Shine on you...crazy diamond

“The stars are not wanted now, put out everyone.

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods.

For nothing now can ever come to any good” – W.H. Auden

Past tense is a bitch. I stare at this blank piece of paper, and I am assaulted by the impossibility of ‘was’ in my hollow words. I struggle in how to translate the vividly coloured images of my memories into a coherent elegy to my friend. Through our four years of co-existence, the images of him in my mind permeate every aspect of our surroundings. Everywhere I look, brings to mind another link in the bond of shared experience. Sometimes, there are images which should have been long ago discarded into the shredder of time, but they now cloud my senses. So real in their intensity, that I relive them with every thought; they are harsh in their attention to detail, from the angle of the light of the sun, to the shape of the shadows of night. I recall exact dialogues from the seemingly infinite number of moments spent together. From this flood, I attempt to mould inadequate words into hopefully an apt memory of Muski.

The first time I met him, was like a portent of things to come in the next four years, was during our first week in IITK; in the Hall – 2 Quad. He was being lambasted by someone for smiling like crazy which he couldn’t wipe off his face. Even then, till now, that mischievous smile never left him. We used to joke that he couldn’t help smiling as his bones were bent that way. Through all the ups and downs of life, whether in happier times or trying ones, he put his best smile forward. And even if we took his case all the time, we loved him for it, Muski ki muski...

We became friends in our second year, as members of our HEC. As the maintenance secretary, he really wanted to change things. He was determined to accomplish whatever he had said he would. We worked together to get wooden beds installed in rooms. And even for such a trivial thing, he put in his heart and soul. Faced with discrepancies in the tender process, he took it upon himself to do things the right way, even if it meant that they took forever. What followed was one of the most learning experiences of my sophomore year.

We took the tender out ourselves, to ensure that everything went as it should. We were approached by contractors with not unsubstantial bribes to subvert the process. Yet Muski was determined to do things the right way no matter what. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know the ABCD of how to go about it. Even if he had to do the same thing thrice, Muski did it with gusto. We had so many meetings with the Dean, we were almost on first name basis. Muski ensured that he got his work done the way he wanted it done. It was this free spirit (stubborn to the core) which I admired, because once he decided to do something, he got it done, period.

It was another one of his endearing qualities; he was always there to help you when you needed it. If you wanted to get something done, you talked to Muski. What always shone through was his confidence in dealing with things. He was always a man of supreme ‘jugaad’, he would just flash a trademark smile and solve all your problems. This smile was recognised everywhere, whether it be the DOSA, a SIS guard, the chai-wallah at MT, or even the guard at Rave Moti, or the Station Master at Kanpur Central, everyone knew him. In the time I got to spend with him, there were many such invaluable lessons about making sense of this crazy world and its inhabitants.

A reason why everyone liked him was because he connected with everyone. Any given point of time you could count on him to have an anecdote about some wild thing that happened to him. About a time when he got lost near Nainital or when a professor commented on his beard in class or when he hoodwinked a senior for a treat. And when you got to know him, you realized why he was such a repository of stories. He loved to have fun, every time you asked for his help, you could rest assure he would make you pay, whether in the form of a coffee at Barista, or chicken at China Town.

One morning in third year, we were sitting on the top of a water tank on the Hall-2 roof. And Muski had this sudden crazy idea to go to Moti Jheel and have Banarasi chai and bun-makkhan. It was dawn and we hadn’t slept, yet I knew it was futile to resist once he had had the thought. And off he went, first he called to ask for a bike/scooter, nobody picked up (it was after all 5:00 a.m.). He then dragged me to Hall-1 to wake up a senior, who told him that the keys were in Hall-8. Then we trudged to Hall-8, half awake. We finally reached the scooter standing in front of the Basky Courts. Flush with happiness, he punched the keys in and kick-started it.

Nothing. A tilt. Another kick. Nothing.

I finally thought, this will be the end of it, and started dreaming about my comfortable bed. I should have known better. He made me walk all the way to the Gate, and in continuance of our good luck, there were no tempos. I tell the truth when I say this, he flagged down a bloody truck and arranged a lift. Finally we went on our way, in a rickety truck stuck between the driver and his conductor. I don’t know where I might have breakfast in the future, but those five cups of tea, and almost a loaf of bread each will be one of the most exhilarating and satisfying breakfasts I ever have.

On our third cup of tea we had a deep philosophical discussion on what we want to do in life. I, as expected, had no idea what I was going to do. Muski, on the other hand, knew exactly what he wanted. He said he had a dream of owning a small company on his own, which would impact the world in a small but meaningful way. From what I knew of him, I knew that he would do it someday. And he pursued his dream with a passion which I can only hope for in my endeavours. I saw his and Dons’ (Ankit Singh) company germinate as an idea, and over the course of a year develop into a budding business.

We believed in them. In fact, they took out a group loan, where the whole wing of poor stingy guys like us, who wouldn’t give you a dime for your dollar, gave him loans of 2k-3k each for starting capital. Everyone gave it to them, because all of us had confidence in their devotion and hard work. In return we got a vote on the name of his company - ‘Fusion Craft’. And we were justified in our faith too; he made it a point to pay off every single debt as soon as he could.

Recently, their efforts were showing promising results. They were being approached by venture capitalists who believed in their business and wanted to invest in it. When Muski told me this, I could almost see stars in his eyes. He was dreaming big, and it warmed my heart to see him so successful. We used to talk about when we would be older and successful men, what we would do to have fun. How we would look back on these days, and laugh at our past selves. Tragedy has a way of screwing up good things.

In the condolence meeting that was held in his memory, I realised how many lives Muski touched. I am grateful for having been lucky to have him as a friend. Over the last four years, we all changed together, each influencing another. Perhaps, everyone that knew him has their own story to tell of how he made an impact in their life; this was mine.

He taught me many things. He taught me how to distinguish between good and bad chicken. He taught me Macroeconomics. He taught me how to use a DSLR. He taught me how to shave. Most importantly, he taught me how to live life. He taught me not only to dream but to have a passion to crystallise them into reality. He taught me how to dream.

But today, I dream about my friend who was.....but will always remain my friend whom I dearly miss.

Vision

Gaze afar into a brightening sky
Amid thunderous wonder
and blinding flashes see me fly.
Leaving the earth asunder
Floating above the clouds that cry.

I am Jacks' Epilogue

Dearly beloved and future friends, this is an emotional moment for me. To all those who don't yet know me. I am Jacks' Death. I stand before you today to honor myself.  And yes, Jack also. Jack who loved deeply and lost dearly; will be missed by those who loved him and tend to miss him. My heart even goes out those who are amiss in not missing him; because they did not have a chance to do so, for which I am terribly sorry.

Let me tell you the truth of my making. It is not widely known but Jack did not die of natural causes as you think. Jack did not get hit by a bus; Jack did not get electrocuted; Jack did not jump of a six floor building. Jack was murdered in cold blood. Jack was stifled to a rather painful demise. True, joke with you I not. Your likeable, dependable nice guy Jack was murdered. Blame me not, for I am more than happy to make a friend of Jack now, I am only a puppeteer sitting on the sidelines. Jack is gone, leaving only cold hearted people here.

Yes! In the mists of genuine sorrow in this room there is a rivulet of crocodile tears. Within these walls beats a heart which caused dear Jacks' to cease. Yes! You…I know you murdered Jack. In the back pew to the front row, there is no place to hide in the entrance to my home. Truth is a collective quantity; which they demand and you owe it to them. I owe it to them; the holder of all truths. Jack made a final wish of  Death. To point a finger at the one who irrespective of how much Jack did love, never loved Jack back.

And Death fulfills the promises he makes. Future friends, I fulfill my duty. There stands, my mortal accomplice beneath the veil suspended in fraudulent grief. Wrapped in a cloak of sunshine she stands beneath the black mark of her own deed. It doesn’t take much for this shadow lady of the sun, to still a life in days. A flick and the bulb goes off. Jack committed this fatal mistake only. Too much faith, too much love, too much trust. A flick and Jacks' lantern became the light of the dying sun. Let Jacks' final resting be a lesson to others. Beware of giving too much to her species.

Deal as you ought with her; with caution and disdain. I just want to take a moment  to applaud her for the Death of a Nice Guy.

(Jack??)

Hope

I grapple with broken shards to reconstruct the world that was. What would I not give, to again draw a sharp line between black and white; to expect miracles and exceptions to expectation. Gaze into my mirror and be accosted by the wonder in a ten year old's eye.

Moonlight

I thought of so many things, of things gone by, of things that could have been, of things that should have been, but in the end i realized it as all so futile, the brute hammer of time will always have its way, whatever we may try to do to deflect its blow. we may succeed in softening the impact but we always bend, bow and break.

The Dangling Conversation (contd.)

This is the final part of this post originally

Shrouded in darkness

cuddling them like blankets,

words slip amid voids of silences

into the depth of their souls;

making them dance with a tremble

as the tender flame of a candle.

Not words, not thoughts, only a song

of warmth is spoken, in the strong

hold over the childlike flutter

of one and the heart of the other.

Near enough to glide away

on the wings of a breaths' sway,

yet rooted in ephemeral reality

by the bane of a moments' finality

The Dangling Conversation

Shrouded in darkness
cuddling them like a blanket,
words slip amid voids of silences
into the depth of their souls;
making them dance with a tremble
as the tender flame of a candle.

(humble apologies to Simon and Garfunkel for the title)

What never was and what never will be

Your Absence goes through me
like a thread through a needle's eye.
Everything I do
is stitched in the colour of you.

Blue and Pink threads

The room was an accurate description of what they were, or at least Sonia said. Aman liked to look at the different artifacts they had gathered over the course of their lives. It shone in the pale sunlight of the morning, diffusing, ever so slightly, into the room. The flowers of the sheer drapes twine in a shadow world, with the scatter of blue and pink precious stones, on a slate of clean marble. He tried this game, to jump from shadow to shadow, whenever he danced through the room to retrieve the newspaper at the wooden door. It was an obstacle course as if trying to cling to the night a little bit longer, to put off the start of another day just a wee bit more. Once when Sonia observed this ritual she said he looked like a ballet dancer, highly off balance. Compliment? Comment? He could never quite fathom them.

The stones glint mischievously at their beholder; the laughing Buddha. They had had more than one argument, about the placement of the cherubic idol. Should the figurine of an unfamiliar religion be facing the door or not, to bring in good luck to their home? These are things that need to be said. The most of the square footage of the room was occupied by a little oversized plush sofa set.

The most recent acquisition in their arsenal, was hanging on the wall opposite to the shelf, a Kashmiri fabric, draped rather casually over the wall. Aman disagreed with the Kashmiri ‘thing’ being ‘them’. He was not Kashmiri, on whatever side of his family. The only thing he knew about the place was what the TV news channels hooted as breaking news. The hanging had been bought in a rare fit of shopping fever, so common in Sonia. She had taken a fancy for it, and since his annoyance with it, had insisted on putting on the main wall. It’s unnaturally pink and blue flowers blended with the deep contrasting green of the dyed fabric. Still, it was a little too out there for his taste. Every time he gazed at it, it hurt his eyes.

He liked his things sober. Just below the hanging, the picture frame he had gifted to themselves on their anniversary (framing a rather joyous picture of their engagement), was plain white and black with stern straight lines. He considered it classy and sublime; to be out of one’s face rather than in it. The first time she opened it, he asked her if she liked it or not.

She replied, “It’s nice. A little inharmonious with the current scheme, but what the hell, it’s not as if we are following any rules for interior decoration anyhow.” She always had this coy smile on her face and it rarely changed. It was one of those features but he could never be sure if she was ever really serious or not.

The Kashmiri hanging, on the other hand, was shocking. It screamed to let it free from the nails which shackled it to the wall. It threatened to break out of its leafy border and run a riot of colours, blue and pink run amok in the room. Aman did not like it. Still, he had long ago accepted that decisions on all things; specially the smaller things like bed sheet thread count to toilet paper insignia, are to be made as partners in marriage.

He always commented wryly in half-jest, as is the wont of anyone married criticizing the sacred institution “These mutual decisions of married life are more like compromises. The scale just depends on who is on what side of half. The worse half doesn’t like a thing half the time. The better half loves it full time. That means the other one is more than half for the thing and the vote is a veto. The irony is that, even if I don’t like it full time, her percentage carries more weight.”

And if Sonia appeared to listen in on it to add for humorous effect, among their many insider jokes ”And this is not saying anyone’s tilting the scales on the wrong side, mind you.”

He always ended up deferring to her on purchases; she had better taste in these kinds of things. Still, the Kashmiri tour de force nagged him, and he couldn’t put his finger on the particular itch, after all he didn’t find it altogether monstrous a sight. He thought back to the day they bought it.

Comparison shopping in Connaught Place for a suitable cover for the sofa set, they encountered a street side vendor in Janpath. Just out of curiosity, Sonia asked to see the wall hangings. In no time, the whole place was swarming with wall hangings of all shapes and colours, from the weirdest hues spilling on the ground, to the snake skin textured ones floating magically in the air. After hanging the prizes of their
previous conquests that day on him, she bunched her hair in a banana clip (he only knew this terminology, because they had happened to go hunting for one, one fine Sunday) and got down and dirty with the woman selling the merchandise. He could have been replaced by a coat rack, almost as if he was not there.

After almost an hour of a harsh three-layered selection process, where she carefully screened each hanging on various parameters, ranging from aesthetic, compatibility with present items, ability to merge in, ability to multitask as a tablecloth, to the extent of ability of being gifted to someone else if necessary. He thought this whole jamboree rather silly, you pick the one you like and then you buy it.

Then, the bargaining started and this is where he tuned out; so he barely remembered the details. It must have been exhilarating for her as always. He never put in so much effort into the act of bargaining. He named a flat price with a note of finality in his voice. It was a one time, take it or leave it, offer. If he really liked the thing he would relent to repeating it once but that was as far as he went. It was not a surprise, not even to him, that he ended up shopping less. Almost everything that adorned the room was a result of Sonia’s willingness and expertise in shopping. She just dragged them off to one of these unending markets; to look, to find that one magical thing that would quench her will to spend that day.

To think of it, the only time they had returned home empty handed from these excursions, was when they had purchased a sofa; and it had been delivered the next day.

Did his annoyance stem from all the bargaining applied to buy the hanging? Was it way too cheap? If it was original, they ought to have shelled out more for it, than they did. When he mentioned this to Sonia, she said, it was ‘original enough’.

He hated the phrase, the condescending tone of it. He sensed it was in part a fault of his own. He had spent the first two decades of his life in a small ‘kasba’ just 30km from Delhi. It was far enough to be insulated from the captivities of the metro. Yet lamentably close to be intoxicatingly mesmerized by them.

His father always preached self-control. He was particularly fond of saying, “You are inextricably bound to the ground where you come from. Never forget that, or you will be bought down to the very same ground and painfully reminded of it.”

However he had tried to forget, he had earned that sense of entitlement to all things, which came naturally to many others. Still this feeling of being an outsider, eons old, hung in some corner of his heart. He was afraid someone would identify him as a phony and show him out the door.

One thing he had imbibed from his father’s words was that one can never be what one is not; and to do so is to be dishonest not only to yourself but your own legacy as well. ‘Original enough’? It seemed to make a mockery out his beliefs on their societal position. He liked to think that he knew where he stood, and that phrase made it sound like a place he didn’t want to be standing in.

It was heresy, akin to any of the deadliest sins according to him. He liked to comment. “I am if anything but, in the last, at least, not in any fathomable way, a hypocrite.” He liked the round-about way, the sentence framed itself. There was something superficially hypocritical about the sentence itself. Was he not a little hypocritical about denouncing the hanging as pretentious? It gelled in together with
everything, if a little precociously, that extra edge made it so much more beautiful.

In entirety the room was a blend of their choices, their lives in a single frame. The flowers inside the hanging bursting with revel were tempered and contained by the stern straight lines of the picture frame. These very same lines curiously frame the defining moments of their lives. And drawn to the pink and blue colours, he froze for a second; noticing the same strains of colour inside the picture. There were bouquets of flowers in the background, in the same garish pink and blue. They combined with their images, complemented their beings. How he had missed them till now, he did not know, but now he could imagine. Just as they had grown, those flowers had grown in the background, colouring the storyboard of their lives. These threads of colours pink and blue, unseen, ran through their entangled lives, connecting everything.

Golden Slumbers

As it is a habit of mine of late, I loaded the whole of beatles onto my playlist and hit shuffle. While just passing through it, I stuck upon the song, Golden Slumber from abbey road. Initially I couldn't figure out what stuck me about the song, until I played it for about 5 times. Then i finally remembered that the lyrics reminded me of this:
http://rakhsup.blogspot.com/2007/06/i-read-quote-below-in-unlikeliest-of.html

Weird coincidence.....plus it again reflects how I have nothing to do on my intern

Lyrics - Banwra Man

I tried to find these lyrics online, but couldnt find the full version, so decided to write them down myself. The movie combines these words with very in-depth imagery, and left an indelible mark.

Sun in the earth, sunflower

bird in the air, rain

Eye within Eye, daybreak

Bavra mann dekhne chala ek sapna...

streets we have never walked on,
windows we have never opened,
hands we have never held,
dreams we shall never, never see again.

Bavra mann dekhne chala ek sapna,
bavre se mann ki dekho, bavri hain baatein
bavri si dhadkanein hain, bavri hain saansein

(overlayed over)

Sun in the earth, sunflower

bird in the air, rain

Eye within Eye, daybreak

lives we have never lived,
hopes we never realized,
fires we have never lit,
laughs we shall never, never make again

Bavra mann dekhne chala ek sapna...

Sun in the earth, sunflower

bird in the air, rain

Eye within Eye, daybreak

I hear those strange whispers again

Tryst told truthfully

I went to a mall in Bangalore, wahan koi aptech computer sceinceke liye forms bharwa rahi thi, and the conversation went something like this-

Cute girl: hi, would you be interested in an offer for computer
education course in Aptech?

Me          : Yeah, why not..
Cure girl: So here is the form, and please fill in these details..

 (I start filling the form, wrong details of course, and just as I am about to finish)

Me          : So, that's it..
Cute Girl: Yes, Thanks...
Me          : I was just wondering, is there a place to see a movie around here??

Cute Girl :( taken aback and horrified) You want to see a movie? (with her she thought)

Me         : No, No, I was just asking in general....

Cute girl: Ohkay, there is an INOX multiplex at the next red light.
Me         : thanks..
(Now 2 hours later, I am back at the same mall, and it is drizzling outside, didn’t get to see a movie, only friggin Kannada films there, I see the same cute girl, sitting in a corner)

Me           :( walking up to her) Hi, do you remember me? I filled a form of yours....and you thought I wanted to see a movie with you.

(Not a good start I am afraid)

Cute Girl: What?? (Still horrified...)
Me          : Okay, let us start afresh, I filled this computer form, and then...blah.....blah.....

Cute Girl: Oh yes.(and turns away)
Me           : Uh..Excuse me, would you mind if I asked you something?

Cute girl :( no answer)
Me           : If your shift has ended, We could grab a bite to eat, also, it is drizzling outside, and I am really not that bad a person...

Cute Girl: (thinking about it) okay, perhaps, just a burger.
Me          : Sure, my name is pushkar.

Cute girl: Swati
(formal handshake)
After this, not much I can remember in terms of conversation, but then, went to McDonalds, bought two meals(she paid for herself)....and talked about this and that, she was a commerce student in  Bangalore, studying and doing this as a part time job, learnt she was deeply in love with some guy(darn it)...that kind of dampened the whole moment, and we finished the burger, and she said she had to go)
Me     : Hmmm....I had fun, I really don’t do these kind of things much.
Swati : neither do I, anyway, it's stopped raining, and I have to go.

Me    : okay.
(no phone number offered, and none asked for)
Swati : bye.
Me    : Yeah, take care..

And here ends a pretty long one hour rendezvous........And if anybody says this is false, I have no proof, except a very pleasant memory.

 

The Five.2

The aftertaste of a German dark chocolate, lingering

The suppleness of a pillow, again and again, crushed

Intoxicating smoke filling space between glasses, suffocating

A single rose leaf, shining with growing pallor, scattered

Immersed in every sigh, an elegy; fade out.

The Five.1

The touch of hardened skin on one’s fingertips

The whiff of first few raindrops on dry earth

A crying baby on a flight slowly put to sleep

A glass of bubbly champagne savoured in a restaurant

The grating sound of a gramophone needle stuck

to put pen to paper

and to find the time, or a pen or a paper

Ignominy

~ revel in revelation
~By a Unknown Artist

Unknown, I am
Knowing so much yet to be told
About here where then when; among others
of trivial tragedies and surreal farces.
A deeper understanding, unwittingly old
A secret, unassailable in hiding

Unknown, I am
Knowing so much yet much unknown
Of rows, alleys, and streets, and mazes
natural and unnatural, that ceaselessly amaze.
A deeper understanding, hollow and vain as shown
A secret, incomplete in hiding

Unknown, i am
Knowing so much yet no more
Composed of empty boxes and songless words;
effective in a fight, like a sheath without its sword.
A deeper understanding, shallow at the core
A secret, inconsequential in hiding

Stories Happen

A simple move, not at all that easy, must be done. If you change the place you live, you pack up all your stuff and go. Me, it is a complicated matter with its own rites of passage–

I need to reminisce about how many happy memories were spent in these walls. Of the many victories celebrated and the bitter taste of defeat sweetened by a hopeful word. I remember the parties, the get-togethers; the place filled up by people, each with a link to me. Somehow, by a miracle of fate they all transpired to be under this roof at the same time, and all made possible by this place. Having one-to-one dinners with a friend; eating out of take-out boxes while holding whimsical conversations about our daily schedules. Those hours spent scribbling omens and motifs on the pad with the phone to my ear; whispering words of consolation to a heartbroken friend or just catching up with an old friend after being struck by an acute sense of déjà vu.

However the moments that really shine through are the ones spent alone, staring at the distorted serenity of the moon, through the skylight in the corner of the bedroom. Watching a procession of clouds stream by, marching on the beats of falling raindrops, and yet sitting by the side stranded in my pensive thoughts. Or, those monologues in front of the mirror, which always made me, look thinner, trying to gain confidence. It’s rueful to think that all this will be just another line in my story of a lifetime.

Every nook and cranny has a memory associated with it. A story tucked in here, a wordless poem spilled there. The cracked cement floor with its myriad array of shapes and hues mirrors the inner self irrespective of the mood. If seen from the door of the bedroom, a collection of dots resembles an amused smile, from another angle in a different light, a ghastly leering skull. The walls I spent many a hour boring with my eyes stare back at me – blank; as if already ready for a fresh start. They have already bid me farewell, but I still cling on.

To what? Every cardboard box is gone. Is it that easy, to just get up and go out the door, never to come back? Just throw away the keys? To walk by indifferently every time I cross this street on my way? To surrender the right of calling it my own? Is it that easy, like all the tenants in the building’s past have done before?

I confess its quaint charm enchanted me for a while, but after, there are no more enchanted days. The fascination which seemed it would last an epoch, is already wearing off. The magic has been discontinued; the quaint charm is off-centre. I tried to hold onto it for too long, in the end it was just another exercise in useless futility.

Now I need to go. It won’t answer my questions anymore. It is too mundane, too old, too known. Once it seemed its beauty was in the knowledge of every little secret, from the creak of the third floorboard from the door to the small space just enough for ants to crawl through beneath the kitchen counter. Now, it dawns on me - I was living in a fool’s world. All of a sudden, the ‘solid ageless’ walls have cavities I never knew of; secret passages for the rats, doors waiting to collapse on the next shove.

The company tells me it is beyond repair, and is surprised how I was able to stay here for so long. I am lucky they say that I got the best use out of it when I could. And now, I should get out before the whole thing just caves in on my head while I am reading a newspaper. It is beyond salvage for my modest means.

So it was ordained, and so it is. I guess I’ll go. I’ll walk out this door I have considered open for a long time, to close it permanently behind my back. Perhaps, one day I may return with nostalgia, to gaze at it and invoke the happier memories I left behind, but not for a long, long time. Meanwhile, I guess I’ll treasure the ones I do take.

The lesson learnt from this painful process of disassociation is to throw away the extra baggage and breakables I have, it is just too much of a hassle to take care of them anyway. I’ve already found a new place, one of those like-a-million-others-pre-fabricated tenements. It happily merges in and does not stick out. Still, I have signed the rent agreement for the shortest duration possible. Till the workplace is close to this place, I’ll survive here. The moment it becomes inconvenient in anyway, I’ll pack up and move in a jiffy. That is why; I have also gotten rid of all those clothes I always promise myself I will fit into again someday; along with all the extra baggage.

Better not have much stuff, because it just builds up my inertia to move. That feeling of belonging and laziness to let things be slowly creeps in, to not change, to hang onto the vestiges of a lost life are the things that make the process so intrusively painful. Don’t sink your roots too deep. Sometime or the other, the roots will wither away into dust whence they came from. I guess it IS easy.

To do what, you ask? To move on.

Be More

Just watched this ad from Titan



I really don't care that the ad is for Titan, because it doesn't really need a brand. The thought underlying the ad overshadows the brand, it can easily be any other product. The dialogues are succinct yet very telling when coupled with the visuals. They go..

“Be born everyday, aaj rockstar, kal pilot; and who knows what the day after.”

“Kabhi kisi anjaan station par utar kar dekho, kabhi kisi gumnaam shehar ka ticket katao.”

“Doosron ki galtiyon se kya seekhna, make your own mistakes, yaar!”

"And never resemble your passport photo for more than three months"

“Har subhah shock your reflection.”

"Explore."

“Bachpan mein toh kya kuchh nahin banna chahte the, why not today?”

“Be born everyday. Titan. Be more.”

These two words embody so much, they symbolize how life is nothing but a collection of experiences. To grow, to feel, to live is what life really is. Learning does not come from books only, it comes from doing; experiencing different stuff. It means living life to the fullest in the present, trying out things you have never even dreamed about.
Doing all those things you always promised you would someday do. To make that someday; today.