‘ARBIT’ORIUM- Part I

The coherence of a particular thought process is often impeded by the occasional whims that a petulant mind conjures time and again; something I like to call arbit crap. One of the salient features of such form of (erm) literature is that I don’t have to constrict myself to a definite style of writing, a set plot, a logical sequence of ideas…nothing. I can ramble about absolutely anything I want. This particular piece of writing is inspired partly by sheer indolence and partly by my efforts to stay away from mundane engineering realities. To put it in plain words, I want to postpone studying for as long as I can; hence I shall write a lot about absolutely nothing specific. Yes, I am sure this will be an absolutely charming exercise.

Well in order to kick off, I look around my room looking for absolutely anything that could help me in increasing the word count of this composition. My eyes fall on a sky blue coloured hard bound publication whose name is synonymous with winds. Zephyr, right now an object of detached attachment was not long back one of the most integral factors in my day to day life. It represented a culmination of everything I am god at and every creative pursuit I care about. But ya thanks to certain elements and misgivings beyond my control, all that has changed. Zephyr now is a rather painful reminder of my absolutely wonderful association with the editorial board of the college. The previous sentence might sound a little self contradictory but it sums up my sentiments about the issue. More than anything else Zephyr represents a certain dream that never really managed to take shape. The dream to possess an entity called “my magazine”. Yes, it can be safely said that this particular fancy of mine has been shelved for life. Ah well, enough of the senti cribbing. Life moves on and so will I, well someday.

After that rather bleak beginning, lets move on to something brighter, something ethereally beautiful…something that dazzles in its sheer magnificence. The people who know me well enough will know instantly that there is just one entity under this sky that I am generous enough to shower such lavish praises upon… (Phew that was a bloody long and useless sentence) Yes I am talking about the batting of Sachin Tendulkar. Well I cannot write anything about the maestro that hasn’t already been said or written. He is one of the only people who have been a source of inspiration to me. This particular gentleman is poetry in motion. His immaculate straight drive, his cheeky paddle sweep, his majestic drive through the covers, his ferocious pull shot over deep square leg and his occasional tenacious leg spinners are a source of complete awe to me. He, off late has managed to attract a lot of criticism from a lot of people who want him to hang up his boots and “retire with dignity”. While Sachin answers such criticisms with his bat (and his recently acquired unfortunate habit of getting out in the 90s) my message to all such individuals is simple and lucid… UP YOURS J.

Yes that makes me feel better. Since this is a foray into the diverse universe of the arbit, lets talk about something I saw recently that seems to have emerged out of the same dimension where logic takes a heavy beating. I saw Om Shanti Om hours after being discharged from hospital. Maybe it was the influence of the intra venous drugs but I actually enjoyed the movie. My cynicism is attributed to the fact that in essence the latest of the SRK flicks is pure crap. It makes absolutely no sense and applies to the intellect of the inmates of a mental rehabilitation centre. The movie basically is hash job of Manmohan Desai flicks, brewed in with rather opulent art direction and sets, utterly intentional melodramatic performances by the actors and an aurally pleasant sound track. In spite of all I have said I would be rather hypocritical to say that I did not enjoy the movie. I had a good laugh after a long time in a pretty dingy cinema hall. The movie was senseless because it was supposed to be so. And that is something if duly appreciated will help one to enjoy the movie.

Personal senti crap, cricket and the frivolity of Bollywood; yes we really are getting to be arbit. Hmmm so what do I babble about now? Ya I have officially run out of random stuff to write about. So I will not prolong the pain of the people who have actually cared to read so far. This is obviously the first of many such arbit compositions. So all I can say is, stay tuned!

An Affair to Remember

There comes a time in everybody’s life when we seek a certain amount of coherence out of the general parlance of electronic impulses that shoot through our brains; something we like to call thoughts. It has been three years since I stepped out of the protective shell of the school and not a single day has passed by without my thoughts being abstracted towards my days in school. I am not talking about mushy memories about how much fun I had or how those were the best days of life or how much knowledge I managed to garner out of my days in school. I am talking about things that are more real and in some ways more pleasant albeit in a very different way. This I guess is a privilege one gets after coming out of the teens while putting up a rather stubborn masquerade of maturity. Although the reason why I volunteered to pen down these words for the school magazine is still shrouded in ambivalence, one thing that does not escape the realms of clarity is that I emerged out of my fourteen years in school with tons of memories and experiences, some pleasant while some rather piquant; yet each one of them going on to dictate the kind of person I have shaped into.

At this point in time when I am armed by the ever mocking power of hindsight can list down a number of things that I should not have done in those fourteen years along with a multitude of pitfalls that I should have avoided. Yet when I cast my back to these things, a wry smile makes its way on the contours of my face because there is not one damned thing that I would like to change. Every admonishment that I had to face, every figment of bitterness caused by abysmally low marks in the term papers and every ego hassle that that stuck its ugly head up in a group of friends every now and then, went on to make some contribution (I believe) in my thought processes. Pleasant or unpleasant; I want it all. Right now it is very tempting for me to assume didactic tones and pass on some invaluable gyaan as an ex-student about how one should squeeze every precious moment that one gets in school and make the most of it with or how one should understand the value of everything they learn in school and it would go on to make their lives better. Well, thankfully I am not going to venture into anything like that. I firmly believe the experiences with which we emerge out of school are as diverse as the people themselves. Speaking purely from personal experience I can say that ever since the day I walked inside the then sand and dust infested compound wearing the blue shorts and the white shirt of Kindergarten with a bag bigger than my torso and a water bottle hanging around my neck, this institution has played a major part in helping me develop a perspective of my own. Yes, at this juncture I can safely say that it is one thing I have definitely managed to acquire from my stay here. Right from being appointed the monitor of the class because of securing the first rank in the first terminal in the first standard to me getting discharged from my duties in the second term (because I had managed to drop eight places in the rank list), it was all worth living… it was all worth cherishing. Today as I write this, there are many instances that are a cause of a subtle sense of amusement and yet at the time of occurrence there was nothing even remotely amusing about them. Right from broken chalk boards to getting caught after bunking the assembly, there are several examples of such instances. Among the more pleasant memories is each one of those Lucknow trips when we wore the uniforms and represented the school with same intensity and passion as that of a cricketer going out to represent India. Obviously the results we managed were much better than those achieved on the cricket field. Then there were the frolic filled days of the youth festival when upholding the dignity of the house almost became a matter of life and death. The Friday afternoon hobby periods were a refreshing break from the otherwise monotonous train of academics and will always be special. I distinctly remember the two occasions when I was called upon to deliver a speech in the assembly. Now, I have always taken pride in a certain degree of composure while speaking in front of an audience, but I kid you not, I have never practiced harder or been more nervous while speaking in front of the whole school early in the morning. All the weekends I was absent from home (much to my parents’ anguish and subsequent nonchalant acceptance) on the pretext of practicing for or participating in some inter school competition will always be etched in my memory. At the end of it all I like to believe that my school life is characterised by the excitement in each one of those activity periods, in the sense of liberty that we enjoyed in those twenty minutes during recess, in those early morning sleep infested achievement classes, in the pride that I took being a member of the school cabinet, in the sense of desperation that preceded every examination and in every second of every minute of every hour spent inside the school campus from 7:40 to 1:30. Yes, that’s about it.

Today when I come back to school during the vacations my college frugally grants, I cannot help but notice that things have changed. There are many new faces and in general being inside school does not evoke the same sense of familiarity anymore. I am not complaining because change is the only invariable factor of life. Last year the school turned twenty five and we joined the legion of those institutions who can say with pride that “Yes, we are old enough.” Quite frankly I was very disappointed at the complete lack of involvement of the alumni in the celebrations which eventually were an elaborate exercise in public relations more than anything else. Again, one must consider the fact that there was no real initiative from the part of the alumni themselves to be a part of the year long celebrations. It’s all a question of perspective and perceptions evolve with time. So instead of adopting critical and sardonic overtones I wish my beloved school all the very best in all its future endevours. I do this with a certain degree of surety in the fact that my good wishes will be reciprocated and with a reminder that there will always be us, we the band of ex-students who will always be ready to render their services to the school whenever required. I hope that together we can come on a platform and devise a mean of constant communication for mutual benefit. In years to come wherever we land in life we will always be bound together by the special bond that I share with my school. After all, my experiences at Kerala Samajam Model School will always be an affair to remember.

THE WAR WITHIN

We spend our lives looking for metaphors that eventually are supposed to assume a semblance of profundity. In the quest of such an entity my particular interest in the concept of war has made its presence felt in more than many ways. I am writing this after viewing a video showing authentic footage from a Nazi concentration camp. The video only lasted for 19 seconds; but in many ways those 19 seconds have been the most excruciating moments in my recent past.

I have been shaken to the core.

All I have ever believed in, all I have ever loved and all I have ever cared for…suddenly fades away into a haze as an overpowering sense of an unknown feeling makes its way up my spine and wreaks havoc inside my head. Questions, doubts, dilemmas manifold…shoot across my consciousness as I grapple with the meaning of human life and the very definition of war.

“Fuck… Fuck”. Yes, this had been my first reaction after seeing that terrible video. I am 21 years old. I am right now in a dwindling state of mind that rocks between realism and optimism. I partially believe that I am immortal. War to me was glorious, with every soldier as a hero who is ready to lay down his life for a cause that is much greater than his own existence; atleast that’s what he believes. But right now I am immensely confused more than anything else. Where is the worth of being human in all this? Millions of young men laid down their lives in the two world wars and every other war that has plagued mankind since. I like to believe that each one of those men was bright, clear and were starry eyed with a tremendous vigor for life. I don’t care if I am wrong. They died. There death assumes a strange aura of bravery. I am too young to see anything beyond that. But my head conjures up images of a particular young man, whose name I don’t know. He’s is manning the lines in some god dammed front fighting some god dammed war against some god dammed enemy. Maybe he too is 21 years old. He too is confused about how women think. He too likes sports, music, junk food, birthday bashes et al. But right now, his prime concern is shooting at anything that moves in front of him. It dosent matter whether its some dog or another figment of human life. Maybe he hasn’t had proper “grub” for a week. He’s dirty, tired and sleep deprived. The longing for going back home and sleeping on a warm bed are distant dreams to him now. He had vomited when he had first killed a man. He had been sick to his guts. He was maybe even ashamed of himself. But now it was alright. He had killed so many men that it did not matter anymore. He had developed an attribute which brings man closest to the mythical concept of immortality… an indifference to death. The gory faces of a fellow soldier dosen’t move him anymore. Death has become commonplace. Death has become mundane. Is this what I can call being heroic and glorious? Yes, because he continues to man his post in the face of such realities that are enough to disintegrate the psyches of the best of us. I slowly start to develop a strange sense of admiration for this particular young man. Yes, I can almost see him in front of my eyes. A face that has long lost its youthful exuberance and has been replaced with a cold visage which betrays no emotions. He’s no longer just human; he’s a killing machine; lethal, efficient and merciless. He is ready to kill as soon as he receives his order. A smile makes its way across my face as I begin to imagine that maybe when this young man was 12 years old, he had developed a keen interest in playing the guitar. Maybe he was very passionate about it; like any average 12 year old. Now that guitar represents all relics of the past that have ceased to exist in his consciousness. His fingers have lost the dexterity to pluck the strings of the guitar anyway. His service rifle is his best friend and the trigger has replaced the strings. The music has long died; the mirth has long evaporated. He feels no remorse and no pain. He has achieved a mental state that has surpassed all these emotions. He too maybe is as confused as me, albeit his confusions are vastly different. Maybe he is grappling with the question related to the purpose of his existence. Unfortunately he hasn’t really had the time to ponder over it. He has always been occupied with things like ducking under shell fire, covering fire, evasive fire, shrapnels, grenades. “Words, just plain words and nothing more.” Yes, maybe that’s exactly what he is thinking. He had joined the army and had decided to fight the war because he believed that dying for his country was “one hell of a way to die” (line from one of the songs sung by the 101^st airborne). But now words like patriotism, maybe, have been reduced to sources of mild amusement. At this point of time with dozens of enemy guns waiting for him to make a slight movement, all his beliefs have zeroed down to just one single stark sentiment… survival. Nothing else matters.

Yes I have developed a strange sense of bonhomie with this fictional young man my mind has conjured. I smile as I bid him goodbye. But the mind fails to find peace. The images of the Nazi concentration camp come rushing back. Frail sickly looking human figures limping weakly across the frame as a US soldier hands out bread. Are they human? Well biologically yes. Every other shred of humanity has been snatched away from them. Yes the projectors inside my mind are starting up again as I conjure the image of another young man. Now this young man knew nothing of the war. He was a painter and believed that he could capture every figment of visible beauty into his canvas. His life was characterized by his brush strokes. His passions lay concentrated on his palette as he mixed colours as he channelised his supreme energies and abilities into the careful movements of his brush of his canvas. One dreadful day everything changed. He was taken away along with many others to a dreadful looking place because his parents had chosen a particular religion for him. His head had been shaved off and his brushes had been snatched away. He no longer had a name. He was now recognized by the number that had been branded on his right forearm. His complete existence had been reduced to those six digits. He had screamed out loud when they had pressed the red hot iron block against his arm. His skin was scorched and he had cried for days together. He had found relief in wailing like a toddler and shrieking till his voice cracked and his lungs burned. The wounds that he had incurred while his head was being shaved still bled from time to time. He allowed the blood to trickle down his face through his eyes upto his lips. The blood after all was warm and warmth is something that he still yearned for. As days passed by the blood dried up and so did the tears. All his anguish had been bottled inside him because he was too tired to cry; to weary to scream. He at times wondered whether he was still alive, but then there was one thing that always made him believe he did… pain. He had seen so many people die of starvation and disease in front of him that he had started counting the number of dead bodies that were stacking around him thick and fast. Atleast now he had something to do till his time came. Every other day he would see many of his fellow captives being taken into huge barn shaped structures. They never came back. He always wondered why. One part of him which still had some shreds of optimism left fabricated images of that structure being a gateway to freedom. But this part him was too insignificant. He had overheard one of the guards whisper something about “gas”. He had no idea what that was supposed to mean. He just limped around the camp looking for any shred of food that he could find in order to keep his limbs moving. Once a few inmates had managed to kill a dog which had somehow managed to make its way inside the unfortunate place. They had feasted on the flesh of the creature. There mouths were stained red with the blood of the canine creature as their teeth tore into the flesh. That was the last “decent” meal he had had. When the guards found out about this, they had beaten him up so brutally that his right leg had ceased to move………..

The projector inside my head is sputtering. It simply cant continue to flash images of this young man anymore. They are too gory. They are almost surreal.

I have never seen a man die. I have never seen a man being shot in combat. I have never seen a the guts of a man sprawled all around him after a grenade blast. I have never seen war. Yet for those 19 seconds I felt the existence of every one of the millions killed. I could almost see them in front of me. I realize that whatever I have written is utterly clichéd and has been debated over for several years. This is not any anti war statement or an attempt to a pseudo intellectual approach to war. This is nothing but a sudden rush of feeling finding their vent through words.

I am smiling now because after 1667 words I am still so god dammed confused.