Gastronomical bereavement

How much we crave the food we like! Don't we? The poor old man of our story did too. Things were better for him before he fell unwell and saw himself sentenced to an unbearably insipid diet. And his caring wife wouldn't let him astray. Even a bit. He was banned from consuming anything that resembled pickles, spices, sweets, oil...The list got longer while his lifelines grew relatively shorter. As the pendulum swung by, she got so caught up in this race against time that her gentle heart couldn't realize how deprived her husband felt. Maybe she knew perfectly well what was going on but then, she wasn't his enemy. The debilitating disease was. She was aware of the fact that he grew up on the food he craved and he had no vice otherwise. He was a man of tasteful tongue, not a glutton. Torture can't come close to describing the vocabulary of his gastronomical bereavement. One day, as his frame became thinnest, he gathered his breath. Her ears greeted his lips as he whispered the anthem of death. He is said to have said, "Cook what your hands are used to. Please." She must have cried a thousand times but in the end, she decided to stick with their doctor's sagacity. A few more days passed them with him suffering his nosh instead of relishing it. Stomach is innocent enough to not know what it's being fed. To his extended ordeal, he wasn't. He summoned his wife's ears again. This time around he only mumbled, "Feed the crows once I'm gone." The voice's desperation superseded the anger within. Silence followed this imperative line before he was transferred to ICU where they drilled a hole in his throat for essential fluids. He didn't make back home. However, even today, birds with 50 shades of black—who loiter around their veranda—are grateful to his last words. 

Annus Mortabilis of 2011

Folks die. There’s nothing fancy or novel about it. Living organisms have been dying since era immemorial. The luckier ones die only once. Even the dinosaurs perished so as to make sure Steven Spielberg become the most powerful Jew in cinema. But 2011 seemed a bit too crowded with dead famous people. And in this piece, I’m going to drop a few names who have already dropped dead. Some of them were not only close to my heart (mainly because they are no more now) but also occupied a lot of space in my head (mainly because it’s empty).

The year kicked off with Kobayashi’s death. Yeah, the one from The Usual Suspects. For the record, no other British bloke could have gotten away with a Japanese name and an Indian accent in a movie. Well, Pete Postlethwaite did. One of my all-time favorite actors.

A few days later, a personality I used to mock on Twitter for his staunch anti-India tweets got killed by his own security guard. Salmaan Taseer turned out to be a true martyr in a nation obsessed with religion. After all, not many voices are heard in support of Pakistani minorities. Bullets silenced him but the message was out. A month later, Shahbaz Bhatti, the only Christian cabinet member, was gunned down for his outspoken stand against blasphemy laws.

Meanwhile, a 26 year-old Tunisian street vendor named Mohamed Bouazizi set himself on fire. This event eventually exploded in the form of Arab Spring. Years of resentment against elite [read: corrupt] ruling governments expressed itself on the very street this young man immolated.

In India, Bharat Ratna Bhimsen Joshi passed away leaving behind a legacy of music and humility. He was 88 so one can’t employ the word ‘unfair’ as was the case in the aforementioned deaths. But I have a deep grudge against our media who were hell-bent on using a mugshot of his during a performance where he appears to be suffering from asthma or something. Kindly don’t tell me they couldn’t find a better snap. And the worst part is almost ALL newspapers carried the same photograph! Hmmph.

Another famous Indian who taught me the pleasure of reading decided to call it a life. I owe to Uncle Pai inasmuch as I do to every teacher I came across in my otherwise miserable life.

In the month of March when Mumbai was preparing to swelter, Knut drowned and killed himself in Germany. He was to polar bears what Paul was to octopus. With his departure, humankind learned an essential lesson – polar bears belong to polar regions, not zoos.

Actress Elizabeth Taylor, who managed to bag an Oscar while walking the aisle eight times, left us an impossible beauty and unfortunate marriages to ponder. Following suit, another exceptional personality from Hollywood, director Sidney Lumet bid farewell.

Coming back to Pakistan, Syed Saleem Shahzad went missing only to be found dead in a canal with apparent signs of ISI-marked torture on him. Maybe journalism pays way too high a price for courage. Similarly, MiD-Day’s crime editor Jyotirmoy Dey was bumped off in road daylight by Mumbai underworld.

As monsoon started approaching India, news about Ilyas Kashmiri’s probable death amid US drone attacks in Waziristan caught world attention. He wasn’t just another two-bit Islamist militant. In fact, he was in line to replace Osama bin Laden – who got mauled by U.S. commandoes *vacationing* just a few kilometers away from Pakistani military HQs – as the head of Al-Qaeda. Conclusion: Jihad works in mysterious ways.

Talking of death, Jack “Dr. Death” Kevorkian expired, leaving Kim Kardashian the most famous Armenian-American I’m aware of. He made euthanasia cool and even served prison for his beliefs. Those who don’t know him should watch the movie You Don’t Know Jack starring Al Pacino.

MF. Husain, a born Maharashtrian, went away twice. Once when he left India. Secondly, when he left Qatar. We lost a great painter thanks to our intolerance and lack of gumption. He lost an ancient country thanks to his reluctance to appease Hindus by painting Prophet.

In the month of July, Amy Winehouse became the latest member of the infamous 27 Club. I felt bad for her. She had a unique voice and makeup. All things sung and OD-ed, she deserved to live more. Maybe we don’t want the entertainers to leave us. They are the ones who fill our psyche with hope and color. Likewise, Shammi Kapoor’s exit widened this popular sentimentality. Watching him play that shehnai in Rockstar with those deep eyes a la Ustad Bismillah Khan was soothing, to say the least.

No matter how disparaging it may sound, no death list is complete without a mention of a Parsi. Painter Jehangir Sabavala filled the spot this year. Jagmohan Mundhra who made Nandita Das in Bawandar and Aishwarya Rai in Provoked look vulnerable packed up.

Death winked at Mansoor Ali Khan Pataudi so the latter had no choice but to close his eye. Wangari Maathai who won a Nobel for her contributions towards environmental conservatism returned to soil. In related news, I admired her a lot. I still do.

With Steve Jobs joining the Dead Club much to digital world’s utter grief, things speeded up. A few days later, Dennis Ritchie who spearheaded C Programming (and compelled me to give up engineering) gave up the ghost! But compared to Jobs, he made a bigger contribution to technology by not patenting C.

Though being a teetotaler sucks but Jagjit Singh’s poignant songs never do. He shall be remembered as long as sorrow is in this world. In simpler word, forever. The same is true about Bhupen Hazarika.

On the other hand, people won’t miss Gaddafi much. Even the ones who named that Lahore stadium after him. The only rue I hold is against the way he was treated during his final moments. They could have at least had the wisdom to not record it on a video. Sadistic morons.

A young man aged 24, Marco Simoncelli, got killed doing something he loved – motobiking on the race course. Perhaps he was too young and fast to live. In the same vein, an entire ice hockey team vanished in the form of Lokomotiv Yaroslavl. Too cold. Too bad. Too many.

As the year neared its curtain, some former sportsperson quit. Joe Frazier was one of them. I haven’t seen him box but I’ve watched him break down in a documentary while talking about his once archrival Muhammad Ali. The kind of respect he showed immediately struck a chord. Yes, cancer is more than just a bitch.

Being a former cricket fan, I must admit I always enjoyed reading Peter Roebuck’s articles. An English county cricketer who later became an Australian newspaper columnist chose South Africa to commit suicide. If this is not intriguing enough, then the fact that his Facebook account was involved in this suicide is.

In the non-sports arena, India’s most wanted Maoist (a softer term for terrorist) Kishenji was killed by CRPF in West Bengal. No one complained as such except the Mao-loving Communist gang.

December arrived and carrying on. Bollywood is still reeling under the loss of its legend Dev Anand. For his credit, he was part of some of the finest cinema and much to his discredit, worst, too. I’ll remember him for unabashedly promoting smoking in the Har Fikr Ko Dhue Mein song. Cartoonist Mario Miranda, known for his honest caricatures of Goa (or the Goa that once was) sketched himself away a few days later.

Last week, one of my role models, Christopher Hitchens, gave into cancer. He didn’t believe in God but to most of his fans, he was THE God. One the very day, Gadzhimurat Kamalov became the 18th Russian journalist to be assassinated since 2000. This morning, the buzz about two totally contrasting personalities, Czech Republic’s first President Václav Havel and North Korea’s Kim Jong-il, departing, broke out.

As we speak and read, there are millions protesting against the authorities. A considerable nameless lot got killed in Tunisia, Syria, Yemen and other distressed regions on the planet. No wonder Time selected 'The Protester' as the person of the year.

We’ve got 12 more days to go for New Year's Eve. In the meantime, let’s see how many names squeeze in onto this list.

Life, try not to die today

Everybody believes the race is up against time when in practicality, it is Death we are chasing. The poor florist has to sell his flowers before time smuggles them to Death. No matter what, we are all programmed to end up on the losing side of Life. You see, the problem with Death is it knows exactly what it's up to. Life, on the contrary, doesn’t. In the battle between Life and Death, one of them gives up to let the other survive. Furthermore, Life speaks Death fluently and vice versa. They are made for each other. Ironically, Life and afterlife are conjugated by Death.

A few days ago, I woke up to the news that Steve Jobs has passed away to a place in dire need of technological innovation. I always admired him for the way his Life shaped up and inspired millions not only to touch buttons on their small screens but also give digital revolution a chance. And like the rest of them, I too was shattered. The last time I felt such grief was when Pope John Paul II deceased. It’s kind of a strange feeling to be sad for someone whom you haven’t met but are damn sure about their goodness.

A few hours later, I was confronted with the knowledge that my close friend’s mom has fallen victim to a fatal heart attack amid Vijaya Dashami in a local temple that very morning. This was too much. It was like Death retweeting itself (for those who are familiar with Twitter). She was such a beautiful person. This was not only cruel but also unjustified. But then, who will challenge the final verdict? No one, I suppose. Maybe Death is the most pragmatic thing that ever happens to us. If not, kindly point me down the path that won’t lead to Death.

And then today, dad informed me that Jagjit Singh, one of the finest few Ghazal singers I admire, has left earthly bounds. Of course, there’s nothing phenomenal about people taking birth and then dying eventually. But still, you want others to survive; live one more day; get a better hang of Life. And if things don’t materialize according to your wishes, then you pray or hope the person dies an easy Death. The reason for this concession lies in the fact that there is no such thing as a perfect Death. How can there be a perfect Death when there ain't no perfect Life? By the way, Humpty Dumpty deserved a better Death.

Dying is totally over-rated. So is birth. Both happen every single day. Well, can't say the same about Life though. After all, the most constant side effect of Life is Death. People die in earthquakes and whatnot and term it accidents, either man-made or natural. While doing so, we conveniently overlook the truth that Death is a natural disaster, too. These are the times when all our opinions about Life and Death sum up to what they are indeed worth – nothing. Apparently we face too many of near-Death experiences but very few of near-Life ones to comment. That’s the reason we haven’t come to terms with this reality YET! Give or take, nothing else kills us faster than Death.

Birth gets trampled by childhood that gets trampled by youth that gets trampled by dotage that gets trampled by Death.

Lately, some Tibetans immolated themselves as a protest against Chinese aggression in Tibet. They merely burned themselves to Life, not Death. I fully endorse these sort of protests in which you hurt yourself instead of innocent bystanders. Needless to say, The Burning Monk is my hero. History is rife with such hyped glorious stories, permanent deaths and a little bit of temporary lives embedded in between.

Poets, not philosophers, came close to deciphering the mysteries of how everything begins and ends. They made a habit of romanticizing the experience of leaving this planet forever. I've got nothing against them or the alcohol they were on but I’m sure there must be better ways to die a poetic Death. Metaphors containing myriad meanings had been employed by them which help us get close to the cold truth. I agree with most of these verses and disagree with very few. For instance, economy, not Death, is the great leveler. And sometimes, we do feel older than Death.

Tip: Smile. Death can wait for your poker face.

There comes a moment in everyone’s Life when they finally learn to STFU. Nah, I ain’t talking about Death here. It’s called common sense. The court think it can decide (preferably, on behalf of the citizens and based on human laws) what is right and what is wrong when it comes to sentencing someone to hang till kingdom come. In any case, Death penalty itself is a crime. You can’t go wrong with this. If A kills B and C kills A via legal frameworks, then there is very little difference between A and C. Having said that, I’m not at all in favour of Kasab *enjoying* the costliest criminal status in India. There is no way can he reconcile with the grave mistakes he committed under the guise of ignorance and brainwashed ideology. Perhaps Death is more disappointed in him than Life itself.

"If you were on a death row, what would you like your last meal to be?"

"Delivered on time."

Death is beautiful because, unlike most other things in Life, it happens just once. It will certainly smell sweet if one is drowned in a pool full of chocolate or ice-cream. I keep discussing Death as it makes me feel good about the Life I never had. As I’m growing older, I’m realizing how lonely I really am. I don’t fantasize killing myself or anything. I am too selfish for such foolery. But every time someone I look up to or love decides to call it a life, I wonder why. Thankfully, I’ve stopped molesting poetry. Or else I’d have written some miserable verses on the perpetual shallowness of Life and the escapism facilitated by Death instead of this lengthy falderal. Anyway, just because I never had a Life doesn't mean I can't comment on it. By that yardstick, none of us should ever mention Death.

Quarterback

Disclaimer: Unlike a majority of my posts, this one comes directly from the bottom of my dark narcissistic heart. Okay. Not exactly but for the most part, yes. 

Chernobyl disaster happened in the final week of April 1986. Nearly two weeks later, I took birth and fixed the whole nuclear glitch. Rest is history. Legend has it that I was born on May 9^th, on the very same day Tenzing Norgay died. I can excuse you if you don’t know me but you ought to acknowledge him as he was the first human being ever to scale the mighty Mt. Everest. For the record, he died that morning and I appeared around sunset. He used to climb uphill and my life has been a downhill since then. If your math is as bad as mine, I’ve completed 25 years on this planet. Although I’m planning on living forever but even if I die at 100 (give or take), it’s like completing a quarter of my life. That’s a huge number. By today’s standards, nonetheless. I don’t exactly celebrate birthdays. Now, before the words “You stupid self-obsessed self-piteous cretin…!” springs to your head, let me make myself clear. It has nothing to do with my usual cynicism. I don’t hate birthday, so to speak. But I can’t deny the fact too many birthdays will eventually lead to my death. 

As a matter of fact, birthdays are wonderful. But that’s only as long as you are a kid. Once you grow up and know the functional benefits of being an adult, birthdays are just a date people don’t even care to remember coz Zuckerberg will always be there to help. I mean, that’s what Facebook is for–to remind you of your friends’ birthdays, right? 

For the birthday boy or girl, it’s a trip down memory lane and trying to match those childhood days when birthday meant something words can’t even describe. As for me, I never cut a cake or blew candles. It was never part of my upbringing. Maybe it has to do with the fact that my younger brother’s twin died a tragic death just days after my third birthday. So my parents avoided blowing trumpets out of birthdays and it has stayed that way since then.

I hate being so corny! Forget it.

Okay, so as I look back at what have I underachieved over all these years, I run short of errr… excuses. I haven’t got myself a career yet. I’m just a two-bit transcriber who writes three-bit pseudofunny quotes and posts them on Twitter and repeats ‘em on Facebook. Ironically, I am way too content playing with words and one-liners. I haven’t traveled to Ladakh or Tawang or Kashmir or anywhere north of Maharashtra. I haven’t helped Tibetans gain independence, either. I never got into a relationship (but secretly, I’m all smart about it!). I’m yet to receive an offer that I couldn’t refuse. I haven't touched snow yet (Seriously, Mumbai needs snow more than I do. Snowfall can solve more than half of its problem). Net-net, life has been devastatingly dull. Had it not been for my acute ignorance, I could have, well, killed myself on my 16^th birthday when I was writing bad poems which eventually graduated to worse and now it’s, as one can guess, worst. Thankfully, I have given up on poems. In other words, poems have given up on me. 

On the rosier side, I am happy too about some fabrics of my repugnant personality. Like I don’t wear watches. I ride my ‘cycle as far as I can and don’t plan to own any other vehicle. By the way, I’m tired of flat tires so maybe I’ll commute on a horse someday soon. I don’t have beverages be it coffee, tea or aerated drinks. And most significant of all, I’m deeply in love with cinema and I’m terribly proud of it. I’m brutally honest as long as I’m not forced to lie. I conserve energy too by not working too hard. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. That’s all. Of course, these are not Nobel-worthy traits but somehow I cherish them. 

You don’t grow intelligent with age. It’s an illusion. No one has anything coming. People just say so to feel wise about their amnesiac past. We are almost dead if we don’t know what to do with our time because in the long term, time is the biggest asset of our short lifespan. All you’ve got to do is live without being a pain in the ass of others. If you manage to share your time with the ones you care for, good for you. If not, it’s alright.

In your declining years, you go back to your own disappointments and accomplishments and the interrupting moments of happiness. That’s how it is. As for now, I may molest words like anything… and most probably will continue to do so provided the marbles rattle in my cranium. Any which way, who gives a damn? I’m growing old and I’m loving it!

Cheers.

I am free

I am free…. in a way you can never be
and nothing can possess me;
I'm free.
I am free…. like sun is, and moon rather wished it was
along with the waves of eternity;
I'm free.
I am free…. from whatever you say or preach
of all the things you want me to see;
I'm free.
I am free…. of the very bonds you tie yourselves in
but draw a stupid smile or an ambiguous grin;
I'm free.
I am free…. for I can breathe as long as I want
as even death defies me;
I'm free.
I am free…. to commit mistakes as long as I live
to unlearn the lessons of cyclical mystery;
I'm free.
I am free…. by the power vested in my lines
a bit of stagnant lies and ample honest signs;
I'm free.
I am free…. neither nonsensical everything nor sensible nothing
accountable to none and no one to me;
I'm free.
I am free…. under the stress named society
as well as indignant expectations and future almighty;
I'm free.
I am free…. within me, within you, within we
free from freedom plus heavier words such as these;
I'm free.

If death kisses me goodbye!

Whenever I talk about death, people think I'm being naive but in reality I'm just being futuristic! Now is that bad thing? No.

I keep thinking of death as if I’m older than I already am. I'm 23 but I feel like "world oldest 23 year old" so no wonder I can’t escape the question of how and when I'll be seeing my end. I believe life is unpredictable but death is totally unsustainable. It has this overpowering clout over restless heart.

Now what will happen if I die (either by train, road, freak accidents or whatever) today or tomorrow or day after tomorrow????

I guess the biggest change will be on my most visited Internet websites. I say so considering all the other deeds I've done in my life span. I don’t think anything comes close to the kind of passion I have for “virtual world” which in fact, seems more genuine than the real world I breathe in. If I overlook my failures being a loser that I am, I guess Internet has been a super-duper success for me. I have a voice on Internet pages and I don’t care whether it’s heard or not!

Once I’m dead, the first change will be noticed on my Twitter timeline! There won’t be any updates about what I’m thinking. The timeline will just pause. It won’t move ahead, just like that. No more sharing of stupid ideas passed off as wisdom or office-bashing lines or #JustSaying tweets or news-related links. Secondly my Facebook page will face the same calamity. I don’t know how my friends will react to this because they will be having no idea that I’m in hell waiting for them!

Talking of my virtual world friends, I guess they will be left in the lurch of ignorance as there won’t be any worldwide networking of the news of my departure. It would be as silent as it was before I entered the Internet age and found myself a comfortable space among these wonderful people (or tweeple as we call them now) I love to interact with. But then, I think they’ll give up on me. It is inevitable. My Internet pals in NYC or Romania or Pakistan won’t come looking for me in Mumbai once I stopped tweeting or social networking!

I also wonder about the kind of effort I put in on updating my Twitter 140-space, Facebook profile. I mean, no one will do that for me once I’m gone. I also worry about my Twitter handle, I mean, who will take care of that?!! And also what will happen to this devil-forsaken blog which is overwhelmingly forgettable, at best!

I know these are all speculations but it’s worthy. I don’t count my family here. That’s due to the fact that they are not as dysfunctional as I would like them to be. You have to be on either end of the extremes to be mentioned in my blog! Ah! So they better be left out of my foretasted death scenario.

On the other side, I just love my life on Twitter, Facebook and blogspot, not to mention several other sites where I regularly contribute my time. I’m an Internet addict, if that’s what you are pondering as of now and I wish to be this way till sanity (or death...whichever comes first) takes over!

Hippie in Me

One of the biggest regrets I have in my life is that I got late. I got late by not minutes or hours or years but by decades. I missed the Hippie Movement that rocked the world in the 60s.

I never fit in anything I do today. Be it at work or home or any miscellaneous things at large. I’m a perfect misfit so may be I’m born into the wrong generation. Its no surprise that my tendency to stay unkempt give rise to the word “Hippie” everywhere I go!

This introspection or rather a superficial retrospection got kick started last weekend when I watched Ang Lee’s “Taking Woodstock” which revolves around the time when Hippies were making their presence felt, not only in their solitude and insular state of life but also in their gregarious flocking towards the finest of music, smoke and drugs.

The last time I asked myself these questions was when I watched Sean Penn-directed “Into the Wild” that follows Christopher McCandless’s solo journey into the white of Alaska and his eventual death from wild berry poisoning at the tender age of 24. That movie too made an emergent impact on my psyche and kept me glued even in my subconscious array of thoughts. I know this sounds exaggerated but you don’t know me. Neither do I!


The funny thing about these movies is that they both star “Emile Hirsh”. I’m pretty sure he is one the vanguards of Hollywood for future, thanks to mature acting and daring choice of movie scripts.

Coming back to me, I think I got late. Or else I too would have swayed to the beats of drums and strums of guitars and ripples of Sitar! As far as growing my locks is concerned, it isn’t an issue (no matter how much my Ma tried to taunt me to chop them off!!) and for career or any other societal bonds goes, I’ve been disconnected from the real world since I came to know of its existence.

Remember Me

[I just watched this movie "Venus" which had my all-time favorite actor, Peter O'Toole and while watching, these lines sprang into my empty mind.....]

When the darkness falls on your brow,
and you don't see nor you know,
just remember me, my love
for I loved you, more than I can ever show.
I cried every time I saw you disappear
and I kept your memories close to my eyes
closer to my dreams and closest to my mind
these words can never fathom
the kind of feel
I have for your gaze
your rising image and my falling knees,
the depth of your blessing rays on me
you were to go sooner or later,
you had to leave;
It just happened well before you go,
before loneliness struck my life
and killed its glow
but remember me, my love
for I loved you, more I can ever show.

Birthday thanks

Some days are long, some go too short,

but in between, a few, keeps the rest apart

very unique, serene and subtle,

These days stands tall on our year' crown

when our friends are born

may be, this day took quite a long ago

lost in the mist of history, left nowhere to go

when the Great Hands thought for a change

this friend of mine happened on such a day

she might have been angelic then

but she hasn't been any less graceful hence

life has its corner, its no empty circle

things take place in a spate of chance

world and its rules leave no time to see,

the beauty behind our birth, its endless mysteries

we are dragged on and we move too fast

having no question to ponder or ask,

we earn a few friends that stand along

some due clouded in mundane stroll

This day is too short to celebrate this gift

every moment's in debt to that heavenly deal

when he thought it right to twist in trends

and let you end up as my lovely friend!

A rebel without a clause

All our sorry life, we want to prove our self, be it in carom, cards or funny races. Remember the time when we were kids with hardly a just notion of our personal self and underestimated curiosity, this was the period when we truly got ingrained and embedded with the virus of victory. I also find it interesting that I was always a choker, somebody with speed and pace then eventual loser of no means. My parents were not that pushy, may be they were too busy trying to put food on the table and presses on our uniforms.

We don't want to lose because we are too afraid to peek into our own little prejudice towards our negativity, our downfall and succumbing maudlin. Nonetheless we start perceiving our self in the same way the framework of the world allots. The greatest and greats are remembered not for their unbridling achievements but for their audacity to stand apart and create a tiding s of their wish with hurdling a feather gone astray. i wonder if we would want to remember Achilles or his stupid eponymous enunciation, but for the sake that he dared to test his fate on scale on that ship with black flag! There are many examples, be it Einstein's eccentricity or Mohammad Ali's penchant for controversial standpoints, or Rimbaud's nubile love. All these tales inspire us to stay wide eyed and bow.

We don't poems, or for that case, any essential display of complicated art. We don't want to be subservient in any way, be it Da Vinci competing with our folly. But one thing is for sure, some day out of nothing, we'll get reckoned back to reality and see for our self that we were everything but correct and in that fateful moment, we'll want to get noticed and said some beautiful words that don't exist elsewhere but in challenged realm of words and unspoken wisdom.