Life, as I know it...: May 2008

Top Gear's Finest Review!

Part II: From the Sewer Toad to A Bullfrog: The T Square & I

NOTE: If by some quirk of Karma, you're about to read what's below, know that this is the second part of the harangue that can be located here... or else, read on O helpless one!

With the arrival of cable television, came information; I had forty-three more channels to keep my mind occupied and away from my He-Man action figures trying to get cozy with Teela in Castle Grayskull's in-house French Bakery. Informative and educational programs like 'MTV Grind' and a PhD candidate's satellite-beamed-bible 'Fashion TV' craftily devised by the French for world domination, would help me carve the plans of the future on the proverbial tablet of my mind. These resources helped me greatly to recognize anthropometric data, predominantly emphasizing on the female anatomy. Although during rigorous research sessions involving these fine sources, my sun-dial always cast a deep shadow and for some reason the sun never did get out of it's winter phase.

With such in-depth, insightful research under my buckle and a notion turned urban-legend that it was a branch laden with beautiful women with real interest in art apart from Revlon Mascara (the one that does not leave a stain), I took the plunge. I recognized my full potential when I took the entrance test and held a paint brush for the first time. The day I took the test, my family burnt effigies of Louis Kahn & Alvar Aalto, while picketing outside the test center holding banners such as 'Down With Aesthetic Sensitivity' & 'The Devil's in the Detail'. I'm kidding. They've always been supportive of whatever I wanted to pursue, except the time that I wanted to make a living by selling smuggled perfumes. Or the time that I wanted to pose for Afghan Pillsbury Doughboy commercials. Due to the quirky insensitivity of the baffled idiot who had set the aesthetic sensitivity test, I was tempted to use bright colors and the drawings in the end aiffirmed my inability to break away from my kindergarten crayon skills. So much for an admit at the 'artsy' architecture school sporting a messenger bag with a shoulder case to keep cell phones and a loin cloth worthy of a Cherry Coke endorsement.

But I did not lose hope. The weekend warrior that I was, I decided to change course and consider computers. My cousin who was studying electric engineering tried to test my analytical skills with the help of a basic algorithmic flowchart. To whit, I drew an outline around the flowchart and made it look like a jelly fish with tentacles holding a bottle of Cherry Coke and a three day old Subway sandwich. Take that Jared Fogle! Computers didn't work for me either. So I was back in the scheme of things trying to study architecture. Eventually, I landed a seat at another school which was prestigious for its violence and bowine population contributing to the urban fabric of the universe along with some manly girls thrown in for feminine charm.

.... To be Continued

Part I: How to be an Architect & Other Kitchen Appliances

When I was seven years old, one morning I sat up in bed and said to myself, 'I'm going to be an architect!' My mother who was in the kitchen dropped her mixing bowl and reached for a wet towel and a bowl of cold water. She then proceeded to enter my room, anticipating that I was running a temperature and began to piece together a maternal prognosis. My father who had just emerged from the prayer room scurried back in and re-emerged after fifteen long minutes with a nervous smile on his face. He sat next to me in bed and explained the events that had occurred the night before which may have caused my out-of-the-blue decision in taking a stab at the art of building and design.

He told me that I had been playing in the neighborhood cricket ground and as the match was winding down, a piercing strike from the batsman had yielded the cricket ball making sharp contact with my balmy head. I did not remember any of this, except slipping into a dreamland with candy and tall buildings which were incidentally made of asbestos. Someone who looked as inspiring as Corbusier was eating a ham sandwich and had a bag of Tostitos laid flat on his lap in the same sequence. Various LISP routines seemed to light up in thin air, execute, glitter and disappear.

My father added that I let out a short squeak and dove head first into the ground like a sack of potatoes fresh off of a Ralph’s truck; And then I didn't move. When they turned me over, my face looked like the error sign you frequently see when AutoCAD crashes. In those days one couldn’t contact Autodesk with a support request. Well, all versions look the same when they crash, don't they? A few similes later pretty much akin to my writing style; he asked me why I hadn't chosen computers like so many of my cousins or maybe medicine, law or perhaps the mafia? To whit, I answered that I had always loved to draw ever since I was able to hold a pencil. The only other purpose it served was to poke people in the eye that refused to play cricket with me.

So finally after much cajoling and bribery with immigration papers, I agreed to put that thought on hold until the day I was able to watch 'Mary Poppins'. A few years passed and my dreams of becoming an architect went through several stages of metamorphosis. Sometimes I wanted to be a bus driver, a postal department employee harasser, an anarchist, a Bavarian folk dancer, a break dancer, ventriloquist, a left-handed ambidextrous burger patty flipper and every now and then, a candidate on the other side of a USCIS desk at the airport. As the years rolled by a lot of these dreams were fulfilled in bits and pieces.... except for becoming an architect. Then came 1993.... And Cable Television in India.

................ To be continued.

Excerpts

The knives have always pointed inwards. Shards of insecurities that gleam in the harsh sunlight waiting to draw first blood. They never taught him how to conquer all. Within his being, as one tempestuous upheaval was vaquished, another came alive and the taste of fresh pain roared in its wake.

He dreams in shattered glass, the landscape hurting his eyes as every vignette unfolds, manifests and exits in the continuum of his thoughts. To see the light of a day when every fear lies lifeless at his feet is the elixir to his rejuvenation. Procuring this is his eternal quest. A journey filled with struggle, hardships and dejection. Yet he won't give up.

A note about a star of the arts

She answers the phone call from her automobile. Intertwining words with her playful thoughts, painting a picture of colors and tunes as they mingle with the strumming of her heartbeat. She seems to be thinking of possibilities. How would the first touch feel? Will it be the same as dipping her elfin fingers in still water, the ripples unfolding like her arms welcoming the warmth of a summer sun? Or a wisp from an incense, the patterns akin to the strokes of paint kissing a parched canvas.

Within moments of random thoughts that were written on the currents of radio waves, metaphors were exchanged and something happened. Secrets were wrought as though this conversation was between a poet and his poems that yet were a composition of someone else. Somehow they belonged. She is a dancer who knows that her ballad will conjure the rains that caress her moonlit skin as she cups her hands to her face to kiss every drop.

The night outside tells a story of stars shining just for her, the warm ground beneath her toes welcoming her steps. She has decided to embrace change. The minutes roll by like notes from a tune that yearns for a lover that will be hers forever. Her fingers dance with her dark locks as she waits for that perfect moment when she knows that change has borne fruit sweeter than the taste of her own lips. She smiles.

Descent of the Blade

The soft blade twisted with ease as it sought its descent into his heart. The warrior lay on his knees, his hands gripping the dirt as tiny specks found solace in jaded whorls on his finger tips creating benign traceries within. The cold from the shiny edge spread its wings into his warmth guiding rays of crimson on their outward journey. The first drop fell creating a surreal crown of dust and blood as though a loving pair of hands reached to embrace a loved one.

Outside, the battle cried out for more sacrifice, its insatiable hunger echoing the emptiness for which this very campaign was forged. Brethen watched their dear ones fall to the tumultuous clash of metal & flesh of selfless heroes as the flames of combat engulfed everything in its path.

Hadn't this been a recurring dream? Glory written in the silky dust of the battlegrounds by a thousand men clad in armor shining in the caressing rays of the sun as their eyes locked and hymns of victory echoed for innumerable generations to chant. A deafeningly silent darkness prevailed.