Magic Painter

A gash of violet and the twilight’s fading,
the moon’s out, half a pearl  and waning
Someone’s out there with colour and paint,
He touches her, a bliss colour he paints so faint.
The moon in her eye sparkles a star,
lightens up another, twitches a scar.
The dawn’s here, the Painter is at work again,
touches him with paint and a bit of pain.


Marvanthe: A ride story

I’ve been hunched over my handles for ten hours and the last four-hour in pitch darkness but for the small round-red tail light of the Enfield bullet. My headlight serves more as a cautionary light to vehicles coming in the opposite than guide me across even ten feet. It’s like being on a manic ride in a theme park, sudden bright lights, followed by a rush of wind and then sudden darkness.  Red and silver spots float around my eyes; little fire flies that die with the first hint of another bright passing light. We grossly underestimated the ride in the dark, made a clerical mistake of choosing a state highway to get to Bangalore from Shimoga, this highway turned out to be a double lane road with trucks and buses hurtling across with blinding high beams and utter callousness towards us nimble two wheelers. Several weeks later, when the euphoria of the ride had died, I looked up the route on google maps and realized a small detour via Chitradurga would have made our lives a lot easier, it was an additional seventeen kilometers and meant we would have ridden the Bangalore-Mumbai Highway back to Bangalore. The difference? Tolled six lane highway, lit up like a Christmas tree all the way to home sweet home with a reduced risk of getting running over and no freakish invisible speed breakers. But the ride was sweet along with learning a ton of lessons.

Learning lessons and drawing parallels, philosophical yes, but those little lessons learnt don’t come printed in handbooks, it’s on the road you learn and relearn. Ride one to Coorg, learnt never to wear briefs on a long ride, bums will be war-torn with red welts and no, Vaseline doesn’t help, boxers is the answer and bums are thankful. Lesson two, never carry backpacks, even if it weighs a feather, after sixty miles, that feather will weigh a ton and your shoulders will be screaming sore. Lessons learnt on this ride, never ever ride into the night fatigued.  We started from Bangalore on a cool overcast November evening at seven and rode to Hassan, a ride of four hours in the dark, no challenges. But on the return leg, we took this experience as the benchmark and conveniently chose to forget that we had already rode two hundred kilometers for six hours, four hours into the dark and the fatigue checked in and we were in a constant state of panic. Panic of miss judging a corner, panic of going through a pothole and getting irritated with your riding buddy for no apparent reason and I was rubbed off when Adrian slowed to a stall and pulled over with an ember from the cigarette in his eye.

Open blue skies...making of great road trips

Open blue skies…making of great road trips

I still wonder how he managed to get ember into his eye, riding a motorcycle and smoking at the same time and getting unlucky at that exact moment. I go over and check it out; I have fears of seeing a blotch of black where fire made contact to the eye, and fears of Adrian being unable to see the bony finger that I’m pointing at his eye. But the eye seems fine, just the ash from the cigarette finding its way to the eye. Five more minutes and we are good to go and hit the road again. It’s cold, we are tired and hungry and it’s just the two of us on two motorcycles and we’ve got long used to the stares from people in cars. You’d see motorcycles during daylight on highways but not too many on a winter midnight in a remote part of the country.

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Chain links and Frailty

The day is rushed, I skipped my run to make more room for all the tiny chores and tasks I need to complete by the end of the day, though the tasks are small and not time-consuming, it involves travelling all around town on a summer morning and I don’t want to be out in the sun at noon, the heat can really get to your air-conditioner-acclimatized head, but as it is for every thing planned, Murphy dropped by to say hello, I just couldn’t find the keys to the chain-lock that fastened my motorcycle. I had spare keys to my motorcycle but not the chain-lock. I spent the next half hour hunting for the keys, working up a sweat, emptied pockets, searched the refrigerator, sieved through the junk on my desk and nope, the little key wasn’t to be found. It was a tiny little key, with no key chain, the chances of finding it were slim.

So I pulled out the hacksaw blade, I was surprised I could locate it that fast, normally, things disappear in my house and reappear after a couple of months. I’m yet to set eyes on my race visor since they disappeared four months ago after a run. No hacksaw frame to hold the blade, made use of a small piece of cloth to get a grip on the blade and I started to saw off one small link on the chain link. I had to make two cuts so that a small piece of metal dropped out and I could slip the lock through the empty space created. It was a long half hour, squatting, stretching and getting to work, making sure I was sawing consistently.  It went smooth for the first few minutes, I was getting used to the cloth grip and getting into a good rhythm when just like that the blade jammed in the jagged edges of the metal that it had cut through. If I pushed hard the blade would snap and that meant going out to the hardware store to pick another blade. That would be too much of a walk. Had some wild thoughts of sawing off the spokes of my wheel through which the chain link went, I resisted. The last time I got happy with a blade, I sawed off the legs off a chair, just like that.

I tried in vain as the blade kept locking up, the nice sawing motion was getting hard to get, then it struck me, all those long hard sessions on the work bench in college, while sawing, you do not apply strength, you just cut as lightly as possible but with more motions and voila the first cut was made and within the next ten mins the next cut too and a little piece of metal fell through and the lock slipped right through and my bike was free.

I held that little piece of metal, it was still warm with all that sawing, it was tiny, probably the size of a fat water drop and I was contemplating how fictitious the chain link looked now. All of two meters, grey steel and looking strong, and all it took to break it down was a minuscule drop of metal and it’s purpose was lost.

Probably all the troubles of our life is like the chain link, seemingly large and tough, but a little bit of persistence could just make all of that disappear. Some persistence, applying some old lost lessons and really getting onto your haunches to get out of a mess. Or to look at it in a different way, that little piece of metal is what is missing to make our life wholesome as we dream off, one little piece to fit into the puzzle and life I guess is just a long crazy journey to find that missing piece.

PS: I did find the key, it was under the sheets on my bed.


Tough looking frail challenges [img: Internet]

A wedding and a sweet revenge

It’s an Indian wedding and more importantly a South Indian wedding. The groom and the bride stand on a stage, behind them two gaudy thrones, on which no one’s been seated for the whole evening. Gaudy thrones, gaudy couple and we the minion guests who mill around in an endless queue to wish the couple good luck and get on with the evening. Where did this peculiar practice start? Stand in a queue to shake hands with the groom and bride one hardly knows, exchange forced smiles from pursed lips and mumble something inaudible, face the camera, flash! and the photographer gestures you to move on, if you linger awhile to probably tell the groom that his cheap off-the-shelf suit looks like a gunny sack, the photographer gets impatient and tells you to get the hell off the stage. I didn’t get shooed off, I kept it short, went straight to the groom, shook hands, pushed the envelope containing a hundred bucks, contribution for the meal am going to eat, smile at the camera and walk away to the dining hall. Yet another queue at the buffet.It’s gonna be a long sultry evening.

The dinner buffet is a mess, the children at each other’s throat for the ice cream and the adults making a killing of the fruit salad. We live in flourishing times, no famine in the recent past, the trees full of fruit, boatload of fish, fields of sheep and goats to be devoured. The plates always full and no guilty pangs when half of the food finds its way to the dump. So, it’s difficult to assess the rush, hard to imagine the beeline and shoving for a measly looking papaya and overcooked paneer.

I don’t want to be here, but I need to. Friendly obligations from a long past, it is required that all don’t find out what a rogue of a son the gentleman had. True, am not my father’s reflection of being the most humble, respected person the town had seen, I try to be, but it’s a hard job to fill into my father’s boots and it is harder not to be quirky and slapstick to certain individuals. There was a gentleman once, a close friend and an aid of my father’s. He didn’t see it unusual to pick on a kid 30 years his junior and call me funny names just because I was real tall and lanky. There were comparisons to a tall Indian actor, lampposts, ladders, all the gentleman could conjure up were comparisons, so much for being 30 years older. No imagination. It wasn’t that I was sharp-witted, but I grew up among classmates who called each other flies, flies buzzing over a rotting corpse or a big fat house fly on a pile of dung. They went further and back-slapped each other when they referenced the stain on a toilet bowl to someone’s face. Full marks for the imagination there. So, being called a lamppost felt silly, I was too thick-skinned by now. That didn’t mean I didn’t sledge this guy, but calling him a pile-of-dung-with-a-fly just didn’t cut it. He never understood. I saw my game of calling him interesting nicknames fall flat on its face. So I had to stoop down to his level and give him a beating without my father extending the same courtesy to me.

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Motorcycles and Rain. Balms to the Soul

If you’ve ever ridden a motorbike, in winter, through falling rain, you’ll already know what I’m talking about. It’s slippery, soggy and surreal.

Every inch of your skin is wet. It doesn’t start that way of course. It’s the shirt first, then the jeans. It’s a valiant effort by your Levis. Soaking in enough water to save a drought bit village, then, your jeans swells and brims over, the water seeping right into your skin. That accelerator is suddenly tougher to grip, the feedback from the engine long-lost to your numb fingers. The clutch is harder than normal and the leather seat biting you through your jeans. You really can’t see where you are going, helmet visors make it tough, without the visor, the sting of the falling rain in your eyes make it near impossible. At the crux of the battle between jeans and the seeping rain, the moment the last defense of your underpants collapses under the
incessant torrent of rain, when you feel the cold rain reach your warm crevices, that’s the moment you decide it’s futile to seek refuge under a tree. But you are enjoying this somewhere, riding ahead with a stupid smile on your face, the water slapping your face and washing away the grime of the day. A stupid wry smile crosses, imagining sheets of water cascading off a mountain face in a rain forest, that’s when you snuggle into your seat, lean in and twist the accelerator a little bit more.

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These are from long lost archives, so long lost, I don’t even recall the context

“By the time you wake, I’ll be gone
I’m chasing fireflies into the sun
Behind them, behind fleeting clouds I run
Do wait for me, I’ll not always be gone

Chasing into the horizon where oceans meet skies
At night it’s just me dancing with the fireflies
Vast black sky, twinkling stars acting as spies
Come along baby,  the flies too are tired of the lies

Around a maple tree in spring you’ll sing
A song of me, the fireflies and the fling
There was nothing to be scared off, it was just a ring
Me, you and the fireflies, this time on an eagle’s wing”

                                                               – Ravish

Diving Old Man

He sat there on the edge of the boat, his feet dangling in the water. His hands gripped the edge to balance the tank holstered to his back, this would be a dive to remember. The island rose gradually from the ocean, sea-bed to corals, rocks to sand, gradual till the beach and then rose fast to loom like a giant shadow of a fist. In the afternoon light the island and its hillock was a gentle fold of green in the ocean of blue but as the sun set, the island seemed to swallow the last of the fading light to turn from a shade of green to pitch black, just as quick as the eel that went back into it’s hiding hole when the torch shone on it.
The boat bobbed gently on the ocean surface, each passing wave lapping its sides and moving on. From afar it looked like the old man was on a see-saw in a park with the island on the other end, bobbing gently up and down. He liked the quite of the evening, he would have loved to have the boat to himself but for the boatman who sat snuggled at the other end of the boat. He would have loved to have an oar and paddle himself across the ocean, see the oar make ripples in the water as he rowed, they wouldn’t give him one, also he was too weak to row himself to the middle of nowhere. In another life, in another adventure he would have had an oar to himself, a telescope and a compass that showed true north; for today he had to do with the diesel fumes of the engine and the rickety boat, all things apart he liked the lapping of the warm water on his feet, warm water turning cold with the setting sun.
It was time. The sky ablaze in sunset colours, the orange disc making a splash of colours as it went down. He just had enough time until the ocean turned ink blue and black soon. He heaved, swinging his legs and feet back onboard, the tank hung precariously over the edge. He dug into his pockets and pulled out a zippo and from the other pulled out a joint. The boatman shook his head in disapproval, the old man lit the tip, inhaled hard and held his breath, his lips turned up in a smile and he exhaled. The white cloud hung to the low boat roof. He took another deep breath from the joint, it crackled and glowed orange in the dark, small embers flew about like fireflies in the white smoke. One more hard puff and the fireflies slowly fly down from the skies, flow over his feet and spread across the floor. Stars on the floor and stars in the greying sky. He stomped down hard on the wooden floor and the stars rose in a dust, some fell back, some flew out to the sea, some flew again, circling the old man’s head in a little shiny halo.
Then he sat there, the tank tugging him towards the ocean, he sat there bent over, waiting for the strength to leave him, when his feet would rise and he’d take a tumble into the ocean tank first. He tries to let go, trying to calm down and trying to hide the tears that swell up. It would pass he knew, the first jab of pain that always surged through him, then the colours would line up and light up. He slipped on his flippers and they were yellow, he sat and kept looking at the flippers on both his feet, they were a distinct yellow, two yellows, then slowly the pattern emerged, the webbing were blue, blue webbing and yellow flippers, he stared with an amused smile, he stared at his feet donning the flippers, and slowly the flippers appeared to merge, merge into a giant tail, the blue webbing turn into blue shiny scales, scales that climbed up his ankles and shins, climbing and thickening around his waist, him feeling like a giant fish. Then he flipped the ocean, tank first, head and then the shiny tail.

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Bengaluru Marathon 2014: First Home Run

Ten thousand footfalls and slowly the dust settles over the Kanteerava. Ten thousand stirred souls, a cauldron of emotions. Joyous, euphoria, pride, relief, loathe, sadness. Some tear smeared faces, mascaras that run long after the race has finished. Tears of joy. Tears of pain. Ten thousand runners. Some have risen, some have fallen, personal bests broken, some agonizing finishes, many for whom the weight of the medal on their chest is a new surreal feeling and as the floodlights dim and switch off one at a time, it’s time to reset the clock, to countdown another year before we have the second edition of the Bengaluru Marathon. With the first we’ve taken off and given India a world class event, with the second we are gonna soar.


Bengu Superpowers [pic: Facebook Bengu Community]

But you look at the clock that’s been ticking away, the hands spinning endlessly in reverse now and you can’t help but marvel at the precision and effort to keep the clock ticking, the vision to execute at clockwork a race unlike any that Bangalore has seen. If you lift the glass off the face of the clock, move aside the hands, what you’ll see layered below are countless promo runs and runner parties. Nandi Hills, Decathalon, Kanteerva, Pipeline. The brashness of the 12 hour run at Kanteerva. No organizer across India has attempted that, attempt it as a promo run at least. A 6am to 6pm run. Big names, celebrities, ultra-distance behemoths, some young, some bare- feet, some topless, all runners alike, running on the 400 meters in an endless blur. It was just epic to stand on the sidelines, watching alone made one dizzy. The traffic commissioner flagged that run and ran a few laps himself, that reconfirmed what an epic race the Bengaluru Marathon was in the making and he returned in the evening to speak and give away medals to the twelve hour crazies.

12hr Run

Twelve Hour run. A twelve hour fest [pic: Raghu Mohan]

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Haider: A short review

Haider: This movie has definitely captured the viewers imagination this season and with Bang Bang being released the same weekend, an apt yardstick has been thrown in. While Bang Bang truly epitomizes the soul of what is Bollywood, Haider goes on to show what Bollywood could aspire to be. Aspire to move from being lame, repetitive, copied-borrowed-stolen to being brilliant, gripping and passionate.
Should we dissect a movie like Haider into good, bad and conjured ratings? We shouldn’t. We shouldn’t because the movie wasn’t made in that spirit. It’s a labour of love, and when someone like Gulzar, Vishal, Kay Kay, Tabu, Irfan have laboured and toiled, the outcome is splendid and gripping. Every actor justifies their screen time. Kay Kay and Tabu blaze throughout and there are scenes where Shahid looks pale in comparison. Pale, when this is easily his greatest portrayal. That’s the impact his fellow actors have on screen.
There are questions of whether Haider portraits Kashmir accurately. Why should it? The snow capped mountains, bubbling rivers and the intense army presence is pinpoint accurate. Photography takes care of that. If that doesn’t suffice, the background score kicks in and Kashmir has never been so poetically portrayed. That brings us to the issue. Is the production obligated to showcase a majority’s or likewise a minority’s point of view just because the movie is set in Kashmir. No, they are not obligated. What the movie does showcase is enough dialogue between the two. Both making their individual points. It should be left at that. If Haider, the movie’s treatment of Kashmir is to be dissected and called accurate or inaccurate then going with the same blinded tunnel-vision, Haider’s treatment of Salman Khan via the Salmans could be accurate slash inaccurate.

Haider and Ghazala talk about sharing [pic : Internet]

Is it an easy task to adapt Hamlet? Vishal ventures out to stick his head out and adapt an play that has been staged, adapted, filmed and studied for the past two hundred years. Adding his own contribution for the world to see. He ventures out by adding his own subtle plots, subtly portrays an idea sticking within Indian social restraints. When Tabu kisses Haider on the forehead after an intense exchange of words, the movie hall is rapt in silence and attention, including the toddler, then she kisses him on his cheeks and ever so lightly, in the passing brushes Haider on the lips. The hall is suddenly noisy. Loud laughter from one corner, sniffled giggling and cat calls. It just shows the audience is not mature enough to deal with an artist’s or director’s speech. For an audience that has been dished out atrocious screenplays and themes for decades, been sold to brain drain repeatedly, the scene of a lip brush makes for squeamish hand wringing.
I’ll not rate the movie here out of some cornered yellow stars, but Haider is a must watch for the pure passionate story telling, poetry and screenplay. It’s a movie that hopefully spawns better movies in the future.

Kaveri Trail Marathon 2014: Fear, Running and Audaryaa

I have these long extended conversations in my head. Made up conversations most of the time. Making up quirky replies to prying questions that someone might ask. Sometimes, I talk to my other self in my head. Is it only me or does everyone have a different image of themselves up there in the vastness of their mind. An image of themselves that they covet or an image to come undone. An image cut and pieced together by looking at some trait they liked or disliked in someone else, a nice bouncy haircut, a well-rounded deltoid or bosom, the drawl in someone’s speech, the energy in someone’s stride or just a make believe character that they have conjured up in their heads.. Is it true when Chuck says ““Nothing of me is original, I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.” It’s a scary realization isn’t it, to realize​ that​  everything about you could be fake. Coming back to the conversations that I have, I feel it stems from the primal emotion of fear. The fear of rebuttal by someone if you put your true thoughts across to them. Fear of ​non​-acceptance, fear of success, fear of loss, fear of the unknown; I would drop other words and just say Fear​. For fear manifests in every imaginable possible way, fear makes us crave buffer, to soften the fall when we really drop, to make the worst of that we fear seem manageable and survivable. Money is a buffer, that high rise pocket-burning apartment is a buffer, that four wheel drive SUV to drive to a corner office is a buffer, those endless conversations in your mind are a buffer to keep the fear at bay, unveiled and to keep you sane.

Then, there are experiences that wedge into you ​a double edged burning flint of fear  KTM 2013, did exactly that. Forget about the timing – I was battered so hard, timing was the last thing on my mind. Crawling gnawing self-doubt took top shelf; ​the brightest spot in my mind. Conversations revolved around it. Can you ever pull off a full marathon again? I needed reassurance but SCMM 2014 just added more fuel to that self-doubt. A limping, walking finish adds no mileage to your soul, it just kicks away the crutch of hope you were resting on. I pulled out of Auroville though it’s a favorite race, I do a scratchy and scattered summer season to keep my legs alive and sign up for a full at KTM, the way I saw it, the decent way to move forward was to disconnect from what happened the last edition and give it another go. Disconnect, leave it behind, burn the bridges, water down the burning embers, and watch the ashes of the bridge flow away down the blue river in a grey blur.


Thirty Km into the race, running head-on into cramps and walls [pic: Sandy]

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