Intent and Integrity

This post started off being a comment on a post by Jabberwock It ended up this way and I thought it best to use my own space, instead of infringing on his. To fully understand what stirred me out of my 4-month long inertia you may want to read this and the comments that go with it.

What is a good book? What is a good movie? For that matter what makes any piece of work good bad or indifferent?

We have had yardsticks, defenses, fine tuned barometers, and postmodernists thrown at us, depending on who is doing the throwing. High art, low brow, cutting edge, mass appeal, entertainment, great literature, pulp fiction…. Words.. pigeon-holing words. Then these are stacked in ascending order. Have your pick they will tell you, and stick to it. And if you were to be waylaid at a party completely inebriated or woken up from the deepest slumber, or caught returning from a football game you must have it ready… the reason for your chosen taste.

I protest. I have several persons living in ‘I’ and I love them all dearly. I will nourish them equally. They have various moods. I will indulge them all. My cleverness then will be in picking the right treat for each unique mood. My good luck then will be in finding that this treat has been treated well. If it has been made with care and integrity it would probably satisfy my specific craving.

What I look for in a piece of work is that I should feel an empathy with its intent to begin with and be satisfied with the integrity of the maker. If there is an extraordinary evidence of skill or inspiration, I am naturally elated.

But to question a maker’s basic intention? I have never understood this one. What makes anyone think they can dictate intention to someone undertaking any work. You must seek to entertain. You must seek to educate. Your work must work like a vise on my brain. Your work must leave me numb with fear or titillation. Who? Who are we to make these demands? I understand annoyance with presumption, disappointment with shoddy distraction, or contempt for a spineless second-guesser. But to tell somebody what he ought to set out to do? Surely, that’s a bit much. And if a person clearly states his intention in public (as against through his work) then surely we can believe him? Instead of concluding that it is the defensive crutch of a lesser or lazy mind or prejudging him to be pretentious upstart or such (as the case may be).

To move then to work that has made it out there into our sphere of consciousness. We have options you know. Approach it now, put it off for a more empathetic frame of being, or decide that you have nothing in you that will appreciate it. If you do approach it, the only yardstick to measure its success was how close it came to fulfilling its root intention. My criterion then for a good piece of work is “Integrity with Intent”.
Also, I see no reason why any one should have to explain their taste, least of all justify or defend them. I see no reason why someone should not have an absolute plethora of moods and corresponding inclinations. I don’t see why we would want a rulebook telling us what we might, may, or ought to enjoy, appreciate, know and (god forbid) feel! I see no fun that way, no plurality.
That way I might look but never never see.

PS. something related that I came across on ‘good taste':

Good taste is the most obvious recourse of the insecure.
People with good taste eagerly buy the Emperor’s old clothes.
Good taste is the first refuge of the non-creative.
It is the last-ditch stand of the artist.
It is the anesthetic of the public.
- Harley Parker

Old wine... etc and a new cocktail

Like so many others I love Faiz's 'raat yun khoyee...’ glides off the tongue beautifully… but something makes me uneasy about it and I did not know what, till I put it down. Here’s the original followed by my take…

Raat yuun dil men teree khoyee huee yaad aayee
Jaise veeraane men chupke se bahaar aa jaaye
Jaise sehraaon men haulay se chale baad-e-naseem
Jaise beemaar ko be-vajha qaraar aa jaaye


Raat yuun khoyee huee teree yaad aayee
Jaise dariya me chupke se lage khaamosh si aag
Jaise pinjre se parinde ko mile falak ki jhalak
Jaise mushkil se jude dil mein daraar aa jaaye


And a recent something…


Hamse kuch kaha nahi, koi gale mila nahi
Yun ho gaya hai sab yahaan, ke apna mamla nahi

Tarq-e-mohabat kyon hua, khuloos jab qayam raha
Daayaron mein jawab ho ye aisa silsila nahi

Kis ne kis se kya kaha, kahan se tha jad-e-fasaad
In sab ka ab hai kya garaz, jab koi gila nahi

Taaron ki taab mein aasmaan tak badte the haath
Jab jab magar mutti khuli, us mein kuch mila nahi

Sab ne mujh se ye kaha asvi tum bhi chale chalo
Par ghar to bahati ret hai unka kaarvan nahi

Potential – and realizing it

I’ve been thinking about this today. (I am amazed that I live one of those happy lives that can actually afford to have a single thought a day) It’s not a new theme. It is one that I always think I’ve thrashed out satisfactorily, but which resurfaces with irritating periodicity and always with a new twist.
I am familiar enough with my thoughts and they soon start eddying around in my head. That’s when I look for 'signs' from which to string my answers.
I found these.
Some random browsing brought me to this quote: a web page with just this, no links no nothing.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us...You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory of God that is within us...And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
Nelson Mandela


Then I woke up with this ‘matla’ fully formed on my lips, semi drugged from my siesta. These things have happened before but never so completely and in the alpha state and all! And of course I am terribly fond of attributing this stuff to mysterious sources….

Rok lo mujhe rok lo mein kahin duaa na maang loon
Ek chote se khuda se mein kuch bada na maang loon

And if you have a radeef-khafiya dropped in your lap the least you can do is finish the ghazal. Even if the radeef is majorly comprimised. So that got written. Here goes…

Beech bhanwar mein jab kabhi doobne lagoon kahein
Khokle tinke to tab mere khuda na sang loon

Duniya ki shor se katrake chala houn aaj tak,
Khouf-e sannate se ab apni sadaa na rang loon

Ik ajeeb nishan ko khojte jo har ek raah chod doon
Asvi tere is zid me koi raasta na tang loon

How often I get the feeling that they’ve got the wrong person….
Not this, not her - not me
Can you be too good an actor?
So good that you can’t turn it off?
So involved that you can’t hear the call
Never see the curtain fall
The stage is a maze, all acts set on a single plane
It’s dark and you have to feel your way through,
But the lines never get mixed up, never.
Yet there are others to come, a new act - a different character and no protagonist
Where is she? Who is she?
The role’s not scripted.
She has to find herself between the lines, and maybe define an identity.
Or perhaps, Stupid! the point is to be not.

An empty pen
Ten past ten
A square meal
The official seal
A decent monsoon
A safe cocoon
A pleasant memory
Future shimmery
No stifling treasures
No unexpected pressures
All’s right with the world
But where is god?

Samaan-o-Sukhan

Mera kuchh samaan wapis aaya hai aur uske saath, kaam ke kuch kagzath, hisaab ke kuch panne aur beech mein daba ye adhjanma sa sukhan.

One last Pome

It’s quite strange
Of all the range
Of feelings I’ve felt
This one sits right above the belt
They all have their places in my body
These emotions sublime and bawdy
A scratchy throat, a swollen heart,
A tightened groin, sweet, bitter, tart
But loss I feel in that specific place,
This hollow above a hollow, which I trace
With fragile fingers…
Yet, it lingers
After all is gone
It must be borne,
This nothingness must be borne

Tagged and bound

I wouldn’t be doing this if I’d been asked by anybody but Sheetal. But she being the Baba she is, has gone ahead and asked, and so I essay….


How many books…..
I did not cotton on till very very late in the day, that, books could actually be bought. God knows if it is the younger child syndrome or lack of initiative or plain kanjoosi, but for the longest time I only read what was available, borrowable or shamelessly flicked.
I still feel uncomfortable buying a book that retains the perfume of printer’s ink. Books in the news-current books- tempt me least. I love most pavement bargains of moth eaten books, previously owned by Prof. S Chakravarthy or his ilk, 1961 etc. which I can pick up for a steal by what I fancy is a expertly practiced air of nonchalant indifference. God I fear it must be undiluted kunjoosi. As for as the actual count, since nobody is really clear about the rules- approx the same as Sheetal’s.

Last books I bought…
This was one desperate afternoon in Bhopal. I was way way through the measly collection I had with me. I had asked re-asked and bored a dozen people on the lack of circulating libraries in Bhopal. Been keenly disappointed by the one big bookstore that only housed best-sellers. Had followed torturous instructions by a I- now-believe-to-be a devious colleague to a public library which was so seedy looking that it looked like a public somethingelse. Library holiday and I beat a hasty retreat. Which is why I found myself on the aforementioned afternoon in old city, determined to scavenge through second-hand shops.
Amid about a zillion engineering entrance tutorial books I found them. The shopkeeper was thrilled to get them off his hands. Françoise Sagan’s Incidental music, a book actually called “god realisation” (as if!), a book of recorded conversations between David Bohm and J krishnamurthy called the Future of humanity, a MB about a Italian millionaire I think or possibly Greek, a book on kundalini yoga. The MB cost me Rs. 80 (twas new and I desperate) the rest I got for a collective Rs 150/-

Last book…
Lately I have been reading poetry, I mean sitting and reading poem after poem. So I guess an anthology of sorts and a revisiting of V.Seth’s All you who sleep tonight were last books handled. Prose text etc boletho I think it was that misguided attempt to ‘argue’ (how these types love that word) some obscure point about Nietzsche’s political ideology and a book on British classism called Mind the Gap.


Now book…
I am reading that god realisation wala book now, at least I started it on the train and figured that god cannot be realised in hell (was travelling sleeper and was hot as Hades) and switched to an MB can’t remember which one, yes got it, the editor/writer deal. Been too hyper to read anything but the newspaper and Outlook for past couple of days.


Books that mean a lot to me

Many titles are the same as the one named by the people I grew up with so I’ll just list

The Swiss Family Robinson (pocket edition)- This was so perfect and spawned my pre-sleep fantasies for so many years that did not read the original when I had a chance to.

The Blytons – special bond with The secret of the Spiggy holes. For Zehera Jaffery and I no hole was ever the same again. It simply ‘thrilled’ our lifes.

The Grand Sophy – I knew it would be my first Heyer, it was. It was like being allowed my first glass of champagne- a rite of passage.

There was a book of letters and correspondences by Aldous Huxley, which I sat down to read on a corner stool at the CIEFL library. I was not allowed to borrow it, I can’t remember the title exactly, I did not read much of it, I never found it again- there is no other book I can think of that I would like to own more.

My copy of the Message of the Upanishads- very simply I love it. Paradoxically it anchors me, anytime every time.

Always another time

It’s been one of those days. These landmark days, these lifestyle altering ones are getting so bloody frequent; I am beginning to enjoy them with a remarkable disinterest. Quite a bit to say so will not say it, too boring, too now. Will instead type out verbatim a quarter hour mood mooring of a dusk, some two months ago, which I uncrumpled while rummaging for something else.

A few boys have discovered my ‘Peace spot’
Need to have their mouths washed
What can you say?
It does not offend me like it would have
Its funny how I take an almost aesthetic interest
Does nothing matter anymore?
That’s a very trite thing to ask.
But really……
They’ve gone. It’s suddenly lonely.
Is there innocence in childish cruelty?
Because they cannot Do what they are thinking
Because they are playacting, because only tomorrow will be the real thing?
Is it okay to be a wicked child?
Is it okay to be an evil adult.

To go or not to go...

I was delighted to pop open page two of HT and see that they had decided to show Star Wars Episode III here. I spent all of yesterday wiggling in anticipation. Slightly dampened by the fact that there was absolutely nobody here to even dignify it with informed indifference – Star Wars? hmmm is it like that Independence Day film?. Nevertheless resolutely cheery.
This morning a chilling idea crept up my spine. I put it down to paranoia and put it down. Didn’t stay that way - Reared its ugly head again. Called Vishwanath keeper of books, papers and sundry information, with cold fingers and brave heart.
They can’t possibly be showing STARWARS in hindi, Can they? CAN THEY?

What do you think?

Now I tell myself with a sickly grin that maybe this is the way it was meant to be, he! See Obi Wan spouting Hindi will probably add a dimension to the surrealism, huh?
I tell myself I am not even one of those diehard types that signs off with messages about the force, or can’t twiddle with an aging tube light without slipping into an elaborate fantasy.
For chrissake! I am not even that big a fan.
But the last ever to be made Star Wars film in Hindi?
One of those silly purists in me is putting up a squeaky shrieky protest.

Theme song

All one now
No me nobody
Why is it for?

There is no thought process I can pursue that does not lead here. Bad habit, must break. It’s like one of those crazy violent cartoon shows where the very mild villain is constantly walking bang into a brick wall.
So why am I somebody’s villain. Whose show is it kid? Grow up and tell me the rules, its no fun this way.
By the way, It’s Irritation, not Angst.

Swab story - Part 2

I saw it again- that Swab I mean. This time at a concert at Bharat Bhawan. No I was not early or anything. This was actually bang (or rather flop) in the middle of the program. It was one of those classical music followed by classical dance by upcoming artists type of events. So the musicians concluded their thing; I walked in just as they were taking in what I thought was pretty generous applause. (Must say the Bhopalis are very kind, I had gone out to take a breather, couldn’t stand all the unnecessary and badly executed decoration - appashruthi even!)
And we waited for the dancers to come onto the stage- they were being introduced in the background. But no wait a minute, who walks in? Surendra’s cousin with THE SWAB. And absolutely blithely set about doing his thing. I was suddenly assailed by images of a clueless firang wondering if this visually extaordinary exercise, was a spirituosymbolic prelude to the Dance. Pity I'm always alone at these places and have to control myself with a will of Iron. And I must have been alone in thought because,
The audience (I must grant we were kind of a casual bunch) of about 200 and I think the cultural Minister and I can't remember if the ubiquitous Governor had made it that day- all watched him in perfect equanimity. I guess it was perfectly logical; the dancers needed a clean floor right?
Sometimes I feel such a tremendous affection for India.

just.....

Just threw an impromptu office party. The excuse was rather flimsy. Literally. A conch shaped lamp created from thermacole strips and mirrors. This was created by the handicapped persons downstairs undergoing personality development training. Landed up in my office through some relay gifting. Thought it would make a better lamp than a ‘wall hanging’ and duly converted it. The result was quite unanticipatedly lovely. Hence the party- gifters, giftee, and sundry floorees.
That was about the highlight of the day.
Not spectacularly significant - the day.
Oh but the importance of an average day!

Count your blessings?

I may have begun to subscribe to a theory of this friend of mine, Carlos. He always said focusing on happiness is an uncomfortable thing. Not only does it take away from the spontaneity of it, it actually takes the feeling away. Basically that you can never be happy and aware of the fact at the same time. I used to thing that not only was this a frightening thing, but also that it reeked of a certain petulance. I always like to know that I am happy, I never had a problem existing in the warmth of the awareness.
Now I am not so sure. Thinking about a “thing” creates entryways into “it”. Yes that sounds right. So there’s the risk of negative thoughts wading in and infecting “it”. That of course depends on the general atmosphere of thoughts around this Happiness moment. So when the hell did I begin to have more negative than positive thoughts? Shit! Life must have happened to me....

Ab koi khaab sajane mein bhi dar lagta hai,
Lag gayi mujh ko zamaane ki nazar lagta hai

A matter of perspective this all
In whose court is the ball?
The same walls a different aura
Many boxes a new Pandora
It’s all happened before, literally,
So what’s the difference? Eventually
Why tell the story? Who’s listening?
Why the event? Damn the christening
How do I affect it at all?
This ball, this spinning boring ball
That is it. Love it says Nietzsche
But you’ve begun to believe it, haven’tya?

Revisiting relativity

'Ek Lamhe Mein Simat Aaya Hai Sadiyon Ka Safar
Zindagi Tez Bahut Tez Chali Ho Jaise'

Much has happened. Bhopal is so unassumingly beautiful. So much quite culture. It almost has me believe that life is all about just that, Art and Beauty. But only almost, because during the same period I have met more human mediocrity than I have had managed to have deep breathes. This dichotomy between the sublime and the unbearably mundane is too much to handle. This! This I think must be the reason why I feel that I have just spent the fastest month-and-a-half of my life.
Feels like a lot and absolutely nothing.

The Swab Story

(Especially for Sheetal)
I came across a new product today. A kind of industrial size giant swab. It (the swab part consists of shorn fabric hanging from (not like you would imagine- a rod or a stick) but attached to a thick rope of about a meter and a half. The mode of operation is to stand in the center of the room and violently swing this object about. The trick (and Sunrendra assures me it is all in the “Trick”) is to catch any dust that happens along. To access corners and tough access spots, you need further expertise. I did tentatively venture to ask if a rod-type-regular-swab would not better serve the purpose. For which I was scornfully put in my place. Those things are for lesser places. Pokey little, congested (the very word used) nursing homes and such. I was further informed that I might not have much experience with swabs but any decently large place used this variety. Also that the swab weighed a good 5 kgs wet and was quite physically demanding. And no it was not an in-house invention.
You may think that this is an unusually large conversation about swabs but perhaps Surendra the sweeper was alarmed by the paroxysm of mirth that had me incapacitated and felt bound to distract my mind. In fact so bad was my condition that the entire floor of my office has since enquired after my health. The sweeper story has swept the office corridors, and my mind of a few cobwebs.

Corroding cause

Power tussles, petty and important
Lies- white, black, bare-faced
Irritations, unnecessary and sapping
For a larger cause

A dozen dysfunctional personalities,
Characters sans character
A mire of inertia
All for a larger cause?

Walking backward up a hill
An active crater at the peak
The village looks on in lassitude
Sorry, what was the cause again?

Blu'ug'Blu'ug

I’ve been hesitating on the cursor for about five minutes now. Wondering what to say, basically trying to say that I’ve said too much today. What is with these vomitorious days? (aside: bakki!J) I’ve said all sorts of things to all sorts of people. I really don’t like it when I do that, but I like it less when I don’t say what I want to.
I was off for five minutes just now and I was at it again- shooting my mouth off! Really some days I am just completely beiqtiyar, will just go off before I say something I regret here.

My fourbit for Now

Anjaam-e-wafaa na mila, kya hoga
Ilaaj shouk-e-bemaari ka kya hoga

Bas ab hi mein rahe to kya kum rahe
Kal mein kya tha, kal mein naya kya hoga

Ilm-e-taqdeer se bhala kya hoga
Kal jo hoga, so hoga, kya hoga

Ab hai, aur kuch nahi hai, ye jaan kar asvi,
Phir ye lage hai, ke yun hoga kya hoga

Soul Surfing

What’s worth fighting for?
Right? Rights? Truth? Integrity? Success?
Is it too much to aim for these within myself- in my environment-in society-in another person?
Yes I have the option to say no, be passive-aggressive, or simply leave.
That’s what I do in most cases- just leave
I had myself convinced that it was the right thing, the righteous thing
Basically, go blacken your souls but I am taking mine out of harms way.
Why does this suddenly seem so cowardly?
Why do all those things that sounded like unimaginative-brain-conditioning-drivel suddenly loom large?
Things like; this is life, learn to face it, you can’t always have it your way, the world is corrupt and inefficient, incompetent and wholly lacking in integrity, morals or work ethics, and they don’t want you if you’re any different, and you have got to learn to work with the system.
Yes, I’ve seen, it’s true that the most worthy and important jobs are handled by the most grabbing, mediocre, myopic persons,
So what’s my dharma?
Stick around these types till I have my turn, wander till I find the right people, work hard and good on the fringes? What what what?
As usual, wander seems like a good plan. But I’ll make bloody sure I don’t wander in the moment. That’s all I ever have, they tell me.

Bhopal Mosaic

More Babblers babbling than I have ever heard before
Bada talab, chota talaab, upper, lower lake lake lake
Expensive autos, expansive autowalas,
Tree beds- pink, magenta, orange, off-white, brown, beautiful
Eve teasers- crude, harmless, re-acquaintance with the Hindi – Heartland
Orange-vented Bulbuls,
Hills, winding lanes, good roads…. bad roads
Computers set to devanagri
Letters arriving in devanagri
Sculpture in road divides, sometimes, someplaces I mean
What else? A lot else
Much culture- a small town

One of those AP express ones

Almost-dusk pregnant with rain
Orange blossoms wild, profuse, sexy
Oppressive heat surrenders to surreal presentness
'Now' demands aggressive attention
It is such a now.

My land, someone's land, some land
Some actors lounge in a mundane play
The scene so poignant - the act so plain
This weirdly constructed universe of cognition,
Weird? I know no other.

so much unblogged....... clogged

This first blog is ridiculously late. So many things, important then, 'bemane' now. Still it irritates me that they went unsaid. Its not like I can even remember now all the things that I stacked up those phenomenally unreliable 'yaad ke jazeere' of mine. But forgotten things always assume such importance!
Ok right, to spare myself all this aggravation, I’m going to be a good little blogster from now and forever.
Blogs, horrifying telephone bills, emails and even occasional daks…….... no nothing will compensates for chewing leelakka’s brains out, me splattered on the kitchen stool or unleashing on Sheetal my numerous theories and soul searchings when she’s on page 189 of an MB and desperately trying to be politely interested.