I have admired and loved the most. Above are; from left - Grace Slick & Janis Joplin. Needless to say that it is their voice that just kills me. Grace Slick's vocal tremolos and Janis's raw energy and pain, always leave me holding my breath without realising. However, certain instances from their lives reflect certain characteristics in these women which I believe to be the only thing that still keeps me saying "chics can be cool". After all my faith in all I believed in and the people I carried affection for have been shaken brutely by Nalsar and it is in these times I look to my heros, rather heroines in search of hope.

To mention a few instances from rock n roll urban legend;
Grace Slick had once tried to put LSD into Richard Nixon's tea. Seriously. Further, in a 1969 Dick Cavett Show performance, she became the first person to say "motherfucker" on live television during a performance of "We Can Be Together" with the rest of Jefferson Airplane.
In 1971 she fought with her lead guitarist Jorma Kaukonen and challenged him to a race which ended in her crashing her car into the side of the Golden Gate Bridge. She sufferred a concussion and later wrote a song about it. Jorma and Grace remain friends till date. She's also been arrested several times for the crime of - as she believes - Talking Under Influence; the official records reflect arrests on charges of Driving Under Influence. She was well known for her sharp tongue.

Janis Joplin was less boisterous in terms of her behaviour in public, though her music is considered far too bold for her times. She was a white girl, singing black blues melodies, in an overtly rock n' roll market. But she sang with the kind of vengeful darkness that brought her instant success and recognition amongst black and white music afficinados alike. Summertime is an apt example of her approach to music in general. Summertime was a popular lullaby from a George Gershwin opera called Porgy & Bess. In the opera it is a father who sings the song to his infant child reassuring him of the life that lay ahead. However, anyone who's heard the more famous Janis Joplin version would agree that she didn't sing it to be a lullaby. On the contrary, I feel, its Joplin putting on a black woman's cynical sneer at her white counterpart. And the darkness and the confusion is rendered more potent by her being a white woman in reality. A white woman with a black heart.
To provide context the song was recorded by her in the album 'Cheap Thrills' in 1968 and contains the lines "Oh, Your daddy's rich; And your mamma's good lookin', So hush little baby don't you cry".

Its not surprising to me that these women became the voice to the pain, anger and frustation of an entire generation of disillusioned youth, comprising mostly of vagabonds and junkies - men of apparent despicable characteristics.
Pardon my sexist remark but I feel these women had balls. Metaphorically ofcourse. Maybe thats why I admire them so much. Cheers.

In Delhi

I am in the capital right now. Have been for a couple of days. Met many seniors and an old friend in the time I have been here. Also sat through an excrutiatingly lengthy and annoying interview. The only good reason for sitting for it would be the fact that I could catch up with so many old timers in Delhi with my transport being paid for - the interviewers provided me with air transport to and from here.

I'm tempted to say 'the things I do for love'; but I shall not. I leave tomorrow. I wish I didn't have to.