Friday, July 03, 2009

INTEGRITY


In those days the words “artistic integrity” did not evoke a sneer, as they might now—if not a stare of blank incomprehension. Sometimes I’ll catch myself describing that quality, or its lack, to explain why I don’t admire a certain performer, and realize I might as well be talking to a wall. “Catch myself,” because I should know better by now. Some people—a lot of people—simply don’t get the distinction, even if they believe they love music. Many others just don’t care
...

It’s not something I’m particularly bitter about, because professionally I have managed to prosper despite waging that battle. So I crow not as a victim but a victor, in spite of all I continue to rail against. But in the face of public opinion (if that’s not another giant oxymoron), it carries no weight that you might have devoted your life to making music as well and as honestly as you can, and your experience empowers you to identify all of the “tricks” employed by “pop artists” (almost always a giant oxymoron) to attract the casual listener—simple beat, sentimental or “party time” lyrics, banal chord combinations, trendy production gimmicks, and lots of repetition. You learn that if you find yourself talking to somebody who admires a certain musical “stylist,” one you know to be a carefully packaged commodity, you don’t bother to explain how that music had been specifically designed and manufactured with that sole aim in mind: to be “liked.”
You might hear, “Well, what’s wrong with that?”
That’s a hard question to answer—why does integrity matter? One analogue that occurs to me is that I don’t think anyone would admire a person like that, who did and said whatever was necessary just to be liked. Such a person couldn’t possibly operate that way with any integrity, and even if we didn’t see that transparency at first, eventually we would.
So much popular music—almost all of it—is specifically designed not to say anything, or mean anything; not to carry any heartfelt message through passionate playing and singing, but simply to be liked.
Perhaps there’s nothing wrong with that, for those who do indeed “like” it, but it’s the fraud that offends me. The pretend “rebels” who dance on the strings of sleazy producers; the shallow divas who simply do what they’re told, sing the notes and words put in front of them, and pretend they mean it.
And it’s not just music, and it’s not just the creators: it’s the audience. Readers of formulaic novels don’t care that those books have been shaped, paragraph by paragraph, to appeal to a particular reader, and thus they—the readers—are nothing more or less than the “lowest common denominator.” People who line up for blockbuster movies merely trust that their shallower desires will be properly catered to—mild titillation and a few fights and car chases. TV viewers don’t care that they are being “marketed to”—pandered to, not forgetting that the definition of “pander” is “pimp”—not only in the commercials, but in the cheap, cynical content.
The Roman satirist Juvenal described the social decline of his people with a memorable phrase, “Give them bread and circuses and they will never revolt.”
Apparently burgers and “American Idol” have the same effect.
“Give the people what they want” is enough for some, even the summit of their aspirations, but others would like to do better than that.

- neil peart

...continue reading.

Saturday, June 06, 2009

bubble




barsaat ke paani se bante bigadte bulbule

mujhko yaad dilate hain

wo waqt jo hamne saath guzara tha

aur haan phir ye bhi yaad aata hai mujhe

hamne koi barsaat

saath nahi guzari

...continue reading.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

u still are what i know u as


that's o.k.
the world makes everyone
that
way
every
once a while
so i guess
u shoudn't take that to heart
or mind
or soul
its just a period
of creative
rest
i bet
:)
it'll be good soon
do not worry
i am sure
u still are what i know u as

...continue reading.

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Moongazing memories

A superfast Saturday ended in the most unexpected way on a late night outing in the heart of the city. An otherwise crowded Connaught Place was busy with a rare preoccupation — taking a trip up the Milky Way.
..
Young volunteers from S.P.A.C.E (Science Popularisation Association of Communicators and Educators) helped Delhiites celebrate the spirit of the skies with life-size telescopic views of the moon and Saturn, on its very own day.
As my eyes wandered through the looking glass, the moon looked more wondrously white than ever, and Saturn, the majestic Lord of the Rings that it is. Shoppers slept; the curious children in them awoke. From expats to vagabonds and whiney little brats to grand old grandmas, over a thousand were caught in the fleeting fascination of that one momentous moment, in a quest they’d call too silly, simple and schoolish otherwise. They say the best things in life come free — with experiences like these, I dare not deny!

...continue reading.

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

Roll the Bones


Well, you can stake that claim --
Good work is the key to good fortune
Winners take that praise
Losers seldom take that blame
If they dont take that game
And sometimes the winner takes nothing
We draw our own designs
But fortune has to make that frame

We go out in the world and take our chances
Fate is just the weight of circumstances
Thats the way that lady luck dances


Roll the bones

Why are we here?..

Because were here
Roll the bones
Why does it happen?
Because it happens

Roll the bones

Faith is cold as ice --
Why are little ones born only to suffer
For the want of immunity
Or a bowl of rice?
Well, who would hold a price
On the heads of the innocent children
If theres some immortal power
To control the dice?

We come into the world and take our chances
Fate is just the weight of circumstances
Thats the way that lady luck dances

Roll the bones

Jack -- relax.
Get busy with the facts.
No zodiacs or almanacs,
No maniacs in polyester slacks.
Just the facts.
Gonna kick some gluteus max.
Its a parallax -- you dig?
You move around
The small gets big. its a rig.
Its action -- reaction --
Random interaction.
So whos afraid
Of a little abstraction?
Cant get no satisfaction
From the facts?
You better run, homeboy --
A facts a fact
From nome to rome, boy.

Whats the deal? spin the wheel.
If the dice are hot -- take a shot.
Play your cards. show us what you got --
What youre holding.
If the cards are cold,
Dont go folding.
Lady luck is golden;
She favors the bold. thats cold.
Stop throwing stones --
The night has a thousand saxophones.
So get out there and rock,
And roll the bones.
Get busy!


- neil peart

...continue reading.

Monday, March 23, 2009

INDIANNESS


8 in the morning on a sunday followed by loads and loads of hard work(film making is juicing yourself)...preceded by bits and chunks of reading upon a fantastic book called THE LOST FLAMINGOES OF BOMBAY..(of love living and losing and gaining and just being...just finished reading it...it is marvellous)...and yes coming back to the thing we were doing on sunday...


a ride down to the land of love...VRINDAVAN..where krishna is..where radha is.. 

we ask for the directions to the temple and the dear street guy tells us to take a left... and we enter the narrowest lanes of oldest times...on our time travelling bikes...

i look at prashant ... he says.. 


"i just love this raw feel... enfield in the middle of vrindavan... INDIANNESS" 

i smile...


8 in the evening on the sunday followed by loads and loads of riding and picturing and salvation and krishna chants and what not all...(the ride was beautiful..won't express anything about it here...still to write the travelogue). parking in front of emporio in vasant kunj, where delhi fashion week is going on. it has just ended and i am here to pick my sister. glitz and glamour follows but i am not wearing my specs...do not want to. she comes out and smiles...looks at my krishna tee and says 

" its beautiful " 

i smile. we vroom and zip to the homely J.N.U and take refuge in chai at ganga dhaba. after ages..salvation encored. and my sister tells me about the pointless particulars.. 

" you know last year the fashion week was nice... manish arora and his circus... indian songs.. and some colors...it was good...but this time it was too westernized... and that show that indian designer had themed as indian...was westernized indian...but then i came out and saw you wearing that krishna tee..and there it was,.. 

INDIANNESS... " 

i smiled yet again... 

and composed two lines there and then.. 

IT WAS INDIANNESS...

YESS.. 

...continue reading.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009

as it is


it has been long i know. never was like this. more than a month has passed since the last scrib. but changing phases...they are the stepping stones to that deck called constant. the past few days have seen me, 
being honest to death with nothingness...hmm
learning to be the way my sister is...always pure.. paqsaaf
trying to get back on the road to poetry, i will be there mirza.. 
being honest to my bird, yes i will get you beautified soon...thump thump...
rubbing shoulders with everyday being, teach me life and...visual art.. 
hearing the distant sounds of books and diaries... not the bestsellers..
ideating and visualising a shelter for the being... where i can work...
missing friends and that friend... 
a lot is round the corner... somethings new...some for me all for you... 
coming soon, a new blog, a space for souls like you, pictures, words, tours, and experiences, life, untreated... 
till then.. 
continue that affair..

...continue reading.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

TRANCEport



It’s a different world. From the either side of the window it is…a different world. Walking the by lane, sitting in your balcony, your car’s windowpane rolled up, from wherever…if you look at a bus, its everything else than what you would want to commute by. And from the side of the window facing the face of your choice, if you look at wherever, it’s a picture that gels your present, past and future, state of mind, state of being, and reflections of inner voice.

 
The commuter wants..to get there. The means of getting there are many. There is also reachable if one takes the bus. The artist i know always wants to do this. Scattered colors in and out, words painted on taints and open doors, music scores of far cry fantasies, general knowledge on every fingertip, hurries and hassles and flipping-flopping stories, escapades from do-dailies and frames of time, memoirs on the brows of those who have added sugar to it all for all the time, and trips to wonder worlds in conversations…
Helping hands for tickets to distant eyes, shouts of get down and get on, eyes that meet for a fraction and then for centuries, engines narrating love stories till the full stops and again, angry roads, and mellowing turns, destinations on every urn of matchbox houses flying over and over again, … sparks conducted every now and then and when …

Do not know when. Yesterday, in a film on nat-geo, the anchor was saying this about the dtc buses.
“ No one knows, how much time, these buses are going to take to their destinations, Somehow…they reach…”

And while coming to office today, I was listening to these words...
“Who can say where the road goes, where the day flows, only time”
If I have to say something about it, I would say,
I am devoid of the sense of time when I am commuting by bus. It’s a better means of TRANCEport.

...continue reading.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

WORDS Words words



my party begins the day i start writing on whatever

drown deep inside walls and,

build waters atop...

words words words


roll on the floor with pen and pencil,..

fill paper in bottles, and throw it all around the room

and what spreads all over is...

words words words


simplest poems will be will be

no matter what i intend to see

i am bad at walking on dictionaries,

and swimming across the english channel

but what else makes good runners and swimmers my friend, but

words words words


words they are and just how are they

abandon collectives and they will say

to twist one's lips, a nerve or two

was not what we were supposed to do

we are, and will mean only life

for life is also a

words words words

...continue reading.

Thursday, December 25, 2008

hallucinated in loveville


there is this small village ..behind the mountains which start from the riverbed....in the land of dew and colored drops..where moonsmile lives peacfully with her friends..the day, the night and the evening. the others there live in their tiny huts made of dreams and soft wishes.

dear hmming bird....they call it the supernova on earth..but we in neverland..call it the festival of colors....!

there are celebrations in the sky...so grand in nature,....that it seems every entity in this universe..is smiling just coz moonsmile is smiling. honey draped winds are flowing from one galaxy to the other...mist in the sky hangs like flowers on morning trees...and all eyes of the universe..have pasted their vision to the white canvas...in the background of.... the BEAUTIFUL....!

which some say is her smile...some say...is moonsmile herself,...and for some....

the unimaginable....


for me and my moonsmile, 


it is DEWDROPS...

the place where we are ourselves.

DEWDROPS IS 3 YEARS OLD TODAY. WISHING IT A VERY VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

may it's spirit be the same as it has been. and all four of us here thank you all readers and fellow bloggers...for all your kind,warm..beautiful words...THANK YOU...! THE WORDS....THEY STILL FALL LIKE DEW.AND WILL KEEP ON FALLING...SOME FOR US..ALL FOR YOU..

...continue reading.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Now, the commercial crusaders’ attack

The attack isn’t over yet. First, there were the terrorists. Then, there were our forces, followed by a seething, shouting citizenry and the entire human rights brigade. But well, the wisest were the commercial crusaders, who once again, amid all the unrest, managed to do what they’re best at — making money of it all. Brands got to the job of anti-terrorism advertising, celebrities cashed in on the ideal opportunity for ‘meaningful’ publicity, cafés came up with evenings of peaceful protest, only to see there cookies and coffee disappear faster than ever before.
..
And if that wasn’t enough, publishers quickly got to the job of putting terror-based scripts in print, and even pointed out startling similarities between their titles and the massacre, just in case readers started believing the author was gifted with a sixth sense! The Husains wielded their brush, the event coordinators their socialite emcees, the NGOs their ‘we told you but you weren’t listening’ attitude.

What’s more — naïve student bodies and youth groups are even collecting funds to start their own anti-terror-training cults, little realising that once the frenzy subsides, they’d go into the lazy mode, choosing to spend the same money on boozing and partying instead of sticking to their of-the-moment motto. E-games are fast building the Taj Mahal Hotel in three dimensions, lest their players feel left out of the action, just as toy stores are flaunting NSG commandoes’ life-sized blow-ups at the gates. Polo matches and Page 3 parties are making sure the two minutes of mourning aren’t missed, lest the whole deal appears irresponsibly timed.

A store in my neighbourhood did the most ridiculous thing — it put up a charity box for the relatives of the deceased. When I asked the manager if he could enlighten me with a few names of those whose families would benefit, he gave me an ignorant, unashamed smile. Part of the pool, I suspect, goes into his staff’s paan masala funding. And then, they urge you to bring on the ‘change’!

...continue reading.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

likhai

writing hasn't shown her face to me for a while now. i am beginning to miss her. for i so want to be with her. sit down with her on my terrace and watch the sunset. talk of birds and trees and her role in making all this beautiful. i want to tell her about my pigeons of suburbia. she will be so happy to know that me, goodness, lulu and damru have planned a long long vacation with her, and intend to take her on a joyride. she you know is so busy, fiddling with the mad city's traffic lights and all the passers by, that she has now started to take the long route to day.

my sister just loves her. but the air told me that she also has not been in touch with her lately. i am worried for both of them. but i can not do anything. i just wish she comes home with my sister and we make gobhi ke paranthe, and have em sitting in moonlight.

for now... i am too busy dealing with people who try to replicate her. they won't achieve anything. but still they go on.

anyways...writing..if you are reading this, please come back to me. i am missing you.

i really am...

truly yours..

...continue reading.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

without dreams


GREEN

it fills your eyes till you wonder whether the universe has any other colour to offer: there is so much green that it spreads like the great ocean on all sides as far as the eyes can see. although it hurts you to look at it, it is a colour that speaks to you. you wonder what it is about that particular combination of yellow and blue that reminds you of flowers mating. stretching beyond, beyond the village, into the horizon, there are nothing but fields buttered with afternoon sunshine. damp smells, earth smells,.. enter your nostrils, fill your throat, play upon your tongue. in your hungry imagination you can nearly taste the still-growing plants that soar above you and all around you. in the distance you can almost see a structure. beyond the steep descent of rice paddies, the stiff towers of sugarcane, there is a structure in that sea of green. it is there though you can not see it. you know it must be there but it does not want to revel itself to you. not yet at least. you remember that place. it is smudged against the sun, slowly rising out of the ground in a cloud of steam. its rough beams, its loopsided, slapped together surface, the comforting familiarity of it's one roomed splendour. it's your...

HOME.


one of the few things that ABDUL could count of being a part of his personal history was a seemingly inexplicable attraction to the colour green, as if somewhere, in a past life, he was connected to the earth. other than this, and fragments of memory and dream, he had little, by the time he was seventeen, to call his own. he sometimes felt that he had been denied something, but couldn't quite understand what. it was as if someone had deliberately obstructed his consciousness, erected a high mud wall beyond which there were endless fields of green that weren't meant for him. he had heard that others saw a magnificent vision as they slept- some of stalely homes, some of their villages in the mountains, some of the women they loved or lusted after- but only the image, if it could be called that, which appeared half-formed in his sleep was a distant structure in a sea of green. and that too rarely.

he guessed dreams were for those who didn't fall, as if unconscious, into their beds of twisted jute after a day of hard labour. or for those with a little imagination who enjoyed story telling even in their waking lives.

GREEN

it filled his eyes till he wondered whether the universe had any other colour to offer. at two and half, his eyes were still adjusting to the brightness of everything. there was the sering orange of the sun as it dove into an immense sugar cane field, row upon row of crop rising stiffly rising to meet it; a dizzying expanse of rice terrace; the rattan plant doubled at the waist by water and wind; the shine of wet blades of grass after a heavy rain; the yellow and red of his mother's clothes drenched with the downpour, dark, almost transparent. his small hands pulled at her blouse,at her black hair, at the cheap tinny earrings that framed her dark face till she shrieked in pain and gave him a stinging slap on the wrist. they were both wet and smelt of rainwater.

he remembered now that her dark face made her smile, with its pure row of white teeth, dazzling to his eyes. his fingers would often make their stealthy ways to her half open mouth.

perhaps she went without food to feed him. perhaps she was just a girl. with a girl's as-yet-unformed body, curveless, stark. perhaps, he could never be sure, she was just a spirit his mind conjured up to fulfill a primal need. after all it was difficult to trust memory., for most of what he chose to remember, bordered on conjecture-images pieced together after dreams-and the rest the desperate works of his imagination. it was simple, he didn't have a memory, so he fashioned one for himself out of nothing. when he awoke from one of those dreams, he could never remember exactly what he had sen but was always left with a vague sense of bereavement. it was heaviness that remained with him throughout the day and discoloured whatever he looked at. something he felt sure: was missing; he had lost a part of himself in another land.

when his stomach was full, his world was colour and shape. he looked at things with the curiosity of a two-year old child. slowly the black thread around his neck, the shiny square of metal hanging from it rubbing his bare chest as he walked unsteadily into the light. slowly the objects would reveal themselves: the blur next to the hut, a tree; a flash of yellow, the sun; the dark shadow approaching him wrapped in cloth, his father. and there were other children too, but older than him. a few girls perhaps. just their smiles remained to remember them by.




- shabano bilgrami.

...continue reading.

Monday, October 13, 2008

DAWN


was reading an illustration in office today. and came across this..could not resist posting. i wish everyone had seen those pictures. anyways...here are the words

The daughter of Heaven has appeared with the light:
Young woman in flaming garb,
Who reigns on all earth
Blessed dawn, shine on us today.

At dawn and dusk, . ..the faithful bring to the river offerings of flowers, fruit and tiny oil lamps to float down the current.

" Here comes the light if the day, the most precious light of all: the radiant messenger is born in the might.

Dawn, the daughter of sky and sun, announces to the faithful it is the time to salute the appearance of the celestial body by lighting the oil lamp at the river's edge and greet the Sun God

- page no 7,
ETERNAL INDIA
by
INDIRA GANDHI

...continue reading.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

शौक है


रात का शौक है
रात की सौंधी सी खामोशी का शौक है
शौक है

सुबह की रोश्नी
बेज़ुबान सुबह की और गुनगुनाती रोशनी का शौक है
शौक है

सन सनी आन्वलों का
इश्क के बावलों का

बर्फ़ से खेलते बादलों का शौक है
शौक है

काश ये ज़िन्दगी
खेल ही खेल में खो गयी होती

नींद की गोलियों का
ख्वाब की लोरियों का

बेज़ुबान ओस की बोलियों का
शौक है

काश ये ज़िन्दगी अनकहे अनसुने सो गयी होती

...continue reading.