Thursday, July 8, 2010
them
All was wrong with the world.
A nice-looking girl, a nice-looking guy, sitting together but sitting alone.
I had come to my usual bar, and was by myself except for my draught – and there I saw them. They were the alonest people in the whole bar, aloner than me, maybe aloner than the whole city. Their bar stools were next to each other, their coasters close. But the girl was looking one way, the guy another. They said nothing, exchanged no smiles and made no conversation. They looked tired, aged beyond their years, irretrievably lost. And pained. Like they were sipping hangovers. The jukebox changed tunes, fervent voices sang of rock and roll and yet their heads did not sway and their fingers did not tap the counter. I kept time with my beer refills, and the minutes were short and long. Each time I looked at my mug, something had passed me by. And when I looked at them, nothing had. The girl, after many such minutes, said nothing. And the guy kept quiet. I was getting depressed by the glass. I thought of walking up to them, shaking them up and saying, “Boo!” Or if that was a bad idea, at least hitting on the girl. But I said nothing, did nothing. I just watched them, watched them watching the bar and watched them watching each other. The girl twirled her hair and the guy blinked. And when he reached for his drink, she leant forward ever so slightly. She turned her head away and he looked. She looked into his eyes and he stared.
And then the girl left, stiffly, singly, like she was always alone. The guy got up and followed. Only casually, silently, like he weren’t following. I felt for them just as silently, and had another beer. But after some fifteen minutes, she was back. And he was back. And they were back. He was smiling. He was playing with her hair and she was smiling like they were the only two people in the bar, the only two people in the whole city.
I don’t know what happened but all was right with the world.
ram cobain
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Pain is a face in the mirror.
20 years later, the world has come a full circle.
On 5th November 2009, chasing an Aussie total of 350 runs on run-hungry Hyderabad ODI wicket, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar made 175 runs off 141 balls.
18 runs were needed off 17 balls and there were 3 wickets in hand. And to no one’s surprise, the rabbits lived up to their name, and the little master, up to his curse.
India had lost after another sensational Sachin innings.
The critics continue to have a field day (no pun intended). Experienced as they are, they say that Sachin played a bad shot, that he, as a set batsman should have seen India home, that he should have finished things. To even think such a thing is not only cruel and criminally unjust – it questions his ability and strips the man of his fight and his heroism.
The fact is that there is a difference between opening the innings and being a finisher, a difference between setting the game up and performing the last rites. Dhoni at number 3 has a different role from a Dhoni at number 6, but then what saves him from the critic’s scythe is the fact that he is Dhoni and not Sachin.
Cricket is a team sport and is made up of 11 players. One player can be the Man of the Match but cannot be the team. Give the same equation to any other team in the world – Sri Lanka, Pakistan, New Zealand, SA, England or West Indies – and chances are, the champagne would have flowed long into the night, instead of the awe-filled pain the honest, passionate and educated Indian fan felt.
If the #2 team in the world cannot keep their nerve, is the title worth its weight?
To be a #2 team in the world means not just being physically and technically superior, but also being mentally tough. It means to curl up your fists, hold that breath in that dares to be the last, and to deliver.
The all-important question to be asked is that who failed to deliver?
There is only so much one man can do. Even in the epic Ind-Eng test match in Chennai, it took a brilliant Sachin hundred to win the game for India, and not lay to waste a breathtaking Sehwag 80-something blitzkrieg.
Sachin has often missed that Sachin.
20 years later, the world has come a full circle. There are the Pontings of the cricketing world who know and admit with an admiring grace that “it was not just the best innings Sachin has played, but perhaps the best that any player in the world has played.” And then there are those for whom he’ll never be good enough, no matter what he does. Those who would have bayed for his blood should he have gotten out say, 10 runs after reaching a simply staggering landmark. They would have smugly, sagely nodded, “I told you so… he’s playing for statistics and not for the team.”
17168 runs later, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar has looked at the mirror, felt a pain that he only knows. And kept quiet. And once again, he has let his bat do the talking.
Peace, love, empathy
Ram Cobain
Saaachin Sachin
On 5th November 2009, chasing an Aussie total of 350 runs on run-hungry Hyderabad ODI wicket, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar made 175 runs off 141 balls.
18 runs were needed off 17 balls and there were 3 wickets in hand. And to no one’s surprise, the rabbits lived up to their name, and the little master, up to his curse.
India had lost after another sensational Sachin innings.
The critics continue to have a field day (no pun intended). Experienced as they are, they say that Sachin played a bad shot, that he, as a set batsman should have seen India home, that he should have finished things. To even think such a thing is not only cruel and criminally unjust – it questions his ability and strips the man of his fight and his heroism.
The fact is that there is a difference between opening the innings and being a finisher, a difference between setting the game up and performing the last rites. Dhoni at number 3 has a different role from a Dhoni at number 6, but then what saves him from the critic’s scythe is the fact that he is Dhoni and not Sachin.
Cricket is a team sport and is made up of 11 players. One player can be the Man of the Match but cannot be the team. Give the same equation to any other team in the world – Sri Lanka, Pakistan, New Zealand, SA, England or West Indies – and chances are, the champagne would have flowed long into the night, instead of the awe-filled pain the honest, passionate and educated Indian fan felt.
If the #2 team in the world cannot keep their nerve, is the title worth its weight?
To be a #2 team in the world means not just being physically and technically superior, but also being mentally tough. It means to curl up your fists, hold that breath in that dares to be the last, and to deliver.
The all-important question to be asked is that who failed to deliver?
There is only so much one man can do. Even in the epic Ind-Eng test match in Chennai, it took a brilliant Sachin hundred to win the game for India, and not lay to waste a breathtaking Sehwag 80-something blitzkrieg.
Sachin has often missed that Sachin.
20 years later, the world has come a full circle. There are the Pontings of the cricketing world who know and admit with an admiring grace that “it was not just the best innings Sachin has played, but perhaps the best that any player in the world has played.” And then there are those for whom he’ll never be good enough, no matter what he does. Those who would have bayed for his blood should he have gotten out say, 10 runs after reaching a simply staggering landmark. They would have smugly, sagely nodded, “I told you so… he’s playing for statistics and not for the team.”
17168 runs later, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar has looked at the mirror, felt a pain that he only knows. And kept quiet. And once again, he has let his bat do the talking.
Peace, love, empathy
Ram Cobain
Saaachin Sachin
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
finally.
all ye lovely ladies, ram cobain is off the market. I’m booked, hitched, sold. I’m engaged to the sweetest, cutest and nicest girl on the planet. Her name’s Gayatri, but I call her begum (or dharam-patni, in my more modern moods)
forgive me if I’m rambling. It’s a congenital defect and one perfected by years of practice. The truth is I am very happy. The truth is also that everything feels like a dream. I’ve pinched myself so many times that my arms resemble a heroin addict. And my head feels like one too.
I had a matrimony id. Actually, make that ‘ids’. An id on tamilmatrimony.com, another on shaadi.com and still a third on jeevansaathi.com. A sure sign of desperate times, aye. The only thing I can say in defence is that my parents created my profile. And that I was opposed to the idea. After all, I’m a metal head, a gross poet, an Enfield rider and an advertising writer with a reputation and a self-image to consider. And having a matrimony id is like admitting your grandfather liked his rasam spiked. That too with rice. But this is a strange tale, and there I was, with 3 matrimony ids and an acute feeling of being in the wrong place.
searching for your better-half on a matrimony site is a bizarre experience. Most girls hide their profile snaps like they were next-issue Playboy exclusives, the few that have their pictures put up look like aged Mollywood extras and the rare cute ones have terrible grammar or begin sentences with “Seeking rich groom with a good mop of hair…” Any girls left promptly reject you. After a while, they become familiar strangers, showing up on later searches with fresh profile pictures but the same answer to your initial contact. And to lime the burn, the ones who contact you are women you’d be embarrassed to admit as relatives, worse still, they make you feel suicidal – after all if Ms. Hemlata thought you’d make a great couple, it’s too late to reach out for a self-help book.
in such testing times, alcohol is a worthy ally. A bottle or three of beer can inject fresh enthusiasm, make you feel like Prince Charming and reduce some of the ‘uncle-like’ feeling that searching on a matrimony site brings. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Kingfisher was the happiest when I renewed my matrimony subscriptions. But I sure didn’t mind.
I sent an “interest” to Gayatri during one such inebriated hunt. I admit that I don’t remember sending her one. But one afternoon, I saw she had replied. And her picture showed promise. But after meeting some living tributes to camera angles, lighting and Photoshop, I was wary of nice pictures. “Meeting is believing” was the new cobain mantra. But what impressed me the most was the dignity and restraint in her reply. She was polite but not cold, positive but not eager. Plus her spellings were correct.
we exchanged phone numbers and talked for a week or so. And hit it off so well that it first surprised me, then excited me and still later shocked me. I found that I could talk to her about career paths as well as the benign, almost-paternal feeling I felt towards my morning potty (it’s true!). We shared the same values and world view, she could be logical and irrational, loved thayir saadam (curd rice to you Wheat Eaters!) and Jack Daniels. She was witty and non-judgmental. As mischievous as a monkey on steroids, and as sweet as a sleeping child. And here’s the clincher - she found my jokes funny and my poems well-written.
then there were the smaller nice bits. Dharam-patni doesn’t use make up, except kaajal, which I love. When I asked her why she wore kaajal, she said: “Because if I don’t, I look like a dead duck.” I could have married her then, and I feel I should have too, instead of waiting till March 13th.
we told our parents, and our mothers spoke. Horoscopes were exchanged and they matched. And holy heavens – we discovered that my far-flung aunt is married to her uncle, and so background checks became easy. Phone calls confirmed that neither side has a history of hooch smuggling or ancestors prone to scratching testicles in public. Theirs or others.
begum-to-be flew down with her mother, and we were to meet the next morning. At the time when she was boarding the flight, I was shopping for a shirt. It was a plain white linen one that I planned to wear over my dark blue Levis’. Begum later admitted that her decision might have been different if I’d shown up in a yellow floral print.
was I jittery the night before? Frankly no. I had been super-nervous a couple of days ago, with my stomach in anaconda knots. I’m not superstitious, but I do like to place bets and read signs. I said to myself that morning: “If I get a great crap, things will be fine” I left the toilet feeling like Michael Corleone and knew it would be ok.
september 13th 2008. Dharam patni was at her aunt’s house in Santa Cruz. It was raining hard that morning, my taxi broke down and the autowallah was a grandfatherly man who hated Bajaj for making autos that had lousy pick-up, didn’t have doors and broke down while navigating a mongrel’s piss. As I voiced my support and low-class hindi flew between the seats, the real reason of my trip dawned on me: I was going to meet my wife-to-be.
I walked up the flight of stairs to begum’s house with my 3 close relatives – the same trio who’d been there when my elder brother met his wife, again at Santa Cruz. The door opened, the usual half-tense half-happy smiles were passed and I sat down. And then she came in.
my first impression of begum was “phew, she’s not fat!” Now, I pride myself on not being shallow, and I do not have anything against plump people. But quirks are irrational, and I beg forgiveness from the Cheese Brigade. My next impression was, she’s sweet. I liked the quick flash in her eyes, her smile and the simple, completely un-pretentious way in which she carried herself. I remember her laughing at something and promptly sitting cross-legged on the chair, something very informal and real.
now the plan was simply for the twain to meet. The common practice is to go out for coffee and talk some more. There was no sure agenda, no yes/no but more like “let’s see how it goes.” So I was unprepared when my aunt called me out to the balcony and asked me the million-dollar q.
I was caught off guard, like I’d tried to wipe a booger on my friend’s shoulder and was seen. I stalled, saying I was yet to speak privately to begum and did not know what she felt. My aunt said that begum had shyly nodded in the affirmative. The ball was back in my court. It was honestly overwhelming. How is anyone supposed to react? No number of phone calls prepare you for the moment. Me and Daddu have always believed that one meeting is enough to say no, but woefully less to say a yes. But then I thought that nothing would be achieved in an hour’s talk. The other truth is also that no amount of time is enough to really know someone, and there are no guarantees for anything working out. When there are more variables than you can factor in, gut may be more intelligent than logic.
I looked back to the half-hour we’d spent in the drawing room. And realized that along with feeling happy, I’d also felt nice. Like coming home after a long day. Smiles, tears and phone calls followed the ‘yes’. Vodafone and BSNL made a killing and continue to do so as I type.
we said bye to my relatives and I stepped back into the house. Begum’s aunt gave me a second helping of payasam and asked me if I wanted something else. I said that this flat would do just nice. Unfortunately I laughed, and they thought (and still think) that I was joking. Damn!
we stepped out for coffee, in yet another auto. By now, the rains had stopped and the autowallah was different. As the auto passed the gate, I quickly held begum’s hand. She says I won many brownie points for that.
we had coffee, and followed it up with beer and lunch at Out-of-the-Blue, a quaint pasta place in Bandra. It was time to say cheers, and time to say finally.
peace, love, empathy
ram cobain
forgive me if I’m rambling. It’s a congenital defect and one perfected by years of practice. The truth is I am very happy. The truth is also that everything feels like a dream. I’ve pinched myself so many times that my arms resemble a heroin addict. And my head feels like one too.
I had a matrimony id. Actually, make that ‘ids’. An id on tamilmatrimony.com, another on shaadi.com and still a third on jeevansaathi.com. A sure sign of desperate times, aye. The only thing I can say in defence is that my parents created my profile. And that I was opposed to the idea. After all, I’m a metal head, a gross poet, an Enfield rider and an advertising writer with a reputation and a self-image to consider. And having a matrimony id is like admitting your grandfather liked his rasam spiked. That too with rice. But this is a strange tale, and there I was, with 3 matrimony ids and an acute feeling of being in the wrong place.
searching for your better-half on a matrimony site is a bizarre experience. Most girls hide their profile snaps like they were next-issue Playboy exclusives, the few that have their pictures put up look like aged Mollywood extras and the rare cute ones have terrible grammar or begin sentences with “Seeking rich groom with a good mop of hair…” Any girls left promptly reject you. After a while, they become familiar strangers, showing up on later searches with fresh profile pictures but the same answer to your initial contact. And to lime the burn, the ones who contact you are women you’d be embarrassed to admit as relatives, worse still, they make you feel suicidal – after all if Ms. Hemlata thought you’d make a great couple, it’s too late to reach out for a self-help book.
in such testing times, alcohol is a worthy ally. A bottle or three of beer can inject fresh enthusiasm, make you feel like Prince Charming and reduce some of the ‘uncle-like’ feeling that searching on a matrimony site brings. In fact, I’m pretty sure that Kingfisher was the happiest when I renewed my matrimony subscriptions. But I sure didn’t mind.
I sent an “interest” to Gayatri during one such inebriated hunt. I admit that I don’t remember sending her one. But one afternoon, I saw she had replied. And her picture showed promise. But after meeting some living tributes to camera angles, lighting and Photoshop, I was wary of nice pictures. “Meeting is believing” was the new cobain mantra. But what impressed me the most was the dignity and restraint in her reply. She was polite but not cold, positive but not eager. Plus her spellings were correct.
we exchanged phone numbers and talked for a week or so. And hit it off so well that it first surprised me, then excited me and still later shocked me. I found that I could talk to her about career paths as well as the benign, almost-paternal feeling I felt towards my morning potty (it’s true!). We shared the same values and world view, she could be logical and irrational, loved thayir saadam (curd rice to you Wheat Eaters!) and Jack Daniels. She was witty and non-judgmental. As mischievous as a monkey on steroids, and as sweet as a sleeping child. And here’s the clincher - she found my jokes funny and my poems well-written.
then there were the smaller nice bits. Dharam-patni doesn’t use make up, except kaajal, which I love. When I asked her why she wore kaajal, she said: “Because if I don’t, I look like a dead duck.” I could have married her then, and I feel I should have too, instead of waiting till March 13th.
we told our parents, and our mothers spoke. Horoscopes were exchanged and they matched. And holy heavens – we discovered that my far-flung aunt is married to her uncle, and so background checks became easy. Phone calls confirmed that neither side has a history of hooch smuggling or ancestors prone to scratching testicles in public. Theirs or others.
begum-to-be flew down with her mother, and we were to meet the next morning. At the time when she was boarding the flight, I was shopping for a shirt. It was a plain white linen one that I planned to wear over my dark blue Levis’. Begum later admitted that her decision might have been different if I’d shown up in a yellow floral print.
was I jittery the night before? Frankly no. I had been super-nervous a couple of days ago, with my stomach in anaconda knots. I’m not superstitious, but I do like to place bets and read signs. I said to myself that morning: “If I get a great crap, things will be fine” I left the toilet feeling like Michael Corleone and knew it would be ok.
september 13th 2008. Dharam patni was at her aunt’s house in Santa Cruz. It was raining hard that morning, my taxi broke down and the autowallah was a grandfatherly man who hated Bajaj for making autos that had lousy pick-up, didn’t have doors and broke down while navigating a mongrel’s piss. As I voiced my support and low-class hindi flew between the seats, the real reason of my trip dawned on me: I was going to meet my wife-to-be.
I walked up the flight of stairs to begum’s house with my 3 close relatives – the same trio who’d been there when my elder brother met his wife, again at Santa Cruz. The door opened, the usual half-tense half-happy smiles were passed and I sat down. And then she came in.
my first impression of begum was “phew, she’s not fat!” Now, I pride myself on not being shallow, and I do not have anything against plump people. But quirks are irrational, and I beg forgiveness from the Cheese Brigade. My next impression was, she’s sweet. I liked the quick flash in her eyes, her smile and the simple, completely un-pretentious way in which she carried herself. I remember her laughing at something and promptly sitting cross-legged on the chair, something very informal and real.
now the plan was simply for the twain to meet. The common practice is to go out for coffee and talk some more. There was no sure agenda, no yes/no but more like “let’s see how it goes.” So I was unprepared when my aunt called me out to the balcony and asked me the million-dollar q.
I was caught off guard, like I’d tried to wipe a booger on my friend’s shoulder and was seen. I stalled, saying I was yet to speak privately to begum and did not know what she felt. My aunt said that begum had shyly nodded in the affirmative. The ball was back in my court. It was honestly overwhelming. How is anyone supposed to react? No number of phone calls prepare you for the moment. Me and Daddu have always believed that one meeting is enough to say no, but woefully less to say a yes. But then I thought that nothing would be achieved in an hour’s talk. The other truth is also that no amount of time is enough to really know someone, and there are no guarantees for anything working out. When there are more variables than you can factor in, gut may be more intelligent than logic.
I looked back to the half-hour we’d spent in the drawing room. And realized that along with feeling happy, I’d also felt nice. Like coming home after a long day. Smiles, tears and phone calls followed the ‘yes’. Vodafone and BSNL made a killing and continue to do so as I type.
we said bye to my relatives and I stepped back into the house. Begum’s aunt gave me a second helping of payasam and asked me if I wanted something else. I said that this flat would do just nice. Unfortunately I laughed, and they thought (and still think) that I was joking. Damn!
we stepped out for coffee, in yet another auto. By now, the rains had stopped and the autowallah was different. As the auto passed the gate, I quickly held begum’s hand. She says I won many brownie points for that.
we had coffee, and followed it up with beer and lunch at Out-of-the-Blue, a quaint pasta place in Bandra. It was time to say cheers, and time to say finally.
peace, love, empathy
ram cobain
Thursday, August 28, 2008
choices
Either Or. This or That. Yes/No. The Lady or the Tiger. Every choice calls for sacrifice, but some also ask for suicide. “A beautiful death”, as they said in Sparta.
But there’s no romance in being an ass. There’s no worse way to drown than under a wave of righteousness. The martyr’s choice is often a fool’s one. For what looks heroic on the surface can be very lonely, filled with self doubts and a hands-tied, scrotum-scratching urge to be someone else. The support of the acolytes and well wishers rarely reaches the saint at the stakes, and the concern pounding his ears is largely the fear of smelling his own bacon, one that’s always a matchstick too late. True, a sage is revered, but largely in posterity. Or is the word ‘posthumously’?
Often a seer can be blind, and a sometimes a pawn. And that rhymes with ‘moron’.
ram cobain
But there’s no romance in being an ass. There’s no worse way to drown than under a wave of righteousness. The martyr’s choice is often a fool’s one. For what looks heroic on the surface can be very lonely, filled with self doubts and a hands-tied, scrotum-scratching urge to be someone else. The support of the acolytes and well wishers rarely reaches the saint at the stakes, and the concern pounding his ears is largely the fear of smelling his own bacon, one that’s always a matchstick too late. True, a sage is revered, but largely in posterity. Or is the word ‘posthumously’?
Often a seer can be blind, and a sometimes a pawn. And that rhymes with ‘moron’.
ram cobain
Thursday, April 24, 2008
happy birthday
happy birthday hope
happy birthday courage
happy birthday inspiration
happy birthday old backfoot cover drives
happy birthday infant uppercuts
happy birthday goodness
happy birthday greatness
happy birthday redemption
happy birthday muscle and sinew, sweat and tears
happy birthday twinkling eyes and 16-year old smiles
happy birthday heavy bats and heavier shoulders
happy birthday little tricolour flag on the helmet
happy birthday number 10
happy birthday Shivaji Park
happy birthday heroism
happy birthday bitten nails and bruised palms
happy birthday choked breaths and runaway throats
happy birthday old memories and unborn ones
happy birthday gooseflesh
happy birthday us
happy birthday
happy birthday courage
happy birthday inspiration
happy birthday old backfoot cover drives
happy birthday infant uppercuts
happy birthday goodness
happy birthday greatness
happy birthday redemption
happy birthday muscle and sinew, sweat and tears
happy birthday twinkling eyes and 16-year old smiles
happy birthday heavy bats and heavier shoulders
happy birthday little tricolour flag on the helmet
happy birthday number 10
happy birthday Shivaji Park
happy birthday heroism
happy birthday bitten nails and bruised palms
happy birthday choked breaths and runaway throats
happy birthday old memories and unborn ones
happy birthday gooseflesh
happy birthday us
happy birthday
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
shitscapades: fresh cobain updates to bowel you over!
22nd April 2008, 6.40 pm
now I know how mothers feel about abortions – it was a big brown bonny boy and it grieved me immensely to pull the flush.
rc
now I know how mothers feel about abortions – it was a big brown bonny boy and it grieved me immensely to pull the flush.
rc
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
maybe I’m wrong
maybe I’m wrong
but how important is it to do the “right” thing?
the “right” thing is what is fair in the court of conscience, where no other person need be present for a verdict
for me, it is everything.
and no, it’s not easy at all
it’s a constant war to fight one’s baser self, to rein in the animal that says the world was a cruel place before you came in
it’s a struggle to accept one’s inabilities, to applaud louder another’s accomplishment if only to drown out the malignant soul-whisper of envy
it means obsessively checking oneself, looking at the mirror with a far more critical eye than an ageing prima-donna
it means slapping oneself to the reality that turning a blind eye is the worst kind of peek-a-boo; akin to watching one’s mother bathe
it means allowing oneself no rope to falter, no confession-box-shortcut-to-salvation, no excuses at all
it means giving the right advice when you don’t want to, giving up credit unearned by the sweat of your brow or the migraine of your intellect and never giving in to the silicon-tit of temptation
sometimes for all its earthy-scent of justice, I feel living this way is unfair to me
because it means not using people to one’s own advantage, of realizing that the other person’s shoes are often two sizes too small, of feeling scrutinized and caged by bars of free air…while being used to other people’s advantage, while stumbling alone on one’s two clumsy feet and while seeing others amble through the same bars as if the rods were made of cloud dust (which they are!)
but then I realize that I can sleep easy, walk like a prized pugilist and sing in the rain
and sound wonderful, sound just right
if only to myself.
peace, love, empathy
rc
but how important is it to do the “right” thing?
the “right” thing is what is fair in the court of conscience, where no other person need be present for a verdict
for me, it is everything.
and no, it’s not easy at all
it’s a constant war to fight one’s baser self, to rein in the animal that says the world was a cruel place before you came in
it’s a struggle to accept one’s inabilities, to applaud louder another’s accomplishment if only to drown out the malignant soul-whisper of envy
it means obsessively checking oneself, looking at the mirror with a far more critical eye than an ageing prima-donna
it means slapping oneself to the reality that turning a blind eye is the worst kind of peek-a-boo; akin to watching one’s mother bathe
it means allowing oneself no rope to falter, no confession-box-shortcut-to-salvation, no excuses at all
it means giving the right advice when you don’t want to, giving up credit unearned by the sweat of your brow or the migraine of your intellect and never giving in to the silicon-tit of temptation
sometimes for all its earthy-scent of justice, I feel living this way is unfair to me
because it means not using people to one’s own advantage, of realizing that the other person’s shoes are often two sizes too small, of feeling scrutinized and caged by bars of free air…while being used to other people’s advantage, while stumbling alone on one’s two clumsy feet and while seeing others amble through the same bars as if the rods were made of cloud dust (which they are!)
but then I realize that I can sleep easy, walk like a prized pugilist and sing in the rain
and sound wonderful, sound just right
if only to myself.
peace, love, empathy
rc
Thursday, December 27, 2007
words
words are wonderful.
they have the power to caress, uplift, embolden, dance and love.
words can make you feel like a gawky teenager all over again, like when the world was full of good people, when a stranger could offer a lollipop or a lift with no ulterior intent, when the sun felt warm and sweet and happy and never hot.
they can fill your belly with such joy that you might need to burp, such laughter that you might feel sad knowing immediately, suddenly and sadly, that the laughter will and must die.
words are like passionate lovers; free-flowing and brave and giving, as unabashed in a peck on the cheek as in a super-swallow blow job.
words are also educative; they can teach you, make you live longer by making you dwell both in the past and the future in one lifetime, by making you understand history, culture, moments of deliberation and moments of defiance.
words are immortal; they live in suspended animation, belonging as much to the listener as the speaker, breathing for centuries after the person who uttered them is excreta in an earthworm’s belly or dust in a choking world from a long-dead pyre.
words are inspiration; they are muscle in battle-weary sinews, courage in hero-starved nations, hope for the love-destitute and redemption for the condemned.
words are dreams about realities yet to happen, explanations of magic yet to be seen and truths about Santa Claus. In that way, they are also escape; lifeboats from Alactraz, tunnels in Shawshank and the gunny bag for the Count of Monte Cristo.
words are art in the alphabet form and sensibility for the noveau-literate.
but for all their beauty, words have a Hyde side too.
wielded carelessly or craftily, they can hurt, wound, gloat, pulverize and annihilate.
totally, completely and eternally.
and that’s why, kneaded with all my love for them, is a cold dollop of fear.
for what they might make me say, or make me hear.
they really are two-faced sons-of-bitches.
and there’s no other word for them.
peace, love, empathy
ram cobain
they have the power to caress, uplift, embolden, dance and love.
words can make you feel like a gawky teenager all over again, like when the world was full of good people, when a stranger could offer a lollipop or a lift with no ulterior intent, when the sun felt warm and sweet and happy and never hot.
they can fill your belly with such joy that you might need to burp, such laughter that you might feel sad knowing immediately, suddenly and sadly, that the laughter will and must die.
words are like passionate lovers; free-flowing and brave and giving, as unabashed in a peck on the cheek as in a super-swallow blow job.
words are also educative; they can teach you, make you live longer by making you dwell both in the past and the future in one lifetime, by making you understand history, culture, moments of deliberation and moments of defiance.
words are immortal; they live in suspended animation, belonging as much to the listener as the speaker, breathing for centuries after the person who uttered them is excreta in an earthworm’s belly or dust in a choking world from a long-dead pyre.
words are inspiration; they are muscle in battle-weary sinews, courage in hero-starved nations, hope for the love-destitute and redemption for the condemned.
words are dreams about realities yet to happen, explanations of magic yet to be seen and truths about Santa Claus. In that way, they are also escape; lifeboats from Alactraz, tunnels in Shawshank and the gunny bag for the Count of Monte Cristo.
words are art in the alphabet form and sensibility for the noveau-literate.
but for all their beauty, words have a Hyde side too.
wielded carelessly or craftily, they can hurt, wound, gloat, pulverize and annihilate.
totally, completely and eternally.
and that’s why, kneaded with all my love for them, is a cold dollop of fear.
for what they might make me say, or make me hear.
they really are two-faced sons-of-bitches.
and there’s no other word for them.
peace, love, empathy
ram cobain
Sunday, October 21, 2007
the truth in black or white
the best coffee is not about the freshest beans or the milk or the sugar.
it’s about who you have it with.
ram cobain
it’s about who you have it with.
ram cobain
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
words worth
coming from the right person, a “hi, how’re you doing” isn't a greeting.
it's a rescuing.
ram cobain
it's a rescuing.
ram cobain
Saturday, July 28, 2007
a pageful of autobiography
they look up to me
they think I’m cool
I agree
I’m a metal head
I love Slayer
my ambition is to take a loan and go to the US and watch Slaaaaaayer live
I pose with my tongue out
I wear black tees with hideous designs
I sing kishore kumar songs
I sound horrible
I haven’t used a comb in 3 years
I’m balding
I'm heterosexual
I’ve loved, lost and not learnt
I’m searching for you
I can’t dance
I like dancing
I make the same mistakes still
I have heroes
I'd love to be a martyr
I have obvious and secret admirers
I don't have a tattoo, yet
i love books
I’m a good friend
I have few enemies but they remember me
I hope I’m a good son
I’m a talented writer
I'm a passionate advertising writer
I try to be a good junior
I try harder to be a good boss
I’m an awesome poet
I’m not modest but I’m humble
I’m an optimist
I wear Levis
I wear contact lenses
I make mindblowing yellow dal
I wash my own clothes
I think too much
I've slapped a guy once, hard
I’m vegetarian but I don’t like veggies
I love dogs
I believe in God
I’m single
I have a matrimony id
I love beer
I’ve never smoked
I don't polish my shoes
I don't wear shirts but i look wow when i do
my last credit card bill was for Rs. 46000
I don’t save
I swear in hindi and smile
my favourite TV show is South Park
I had a compound skull fracture on my Enfield
I ride it still
I believe in Sachin Tendulkar
I’m a Nirvana fan
I often repeat myself
they call me ram cobain
I call me ram cobain
they think I’m cool
I agree
I’m a metal head
I love Slayer
my ambition is to take a loan and go to the US and watch Slaaaaaayer live
I pose with my tongue out
I wear black tees with hideous designs
I sing kishore kumar songs
I sound horrible
I haven’t used a comb in 3 years
I’m balding
I'm heterosexual
I’ve loved, lost and not learnt
I’m searching for you
I can’t dance
I like dancing
I make the same mistakes still
I have heroes
I'd love to be a martyr
I have obvious and secret admirers
I don't have a tattoo, yet
i love books
I’m a good friend
I have few enemies but they remember me
I hope I’m a good son
I’m a talented writer
I'm a passionate advertising writer
I try to be a good junior
I try harder to be a good boss
I’m an awesome poet
I’m not modest but I’m humble
I’m an optimist
I wear Levis
I wear contact lenses
I make mindblowing yellow dal
I wash my own clothes
I think too much
I've slapped a guy once, hard
I’m vegetarian but I don’t like veggies
I love dogs
I believe in God
I’m single
I have a matrimony id
I love beer
I’ve never smoked
I don't polish my shoes
I don't wear shirts but i look wow when i do
my last credit card bill was for Rs. 46000
I don’t save
I swear in hindi and smile
my favourite TV show is South Park
I had a compound skull fracture on my Enfield
I ride it still
I believe in Sachin Tendulkar
I’m a Nirvana fan
I often repeat myself
they call me ram cobain
I call me ram cobain
Thursday, July 26, 2007
the biker
I have a Royal Enfield Thunderbird but this note isn’t about either of us
it’s about a guy in my office complex who rides an Enticer to work everyday
his Enticer is fitted with extra wheels on the side, like a child’s cycle
no, he’s not a wimp
he’s probably the bravest man I’ve seen
you see, the thing is that this guy doesn’t walk
he crawls
his legs are twisted and bent under him, like a tortoise coil made out of skin and sinew
like the sweet god of creation changed his mind halfway
only halfway
so everyday, he inches forward like a gravel swimmer, slowly, painfully
and proudly
I feel like rooting for him, clapping like a wound-up toy monkey
but to do so would be to acknowledge what he’s fiercely forgetting every minute of his life
so I stay quiet, avert my gaze till I hear the roar of the motorcycle
only then do I turn to see him riding away
I don’t even know his name
but I know that I’m 5 feet 8 inches tall and he that towers over me.
ram cobain
it’s about a guy in my office complex who rides an Enticer to work everyday
his Enticer is fitted with extra wheels on the side, like a child’s cycle
no, he’s not a wimp
he’s probably the bravest man I’ve seen
you see, the thing is that this guy doesn’t walk
he crawls
his legs are twisted and bent under him, like a tortoise coil made out of skin and sinew
like the sweet god of creation changed his mind halfway
only halfway
so everyday, he inches forward like a gravel swimmer, slowly, painfully
and proudly
I feel like rooting for him, clapping like a wound-up toy monkey
but to do so would be to acknowledge what he’s fiercely forgetting every minute of his life
so I stay quiet, avert my gaze till I hear the roar of the motorcycle
only then do I turn to see him riding away
I don’t even know his name
but I know that I’m 5 feet 8 inches tall and he that towers over me.
ram cobain
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
people...
people without a passion, any passion
who don’t like music
don’t have heroes, fallen or standing tall
don’t read books, don’t re-read books
who don’t know who Stephen King is
who ask what Sachin Tendulkar has done
who’ve never ridden a bike (pillion included)
people who’ve never bunked school
who’ve never had a favourite teacher
people who’ve never written a love letter, bought flowers
people who’ve never felt like a fool (angrily or grudgingly)
who don’t cry at movies, laugh at jokes, feel scared in a dark room
people who lick ass and cover their own
who don’t stand straight when the national anthem plays
people who don’t stand straight, period
who iron their jeans
who think goodness is weakness
people who don’t like traveling
people whose beds have never been unmade
people who buy quietly at swanky stores and bargain loudly with the poor
people who don’t find their mother tongue cool
people who don’t find their mother cool
people who don’t think dad is a rock star (unless he isn't)
who say one thing and mean another (unless they’re women, joking!)
who’d love to see you go down
people who don’t reach out for their wallets quickly enough
who split the bill according to their share
who don’t love themselves (unless justified)
don’t have a best friend (or five!)
who’ve never gifted more than they’ve got
people who’ve never smiled on a Monday morning, never sobbed on a Sunday afternoon
who don’t have a sense of right and wrong
people who remember insults more than compliments
people who think poetry is intellectual and not that they’re imbecilic
who think the Swastika is a symbol of pride and not shame
who think all Muslims are terrorists (and vice versa)
people who haven’t been in love with the wrong person
people who haven’t lost in love with the right person
people who cheat in love
people who haven’t blown soap bubbles
people who haven’t eaten street food
people who’ve never tried cooking
people who see the glass as half empty (even when it is spilling over)
who’ve never broken a bone or a heart
who’ve never petted a stray dog
people who aren’t proud of their roots
people who don’t like chocolate
people who haven’t asked for extra cheese
people who’ve never mismatched clothes
people who’ve never given to lesser-privileged people
people who have grown up early
people who have never burped in public
people who’ve never waited for a phone to ring
who’ve never written, deleted and re-written the same sms
who’ve never agonized over a ‘sending message’ alert
people who’ve never driven faster than the speed limit
who’ve never confused the fork and knife hand
who’ve never been thrilled during a plane takeoff
who’ve never felt depressed in a hotel room
who’ve never offered a sweaty salesman a cold glass of water
people who’ve never said thank you
people who’ve never said sorry
people who are insecure (especially if they are brilliant)
who act with their brain and not their gut
who’ve never clapped when they’ve been bested
people who’ve never been drunk (teetotalers forgiven)
people who don’t go to birthdays
people who don’t go to funerals (notwithstanding their own)
people who don’t believe in god (unless they’re atheists)
who don’t mind hurting others knowingly
all such people...
i'm happy to not know you.
ram cobain
who don’t like music
don’t have heroes, fallen or standing tall
don’t read books, don’t re-read books
who don’t know who Stephen King is
who ask what Sachin Tendulkar has done
who’ve never ridden a bike (pillion included)
people who’ve never bunked school
who’ve never had a favourite teacher
people who’ve never written a love letter, bought flowers
people who’ve never felt like a fool (angrily or grudgingly)
who don’t cry at movies, laugh at jokes, feel scared in a dark room
people who lick ass and cover their own
who don’t stand straight when the national anthem plays
people who don’t stand straight, period
who iron their jeans
who think goodness is weakness
people who don’t like traveling
people whose beds have never been unmade
people who buy quietly at swanky stores and bargain loudly with the poor
people who don’t find their mother tongue cool
people who don’t find their mother cool
people who don’t think dad is a rock star (unless he isn't)
who say one thing and mean another (unless they’re women, joking!)
who’d love to see you go down
people who don’t reach out for their wallets quickly enough
who split the bill according to their share
who don’t love themselves (unless justified)
don’t have a best friend (or five!)
who’ve never gifted more than they’ve got
people who’ve never smiled on a Monday morning, never sobbed on a Sunday afternoon
who don’t have a sense of right and wrong
people who remember insults more than compliments
people who think poetry is intellectual and not that they’re imbecilic
who think the Swastika is a symbol of pride and not shame
who think all Muslims are terrorists (and vice versa)
people who haven’t been in love with the wrong person
people who haven’t lost in love with the right person
people who cheat in love
people who haven’t blown soap bubbles
people who haven’t eaten street food
people who’ve never tried cooking
people who see the glass as half empty (even when it is spilling over)
who’ve never broken a bone or a heart
who’ve never petted a stray dog
people who aren’t proud of their roots
people who don’t like chocolate
people who haven’t asked for extra cheese
people who’ve never mismatched clothes
people who’ve never given to lesser-privileged people
people who have grown up early
people who have never burped in public
people who’ve never waited for a phone to ring
who’ve never written, deleted and re-written the same sms
who’ve never agonized over a ‘sending message’ alert
people who’ve never driven faster than the speed limit
who’ve never confused the fork and knife hand
who’ve never been thrilled during a plane takeoff
who’ve never felt depressed in a hotel room
who’ve never offered a sweaty salesman a cold glass of water
people who’ve never said thank you
people who’ve never said sorry
people who are insecure (especially if they are brilliant)
who act with their brain and not their gut
who’ve never clapped when they’ve been bested
people who’ve never been drunk (teetotalers forgiven)
people who don’t go to birthdays
people who don’t go to funerals (notwithstanding their own)
people who don’t believe in god (unless they’re atheists)
who don’t mind hurting others knowingly
all such people...
i'm happy to not know you.
ram cobain
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Unidentified Funny Object
jokes are proof that aliens exist.
after all, none of us has met a single human being who can claim he’s thought of a rib-tickler and pass a polygraph while saying so.
q.e.d.
ram cobain
after all, none of us has met a single human being who can claim he’s thought of a rib-tickler and pass a polygraph while saying so.
q.e.d.
ram cobain
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
a for...
are there degrees of assholism?
is there a type 1 asshole, a b-asshole and the alpha asshole?
are there benign and malignant assholes?
incurable and wannabe assholes?
first-time and certified assholes?
genetic and acquired assholes?
is assholism an instinct?
is it contagious?
will it spread by touch?
by association?
is there an Assholics Anonymous and how do you get someone admitted there?
does it make you an asshole if you treat an asshole like an asshole?
can you spot an asshole by just looking at one?
do assholes have assholes?
how do you gently break the news to someone that he’s an asshole?
are there asshole doctors in the yellow pages?
can you get arrested for being an asshole?
should there be capital punishment for assholes?
can assholes plead for clemency?
how does an asshole prove his innocence?
can you sue for false arrest?
are there countries that have legalized euthanasia for assholes?
should assholes be allowed to run for government, be bosses or hold positions of authority?
is there a self-examination test to check if you’re an asshole?
have you taken one recently?
peace, love, empathy
ram cobain
(assuredly not an asshole)
is there a type 1 asshole, a b-asshole and the alpha asshole?
are there benign and malignant assholes?
incurable and wannabe assholes?
first-time and certified assholes?
genetic and acquired assholes?
is assholism an instinct?
is it contagious?
will it spread by touch?
by association?
is there an Assholics Anonymous and how do you get someone admitted there?
does it make you an asshole if you treat an asshole like an asshole?
can you spot an asshole by just looking at one?
do assholes have assholes?
how do you gently break the news to someone that he’s an asshole?
are there asshole doctors in the yellow pages?
can you get arrested for being an asshole?
should there be capital punishment for assholes?
can assholes plead for clemency?
how does an asshole prove his innocence?
can you sue for false arrest?
are there countries that have legalized euthanasia for assholes?
should assholes be allowed to run for government, be bosses or hold positions of authority?
is there a self-examination test to check if you’re an asshole?
have you taken one recently?
peace, love, empathy
ram cobain
(assuredly not an asshole)
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