We won!
WE FREAKIN WON!
The eternal wait was finally put to an end! I shall not die in vain! We won a World Cup during my lifetime!
Dyamn!
What a match it was! Am-freakin-azing!
My strut has become even more obnoxious after our victory.
For many, many, many and yet more many victories to come..
Chak De! India!
Jai Hind. Jai Bharat.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Relinquished!
Hail the Queen", they said.
The Queen did not like the sound of it anymore. What seemed like harmony till a trifle before seemed like cacophony now.
She did not want to be hailed. She did not want to be placed upon a pedestal. She did not want her throne.
She relinquished the throne that oozed of arrogance, of undue vanity and self-importance. For once, the queen did not want to be hailed.
She stepped down.
After walking majestically upon the finest textures, the gravel felt oddly insecure. And yet, she walked on. It was a path she chose to tread. And tread she would. She was not sure if she would rise aloft to another throne. She was uncertain of tomorrow. She was uncertain of the next step. And yet, one step had to be placed in front of the other, because shadows runned through her and everytime she stopped, she fell.
She walked.
She stopped.
She fell.
She grazed her knees.
She got up.
She walked again.
And upon the path, replete with winding turns and looming shadows, with an uncertain destination and a formidable journey, she continued to walk.
No one knows whether or not she ascended to another throne.
But what everyone does know is that her crown was hers forever. It would not, could not be snatched, stolen, borrowed or relinquished.
Someday, Somewhere.. the throne shall find her.
And even if it does not, the crown is hers.. to endorse the ingenuity of the regal bloodline.
Once The Queen, always The Queen.
The Queen indeed is hailed.
The Queen did not like the sound of it anymore. What seemed like harmony till a trifle before seemed like cacophony now.
She did not want to be hailed. She did not want to be placed upon a pedestal. She did not want her throne.
She relinquished the throne that oozed of arrogance, of undue vanity and self-importance. For once, the queen did not want to be hailed.
She stepped down.
After walking majestically upon the finest textures, the gravel felt oddly insecure. And yet, she walked on. It was a path she chose to tread. And tread she would. She was not sure if she would rise aloft to another throne. She was uncertain of tomorrow. She was uncertain of the next step. And yet, one step had to be placed in front of the other, because shadows runned through her and everytime she stopped, she fell.
She walked.
She stopped.
She fell.
She grazed her knees.
She got up.
She walked again.
And upon the path, replete with winding turns and looming shadows, with an uncertain destination and a formidable journey, she continued to walk.
No one knows whether or not she ascended to another throne.
But what everyone does know is that her crown was hers forever. It would not, could not be snatched, stolen, borrowed or relinquished.
Someday, Somewhere.. the throne shall find her.
And even if it does not, the crown is hers.. to endorse the ingenuity of the regal bloodline.
Once The Queen, always The Queen.
The Queen indeed is hailed.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Another point silly-pointed.
2.59 am.. And still no signs of drowsiness. Insomnia preceeds madness. Indeed. Or is it the other way round?
Eyes widely shut and tightly open. Seeing things that oughtn't exist. Visualising things that ought to. Trying to get a glimpse of what could have been and simultaneously striving to anticipate what can be, what shall be.
Illusions are fascinating bubbles to live in. Reality, more so. Illusion's garb draped over the body of reality is what ruins both. One should either live an illusion, or live in reality. Lamentably, there are a lot of things that ideally should be done, but aren't. The bare body always needs a garb. And so, it is given one. Law of Nature. Law of the Civilised world's more like. Nature made everything bare. We are hell bent on draping it in impurity.
Dreams, however, still exist as the same pristine gossamer fine threads of intangibility. Untouched. Unmarred. Untamed.
Some dream, they say. Others stay awake and complete them. I undoubtedly do 50% of the job-- Staying awake. Vigilantly awake. The rest.. irrespective of glory or misfortune.. shall be history.. someday, somewhere.
Eyes widely shut and tightly open. Seeing things that oughtn't exist. Visualising things that ought to. Trying to get a glimpse of what could have been and simultaneously striving to anticipate what can be, what shall be.
Illusions are fascinating bubbles to live in. Reality, more so. Illusion's garb draped over the body of reality is what ruins both. One should either live an illusion, or live in reality. Lamentably, there are a lot of things that ideally should be done, but aren't. The bare body always needs a garb. And so, it is given one. Law of Nature. Law of the Civilised world's more like. Nature made everything bare. We are hell bent on draping it in impurity.
Dreams, however, still exist as the same pristine gossamer fine threads of intangibility. Untouched. Unmarred. Untamed.
Some dream, they say. Others stay awake and complete them. I undoubtedly do 50% of the job-- Staying awake. Vigilantly awake. The rest.. irrespective of glory or misfortune.. shall be history.. someday, somewhere.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
My Pride
"So close no matter how far..
By, with, for and in me you always are.."
No, my dearest. It is not a ballad for the love of my life. Well, come to think of it.. It is indeed an ode to the proverbial first love of my life-- India. My India. My Pride.
So to in continuation with the first two lines--
"So close, no matter how far..
By, with, for and in me you always are..
The land where Bravehearts lived and died,
You are my India. You are my pride."
I was born into a glorious country. I was born into valour. Purity. Prosperity..
Saffron, White, Green.
I fail to fathom the mystery behind the colors, but for some ridiculously peculiar reason, I never fail to marvel at how beautiful the Tricolor-- MY Tricolor looks.
There are innumerable people who find my fanatical love for India very strange/irking/annoying and sometimes even fake. I see no cause for speculation. Some love men, some love women, some love cricket, some love music, some love art, some even love Shah Rukh Khan; There are some who would die to get a glimpse of say, Enrique Iglesias. Then why is a love for one's country so unheard of? There were people who die/ died for this very country. And they, indisputably were Great. Not strange.
So, my pseudo puffed up popinjays, give the Kewl Parade a rest. India was, is and always shall be the Majestic Land of Splendour. Make your peace with it.
So yes.. before I went into this long-winded tirade.. I was talking about the Tricolor.. The Tricolor regally fluttering in a flurry of wind.. which is the most beautiful, reassuring sight in reality and even perhaps illusion.
Some love white, some swear by Pink.. There are others who live by black.
Not me, though.
I'm Saffron. I live Saffron. And in all likelihood, Godwilling, I shall die Saffron. Mind you, all are not given that opportunity.. Very few have the previlege of living and dying by the same convictions.
And to quote a friend of mine..
"Was shot recently.. Saffron poured out."
Rang De Basanti.
Ae mere pyaare watan,
Ae mere Bichhde chaman,
tujhpe dil qurbaan..
Tu hi meri aarzoo hai,
Tu hi meri aabru,
Tu hi meri jaan.
Maa Tujhe Salaam.
And once I die..
Kar chale hum fida Jaan-o-tan saathiyon
Ab tumhaare hawaale watan saathiyon.
By, with, for and in me you always are.."
No, my dearest. It is not a ballad for the love of my life. Well, come to think of it.. It is indeed an ode to the proverbial first love of my life-- India. My India. My Pride.
So to in continuation with the first two lines--
"So close, no matter how far..
By, with, for and in me you always are..
The land where Bravehearts lived and died,
You are my India. You are my pride."
I was born into a glorious country. I was born into valour. Purity. Prosperity..
Saffron, White, Green.
I fail to fathom the mystery behind the colors, but for some ridiculously peculiar reason, I never fail to marvel at how beautiful the Tricolor-- MY Tricolor looks.
There are innumerable people who find my fanatical love for India very strange/irking/annoying and sometimes even fake. I see no cause for speculation. Some love men, some love women, some love cricket, some love music, some love art, some even love Shah Rukh Khan; There are some who would die to get a glimpse of say, Enrique Iglesias. Then why is a love for one's country so unheard of? There were people who die/ died for this very country. And they, indisputably were Great. Not strange.
So, my pseudo puffed up popinjays, give the Kewl Parade a rest. India was, is and always shall be the Majestic Land of Splendour. Make your peace with it.
So yes.. before I went into this long-winded tirade.. I was talking about the Tricolor.. The Tricolor regally fluttering in a flurry of wind.. which is the most beautiful, reassuring sight in reality and even perhaps illusion.
Some love white, some swear by Pink.. There are others who live by black.
Not me, though.
I'm Saffron. I live Saffron. And in all likelihood, Godwilling, I shall die Saffron. Mind you, all are not given that opportunity.. Very few have the previlege of living and dying by the same convictions.
And to quote a friend of mine..
"Was shot recently.. Saffron poured out."
Rang De Basanti.
Ae mere pyaare watan,
Ae mere Bichhde chaman,
tujhpe dil qurbaan..
Tu hi meri aarzoo hai,
Tu hi meri aabru,
Tu hi meri jaan.
Maa Tujhe Salaam.
And once I die..
Kar chale hum fida Jaan-o-tan saathiyon
Ab tumhaare hawaale watan saathiyon.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Whiskey on the Rooftop and a Flair of the Dark.
The milieu looked demure with no sign of movement. Nevertheless, it was bizzarrely beautiful, with the full moon bathing the light in an ethereal glow. Standing atop my terrace, I gazed intently into the abyss-like nothingness. The broken glass lying on the road below glimmered in a silvery hue. I was just beginning to marvel at the irony of unlikely beauty when I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of shredding guitars and screeching voices. I looked around bleary eyed for the source of the cacophony. It happened to be my phone. The imbecile I am, I had set the tone to "Freezing Moon" by Mayhem. No, I am not a fan of that godforsaken band byu any mean. Just that the tone annoys a lot of people and for some ridiculously unimaginable reason, it gives a savage, even vindictive pleasure seeing them cringe.
Anyways, I picked up the phone.
"You are such a retard", screeched a voice, amid hysterical laughter.
Ok, normally I would've disdainfully said, "I beg your freaking pardon?". But it was Whiskey on the other end(His name is indeed a tad different from that just as my name sounds different from Tango). So yea, Whizz was allowed a few liberties. He happened to be one of my best friends. "Is this the real life, is this a fantasy", he continued, blissfully oblivious.
Whiskey drunk on whiskey. In all likelihood, RC. Unbelievably irritaing. However, bound by civilised eitiquette, I decided to play along and not swear.
"Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality", I finished the first few lines for him and left him to sing Bohemian Rhapsody. Alone. Not that he'd notice. He defintely didn't notice that I had hung up.
I tried to get back to glass-gazing. To no avail. Boredom set in in a matter of nanoseconds.Writing rhymes would keep me awake for a few more hours. Perhaps. No, indeed. Insomnia was my indulgence. Indeed. Anyways, so the flash of brilliance(the nursery rhyme) was to be called "Flair of the Dark", tweaking the title of Iron Maiden's "Fear of the Dark". Yea, I love plagiarising. Anyways, here's how the first few lines went-
"Darkness, she called out to him.
'Join my ranks', she said.
I am the only one who dares
to live among the whispering dead."
No, I do not intend to type in the whole thing, primarily because of two reasons-
a.) It would be too cumbersome typing the "poem" that stretches to gargantuan proportions.
b.) I am obsessively paranoid about people swiping my "work".
* I might be a ne'er-do-well 18 year old who can't write for nuts, but I sincerely believe that everything I write deserves the Pulitzer and nothing less.
Ah, yes. I can pretty much pass off as Narcissus' great-great-great-great-great grandaughter. Did I mention I'm acutely and dangerously self obsessed? No? Ah, What a pity.
Anyways, I picked up the phone.
"You are such a retard", screeched a voice, amid hysterical laughter.
Ok, normally I would've disdainfully said, "I beg your freaking pardon?". But it was Whiskey on the other end(His name is indeed a tad different from that just as my name sounds different from Tango). So yea, Whizz was allowed a few liberties. He happened to be one of my best friends. "Is this the real life, is this a fantasy", he continued, blissfully oblivious.
Whiskey drunk on whiskey. In all likelihood, RC. Unbelievably irritaing. However, bound by civilised eitiquette, I decided to play along and not swear.
"Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality", I finished the first few lines for him and left him to sing Bohemian Rhapsody. Alone. Not that he'd notice. He defintely didn't notice that I had hung up.
I tried to get back to glass-gazing. To no avail. Boredom set in in a matter of nanoseconds.Writing rhymes would keep me awake for a few more hours. Perhaps. No, indeed. Insomnia was my indulgence. Indeed. Anyways, so the flash of brilliance(the nursery rhyme) was to be called "Flair of the Dark", tweaking the title of Iron Maiden's "Fear of the Dark". Yea, I love plagiarising. Anyways, here's how the first few lines went-
"Darkness, she called out to him.
'Join my ranks', she said.
I am the only one who dares
to live among the whispering dead."
No, I do not intend to type in the whole thing, primarily because of two reasons-
a.) It would be too cumbersome typing the "poem" that stretches to gargantuan proportions.
b.) I am obsessively paranoid about people swiping my "work".
* I might be a ne'er-do-well 18 year old who can't write for nuts, but I sincerely believe that everything I write deserves the Pulitzer and nothing less.
Ah, yes. I can pretty much pass off as Narcissus' great-great-great-great-great grandaughter. Did I mention I'm acutely and dangerously self obsessed? No? Ah, What a pity.
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