Friday, November 16, 2007

Opeth - Black Rose Immortal (The Greatest Song Ever)

This 20 minute masterpiece is an epitome of brilliant lyrics decorated by equally mesmerizing musical arrangement. A song that covers the whole range of musical genres inclusive and not restricted to : jazz, rock, blues, amazing guitar play, vivid imagery, depth of emotions and awesome wordplay just like any classical piece of poetry. Led Zep, Beatles, Floyd; great they all are but no song comes close to the absolute marvel of 'Black Rose Immortal'.

Here are the lyrics of this beautiful song.


In the name of desperation
I call your name
A lamentation I sigh
Again and again

Spiritual eclipse
The gateways are closed for me to seek

The night...
A veil of stars, watching
My shadow is born from light
The light of the eye, in darkness

Over troubled waters memories soar
Endlessly, searching night and day
The moonlight caresses a lonely hill
With the calmness of a whisper

I wear a naked soul
A blank face in the streaming water
It is cold in here
Frost scar my coat with dust

Eyes attach to your mute portrait
We spoke only through thoughts
Together we gazed, awaited
Hours brought thirst and the rising sun

Sunbirds leave their dark recesses
Shadows glid the archways

Do not turn your face towards me
Confronting me with my lonliness
You are in a forest unknown
The secret orchard
And your voice is vast and achromatic
But still so precious

Lullaby of the crescent moon took you
Mesmerized, its kaleidoscopic face
Granted you a hollow stare
Another soul within the divine herd

I have kept it
The amaranth symbol
Hiddin inside the golden shrine
Until we rejoice in the meadow
Of the end
When we both walk the shadows
It will set ablaze and vanish
Black rose immortal

It is getting dark again
Dusk shuffle across the fields
The evening trees moan as if they knew
At night I always dream of you


You can listen to 'Black Rose Immortal' on soundpedia for free, just that you'll have to have an account (which is also free).

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Evening in the Burnet Woods

Sunday, November 04, 2007

The Golden Silence

Tales of disappointment and delusion
continue to flow,
and though I know
that silence is golden,
I still opine.

Isnt it amazing,
the wordy world
we live in?
Words all around,
with no meaning
or purpose.
Too less ears
for far too many stories,
wish I knew
how to be silent at times.

Image Courtesy :
Image Courtesy :

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Three Blank Pages from the Summer of 2K

Tucked in a bunch of beautiful colored papers
are the three blank pages;
Three blank pages
with a scent of 2K,
soaked in the summer heat
of the days long gone by,
from an era
that seems like a distant past.

To these pages belonged
the best ever lines
never written.
Three blank pages
recounting best phases of a life
that remained blank ....
.... like these pages.

Image courtesy :

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Transmission at outpost 79

Old Reliable

A Scooter New Year

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Haka - The All Blacks Way

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Happy Birthday 2 U :)

A very Happy Birthday to you Dear. I don't really if it makes any sense but wishing you well is the least I can do and pray that god bless you divine love we always crave for and happiness we run behind.
Since the day of birth is not supposed to be melancholic, here are a lots of flowers for you to fill your world with fragrance of laughter and yes, chocolates to add to the sweetness of you.

In essence I don't know why I do this. This might be my obsession, my fixation or better, my entrapment; but like all the rituals one follows in life, you do it cos' it makes you happy :)

So here's to your laughter and happiness, a very happy birthday to you :)

Friday, September 14, 2007

The Labyrinth

In times
when I'm rescued
form the pages of this labyrinth,
I'll tell you the story
that had no end
and whose beginning
was lost
beneath the veil.
The face
that no one knew,
no mirror revealed,
like an envelope
forever sealed.

And yet
it never aroused curiosity
cos' mundane
in their losses
oblivion to existence
all played
their part in the game,
without possessing any name;
for interchangeable
are the names and the faces
inside this labyrinth,
and I continue
to wander alone
pained by the consciousness
of this cycled existence.

Perhaps somewhere
where the space and time
lies my exit;
to a parallel universe.

Will you

meet me as a star
full of stellar charm
and listen
to my part;
or will you be a part
of another labyrinth,
of another story,
with no beginning
or an end.

Image courtesy :

Saturday, September 01, 2007

A Conditional Routine

if (I am Happy)
----Each Day

----is a Day of My Birth
----I'm always
----Asking Myself;
----"What is my Worth"?

Friday, August 24, 2007

Tujhe Kya Sunaoon Main Dilruba

Here's my most favorite song. Never knew that in the movie the setting will be like this, but nonetheless the emotions which rafi Sahab evokes by his magical voice are beyond words.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Moon - Less

For My Dear Moon
and to times
ever since
I am Moonless.

Why to break through the window,
Light up the room
and wake me up.
Dear Moon,
you and your thoughts
are so far
and between.
And yet,
in the middle of
all these nights
you want me
to put to words
the beauty of your face.
I'll do it
for your sake,
But tell me
who'll nurse
the broken
and collect these pieces
shattered glass
lying on the floor.
Dear Moon,
You ought not to be
this cold,
mean hearted;
for you're not just content
to leave
without taking away
the sleep.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

My Name Is Red - Orhan Pamuk

Well I took a lot of time to finish this, of course not as much as 'Living To Tell The Tale' though. But have to say, one of the best books I have read. The beginning is bit slow but 100 pages into it and you know that you are reading a genuine masterpiece.
I didn't liked 'The White Castle' by Pamuk so was bit apprehensive while picking this up. Perhaps I would have never read any of his book again but then he won the Nobel and I thought well, I should try reading one more of his and I am glad that I did.
This one is a treat, a brilliant account of lives in medieval Turkey, a brilliant insight into the world that seems so distant now. Pamuk is brilliant when he brings about the clash between east and West, between various styles of painting and between various faiths. Intertwining an equally interesting tale, Pamuk gives us a masterful account of Ottoman history along with the awesome description of the art of miniaturing. The style in which the novel is written is also superb and adds to the brilliance of the novel.
This novel has given me enough inspiration to take up Pamuk's other works including 'Black Book' and 'Snow' and yes it has one of my favorite lines; "Poetry is consolation to life's miseries".
A must for everyone who love reading great literature. Following are some of the lines I liked in the novel.

My Name Is Red – Orhan Pamuk

Before my birth there was infinite time, and after my death, inexhaustible time.

In this way, by the twelfth year, when I returned to my city at the age of thirty six, I was painfully aware that my beloved’s face had long since escaped me.

After I took care of that pathetic man, wandering the streets of Istanbul for four days was enough to confirm that everyone with a gleam of cleverness in his eye and the shadow of his soul cast across his face was a hidden assassin. Only imbeciles are innocent.

Over time, jealousy becomes an element as indispensable as paint in the life of the master artist.

Where there is true art and genuine virtuosity the artist can paint an incomparable masterpiece without leaving even a trace of his identity.

Now that I’ve reached this age, I know that true respect arises not from the heart, but from the discrete rules and deference.

To avoid disappointment in art, one mustn’t treat it as a career.

For if a lover’s face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.

A letter doesn’t communicate by words alone. A letter just like a book can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, “Go on then, read what the letter tell you!” whereas the dull-witted will say, “Go on then, read what he’s written”.

You know how in such situations reasonable people immediately sense that love without hope is simply hopeless, and understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart, make a quick end of it by politely declaring, “They didn’t find us suitably matched. That’s just the way it is.”

Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight.

I thereupon thought how easy it was to end a life. My dear God, you’ve given each of us this unbelievable power, but you’ve also made us afraid to exercise it.

The larger and more colorful a city is, the more places there are to hide one’s guilt and sin; the more crowded it is, the more people there are to hide behind. A city’s intellect ought to be measured not by its scholars, libraries, miniaturists, calligraphers and schools, but by the number of crimes insidiously committed on its dark streets over thousands of years.

Poetry is consolation to life’s miseries.

If presented with the opportunity, we would choose to do in the name of a greater goal whatever awful thing we have already prepared to do for the sake of our own miserable gains, for the lust that burns within us or for the love that breaks our hearts.

In situations such as this, as soon as our merciless intellects draw the bitter conclusion that our hearts refuse, the entire body rebels against the mind.

A great painter does not content himself by affecting us with his masterpieces; ultimately, he succeeds in changing the landscape of our minds. Once a miniaturist’s artistry enters our soul this way, it becomes the criterion for the beauty of our world.

I was encouraged when I saw he could no longer look me directly in the eye. Magnanimous men, who think themselves better and morally superior to others, cannot look you in the eye when they are embarrassed on your behalf, perhaps because they are contemplating reporting you and abandoning you to a fate of torture and execution.

“The first step is marriage,” I said. “Let’s see to that first. Love comes after marriage. Don’t forget: Marriage douses love’s flame, leaving nothing but a barren and melancholy blackness. Of course, after marriage, love itself will banish anyway; but happiness fills the void. Still, there are those hasty fools who fall in love before marrying and, burning with emotion, exhaust all their feeling, believing love to be the highest goal in life.”

“The truth is contentment. Love and marriage are but a means to obtaining it: a husband, a house, children, a book.”

Maybe you’ve understood by now that for men like myself, that is, melancholy men for whom love, agony, happiness and misery are just excuses for maintaining eternal loneliness, life offers neither great joy nor great sadness.

Painting brings to life what the mind sees, as a feast for the eyes.

What the eyes sees in the world enters the painting to the degree that it serves the mind.

Consequently, beauty is the eye discovering in our world what the mind already knows.

The memory of the blind exposes the merciless simplicity of life but also deadens its vigor.

Books, which we mistake for consolation, only add depth to our sorrows.

There are moments in all our lives when we realize, even as we experience them, that we are living through events we will never forget, even long afterward.

There were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden because the beating had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off.

Time doesn’t flow if you don’t dream.

If you stare long enough your mind enters the time of the painting.

It seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Seven Nights - Jorge Luis Borges

I recently finished reading the brilliant essays by the great master. Included here are some of my favorable quotes from the book; though I would add that the whole book is a treasure in itself.

Seven Nights – Jorge Luis Borges

In understanding Borges, one should remember that for him, there is no sensible difference between literary and real experience, so when he talks about books and writers, it is like talking of landscapes and journeys.

The Divine Comedy

Chance – except that there is no chance; what we call chance is our ignorance of the complex machinery of causality.

Poetry is, among so many other things, an intonation, an accentuation that is often untranslatable.

Enchantment, as Stevenson said, is one of the special qualities a writer must have. Without enchantment, the rest is useless.

Truly fine poetry must be read aloud. A good poem does not allow itself to be read in a low voice or silently. If we can read it silently, it is not a valid poem: a poem demands pronunciation. Poetry always remembers that it was an oral art before it was a written art. It remembers that it was first song.

There are two lines which confirm this. One is in Homer –or the Greeks whom we call Homer – where he says, in the Odyssey, “The gods weave misfortunes for men, so that the generations to come will have something to sing about.” The other, much later, is from Mallarme, who repeats, less beautifully, what Homer said: “tout aboutit en un livre,” everything ends up in a book. The Greeks speak of generations that will sing; Mallarme speaks of an object, of a thing among things, a book. But the idea is the same, the idea that we are made for art, we are made for memory, we are made for poetry, or perhaps we are made for oblivion. But something remains, and that something is history or poetry, which are not essentially different.

It was forgotten that poetry began by being narrative, that the roots of poetry are the epic, that the epic is the first poetic genre. In the epic there is time: a before, during, and after. All of that is in poetry.

Halfway through the afternoon that day,

As I bid you my habitual goodbye,

A vague dismay at leaving

Made me know that I loved you.

There is something that Dante does not say, but which one feels at a distance from the episode and perhaps gives it its virtue. Dante relates the fate of the two livers with an infinite pity, and we sense that he envies their fate. Paolo and Francesca are in Hell and he will be saved, but they have loved and he never won the love of the women he loved, Beatrice. There is a certain injustice to this, and Dante must feel it as something terrible, now that he is separated from her. In contrast, these two sinners are together. They cannot speak to each other, they turn in the black whirlwind without hope, yet they are together. When she speaks, she says “we”, speaking for the two of them, another form of being together. They are together for eternity; they share Hell - and that, for Dante, must have been a kind of paradise.

Everyone is defined in a single instant of their lives, a moment in which a man encounters his self for always.

God, as Nietzsche would say, is beyond good and evil.

In some tercet of the Commedia he (Dante) says that no one is permitted to know the judgments of Providence. We cannot anticipate them; no one can know who will be saved and who condemned.


DREAMS ARE THE GENUS; nightmares the species.

The study of dreams is particularly difficult, for we cannot examine dreams directly, we can only speak of the memory of dreams. And it is possible that the memory of dreams does not correspond exactly to the dreams themselves.

For the savage and for the child, dreams are episodes of the waking life; for poets and mystics, it is not impossible for all of the waking life to be a dream.

He (Sir Thomas Browne) says that dreams give us an idea of the excellence of the soul, seeing the soul free of the body and engaged in play and dreaming. He thinks that the soul enjoys its freedom. And Addison says effectively that the soul, when it is free from the shackles of the body, imagines, and is able to imagine with a freedom it does not have in waking.

Dreams are an aesthetic work , perhaps the most ancient aesthetic expression. They take a strangely dramatic form. We are, as Addison said, the theater, the spectators, the actors, the story.

The Thousand and One Nights

”What is time? If you don’t ask me, I know; but if you ask me, I don’t know.” – St. Augustine on time.

“Of the operations of the spirit, the least frequent is reason.” – Fenelon.

Perhaps its not worth it to define something we feel instinctively.


As the vast ocean has only one flavor, the flavor of salt, so the flavor of the Law is the flavor of salvation.

In every moment of our lives we are weaving and interweaving. What we weave is not only our will, or acts, our half-dreams, our sleep, our half-waking; we are forever weaving our karma. And when we die, another being will be born who is the heir of that karma.

To live is to be born, grow old, grow sick, die – not to mention the other sorrows, including the one that was, for the Buddha, the most pathetic: not to be with those we love.

We must renounce passion. Suicide does not help, because it is a passionate act. The man who commits suicide remains in the world of dreams. We must reach the understanding that the world is an apparition, a dream; that life is a dream. But we must feel this deeply, having reached it through the exercises of meditation.

What does it mean to reach Nirvana? Simply that our acts no longer cast shadows. While we are in this world we are subject to karma. Everyone of our acts is interwoven into this mental structure called karma. When we have reached Nirvana our acts no longer have shadows; we are free. St. Augustine said that when we are saved we will have no reason to think about good or evil. We will continue to do good, without thinking of it.


The Irish pantheist Scotus Erigena, said that the holy scripture contains an infinite number of meanings, and he compared it to the iridescent feathers of a peacock’s tail. Centuries later, a Spanish Kabbalist said that God wrote the scriptures for each one of the men of Israel, that there are as many as Bibles as there are readers of the Bible. This is believable if we consider that the author of the Bible and the author of the destiny of each one of its readers is the same. One may think of these two sentences merely as demonstrations of the Celtic imagination and of the Oriental imagination. But I would venture to say that they are both absolutely correct, not only in regard to the Scriptures but to any book worth rereading.

We say that Spanish is a sonorous language, that English is a language of varied sounds, that Latin has a certain dignity to which all the later languages aspired: we apply aesthetic categories to languages. Erroneously we suppose that language corresponds to that mysterious thing we call reality. The truth is that language is something else.

Bradley said that one of the effects of poetry is that it gives us the impression not of discovering something new but of remembering something that we have forgotten.

If you like the book, fine; if you don’t, don’t read it. The idea of compulsory reading is absurd; it’s only worthwhile to speak of compulsory happiness. I believe that poetry is something one feels. If you don’t feel poetry, if you have no sense of beauty, if a story doesn’t make you want to know what happened next, then the author has not written for you. Put it aside. Literature is rich enough to offer you some other author worthy of your attention whom you will read tomorrow.

This is how I have taught, relying on the aesthetic event, which does not need to be defined. The aesthetic event is something as evident, as immediate, as indefinable as love, the taste of fruit, of water. We feel poetry as we feel the closeness of a woman, or as we feel a mountain or a bay. If we feel it immediately, why dilute it with other words, which no doubt will be weaker than our feelings?

What is the death of a man? With him dies a face that will never occur again, as Pliny observed. Each man has his own unique face, and with him die thousand of events, thousand of memories, all of them too human.

Beauty waits in ambush for us. If we are sensitive, we will feel it in the poetry of all languages.

For me, beauty is a physical sensation, something we feel with our whole body. It is not the result of judgment. We do not arrive at it by way of rules. We either feel beauty or we don’t.

The rose has no why, it flowers because it flowers.

The Kabbalah

Today we think of a book as an instrument for justifying, defending, disputing, explicating, or chronicling a doctrine, but in Antiquity a book was seen only as a substitute for the spoken word. (As per Plato) Books are like statues, they may seem alive, but when you ask them something they do not reply.


At that time, I believed that shyness was very important, but now I know that shyness is one of the evils one must try to overcome, that in reality to be shy doesn’t matter – it is like so many other things to which one gives an exaggerated importance.

No one should read self-pity or reproach

Into this statement of the majesty

Of god; who with such splendid irony

Granted me books and blindness at one touch.

When something ends, we must begin something new.

We have a very precise image – an image at times shameless – of what we have lost, but we are ignorant of what may follow or replace it.

I too have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny – that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.

I want to live with myself,

I want to enjoy the good that I owe to heaven,

Alone, without witnesses,

Free of love, of jealousy,

of hate, of hope, of fear.

A writer, or any man, must believe that whatever happens to him is an instrument; everything has been given for an end.

Everything near becomes distant. Goethe could be referring not only to twilight but to life. All things go off, leaving us. Old age is probably the supreme solitude – except that the supreme solitude is death. And “everything near becomes distant” also refers to the slow process of blindness, of which I hoped to show, speaking tonight, that it is not a complete misfortune. It is one more instrument among the many – all of them so strange – that fate or chance provide.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Happy Independence Day

Friday, August 10, 2007

Assi Ka Tadka - My New Blog

Well one more blog started.

This one is about the golden days of 1980s in which we grew up. So enjoy the same, feel nostalgic and if it brings a smile to your face, do leave a comment :)

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Cosmic Musings

Conceiving the birth of a planet
through the cloud of rainbows
in all the glory of the sun
thats orbiting around for fun;
I wake up from my dreams
impressioned by a stellar flame
on the other side of the galaxy
where a different universe begins.

Friday, July 13, 2007

Testing Times

Monday, July 09, 2007

The Trip To Dhanolti

You moved ahead, I moved afar
separated by distance and time
Now as I open your new year greeting
the trip to Dhanolti lingers on my mind,

Remember the walk of the January 1st
a trek to the Sarkhunda Devi
when snow has not yet fallen down
to cover the roads of Dhanolti,

The breakfast at the shop at the base
how delicious those paranthas taste
up in the distance, stood the Nanda Devi
the goddess at her majestic best,

We climbed to the temple over the hill top
stopping to look at the mountains so green
reached there by the noon and the goddess was sleeping
in her abode among the mountains so pristine,

On the other side of the temple
the panorama unfolded a visual treat
as there lay standing far in the distance
the Gangotri glacier, Kedar and Badri and all those holy peaks,

We trekked on all fours to a nearby hill top
where lay fallen the snow of the year bygone
those rays of the sun that shone so brightly
have forgotten to lit this corner unknown,

Down we came and went to Chamba
evening sinking into the sulking town
we began our long walk back to Dhanolti
listening to the mountain sounds,

Who knows how we slept that night
who knows what dreams we dreamt
and though we were looking forward to tomorrow
we silently wished for the day to never end,

Five years is quite some time
& few things have certainly changed
yet there are memories of the trip to Dhanolti
which like our friendship has remain unchanged.

Photo Courtesy :

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Makes Me Wonder

Makes me wonder

If there's no winter, no summer either
always just the spring,
Will you miss them then
and the Autumn leaves.

All that glitters
for a change is gold,
the ocean and seas
doesn't taste salt.

The birds can talk
the way I talk to you,
The night isn't dark enough
for the ghosts to look through.

Let's assume no one grows old
all remain a child,
Tenderness prevails
in the beasts of wild.

There's no definition of the truth
for there exist no lies,
We could capture time in hand
so that it never flies.

If religions vanish
yet god exists,
fairies bring to reality
your every wish.

When colors are for eyes
not to dilute the minds,
What we say is what we mean
words have no meanings between the lines.

There are no nightmares
when you sleep,
There are no reasons
for anyone to weep.

Would you care to share a tear then
and mourn over the loss,
Will that make you sad, a loss of bad
and things that have gone.

Or will you rejoice
a lesser choice,
Of goodness, good and god
limitations of thought.

The more I think, the more I ponder
It makes me wonder,

Makes me wonder.

Image Courtesy :

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Ek Aur Raat (Intezaar Mein)

Isi intezaar mein baitha hoon
ki kab yeh shaam dhale
aur raat ka aanchal odh,
Mere khwabon ko mehkane
teri yaadein aayein

Bahut din hue tera deedar hokar
meri nazar ko paak hue
Bahut din hue dil mein bechaini lekar
raaton ko barbaad hue

Tere ehsaas ki hasrat mein
raatein gujarti rehti hain
Tere hoton ka tabassum,
Teri aankhon ka noor,
Sadiyon se lambi bhi yeh raatein hoti
to aitraaz na tha.
Main kaat leta, tere bahane tere sahare.

Teri zulf ki woh lat
jo tere rukhsaar ko chukar jhoom leti hai
Yeh hawayein, jo tere chehre ko choom leti hain
Kya naseeb hai inka, aur tere aanchal ka
ki yeh tere saath hain, har ju har lamha
Par fir main bhi akela nahi
yeh raat jo hai

Is raat mein teri khushboo hai
Teri hansi ki awaaz
Is raat ke sannate cheer deti hai,
Is raat mein teri yaadein hain,
Meri tanhayi teri yaadon mein bat jaati hai
aur raat yun hi kat jaati hai
Teri yaadon mein doobe hue
Teri yaadon mein khoye hue.

Picture courtesy :

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Seeing by Jose Saramago

I finished reading Master's masterpiece a few days back. Here are as a part of habit, the collected quotes from the book.


The genetic code of what, somewhat unthinkingly, we have been content to call human nature, cannot be reduced to the organic helix of deoxyribonucleic acid, or dna, there is much more to be said about it and it has much more to tell us, but human nature is, figuratively speaking, the complementary spiral that we have not yet managed to prise out of kindergarten despite the multitudes of psychologists and analysts from the most diverse schools and with the most diverse abilities who have broken their nails trying to draw its bolts.

Hope is like salt, there’s no nourishment in it, but it gives the bread its savor, for hours and hours.

Human beings are known universally as the only animals capable of lying, and while it is true that they sometime lie out of fear and sometimes out of self-interest, they also occasionally lie because they realize, just in time, that this is the only means available to them of defending the truth.

It is interesting to observe how the meanings of the words change without our noticing, how we often use them to mean precisely the opposite of what they used to mean and which, in a way, like a fading echo, they still continue to mean.

There is nothing like a good argument to release accumulated tension.

Experience has also taught us that when the time comes for them to be acted upon even the most perfect and polished of ideas can fail, whether because of some last minute hiccup, or because of a gap between expectation and reality, or because, at some critical point, the situation got out of control, or because of a thousand other possible reasons that it is not worth our while going into right now and for which we would not have time, it is therefore vital always to have at the ready a replacement or complementary idea, which would prevent, as might well happen in this case, the emergence of a power vacuum, or to use another more alarming expression, of street power, either of which would have disastrous consequences.

Caution and chicken soup never hurt anyone, in good health or bad.

The most common occurrence in this world of ours, in these days of stumbling blindly forward, is to come across men and women mature in years and ripe in prosperity, who, at eighteen, were not just beaming beacons of style, but also, and perhaps above all, bold revolutionaries determined to bring down the system supported by their parents and to replace it, at last, with a fraternal paradise, which, having warmed up and flexed their muscles on any of the many available versions of moderate conservatism, become, in time, pure egotism of the most obscene and reactionary kind. Put less respectfully, these men and these women, standing before the mirror of their life, spit every day in the face of what they were with the sputum of what they are.

Its odd how we spend everyday of our life saying goodbye, saying and hearing others say see you tomorrow, when inevitably, on one of those days, which will be someone’s last, either the person we said it to will no longer be here, or who said it will not.

As my cat would have said, all hours are good for sleeping.

Unknown soldiers do not need the names that they used in life in order to be showered with the right and proper honors, and that’s fine, if that’s what we agree to do, but if these dead, most of them unrecognizable, and two or three of them still unidentified, want anything, it is to be left in peace.

One can show no greater respect than to weep for a stranger.

Why do you grovel before my rough boots? / Why do you loosened your perfumed hairs / and treacherously open your soft arms? / I am nothing but a man with coarse hands / and a cold heart / and if, in order to pass, / I had to trample you underfoot / then, as you well know, I would trample you underfoot.

Changing the position of words often changes their meaning, but they, the words, when weighed one by one, continue physically to be exactly what they were.

People get upset and lose their temper and end up saying things they didn’t intend to or hadn’t even thought.

One precaution guarantees the other.

The safest way of categorizing is not by dividing them up into the stupid and the clever, but into the clever and the too clever, with the stupid we can do what we like, with the clever the trick is to get them on our side, whereas the too clever, even when they’re on our side, are still intrinsically dangerous, they cant help it, the oddest thing is that in everything they do, they are constantly warning us to be wary of them, but, generally speaking, we pay no attentions to the warnings and then have to face the consequences.

Sometimes being too close to the centers of decision-making brings on myopia, makes you short sighted.

If you want to be respected, don’t encourage familiarity.

When the birds are quiet, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re on their nests, it’s the calm that conceals the storm, not the other way round, the same thing happens with human conspiracies, the fact that no one mentions them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Knowledge on its own isn’t always enough, whereas with luck and time you can achieve almost anything.

A moment’s folly can ruin a whole career.

He that knows nothing sees nothing.

In a matter of moment the amount of sand in the upper part of the hour-glass had dwindled dramatically, the tiny grains were rushing through the opening, each grain more eager to leave than the last, time is just like people, sometimes it’s all it can do to drag itself along, but at others, it runs like a deer and leaps like a young goat.

Languages are conservative, they always carry their archives with them and hate having to be updated.

You can’t be too careful with thoughts, some present themselves to us with a cloying air of false innocence and then, when it’s too late, reveal their true wicked selves.

Dreaming is cheap, it doesn’t cost any money.

When we are born, when we enter this world, it is as if we signed a pact for the rest of our life, but a day may come when we will ask ourselves Who signed this on my behalf, well, I asked myself that question.

Some people manage to stay standing even when they have been knocked down, and you’re one of them.


Sunday, June 24, 2007

Aren't My Girl

You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Your colors and canvas
lost in the cloud,
in someone else's kohl;
You know, you aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

The bed sheet linen
and muddied pillow covers,
these curtains still lie unfurled;
You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Light a candle
let's say cheers,
to all the tears that turned pearl;
You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Written in my books
words and phrases you trace,
all so delicate, pages paled;
You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Amongst the paces, fast and slow
lost in the path without care,
show more caution and don't trample;
You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Seen in the glass
diluted by the dizzy light,
in the wake of her trail;
You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Insane, glad that I'm mad
in love, singing a song so sad,
holding moments, in success I fail;
You aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway

Doesn't really matter how's your face,
that you move with amazing grace,
'I love You a lot',
Those words you need not say;
Cos' you aren't my girl
But I'd love you anyway.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Trip To Maa Poornagiri

This was during my first visit to India after coming to US, back in December, '05. A trip to Poornagiri devi was our regular ritual while we were in Khatima. Thus me and my cousin brother, who still works there, started on a fine morning to the glorious temple where they say all your wishes come true :)

On our way, we stopped at the Chakrapur Temple and also the Bhoom Temple which stands by the bank of river Sharda. The overall trek, which once used to be 11 Km, is now only 5 Km, but still a challenge and yet a fulfilling experience.

About Maa Poornagiri temple : At a height of 3000 mts. above sea level, Purnagiri is 20 kms. from Tanakpur, 171 kms. from Pithoragarh and 92 kms. from Champawat. Purnagiri temple is visited throughout the year by devotees from all parts of the country, who come here in large numbers, particularly during Chaitra Navratri in the month of March - April. The surrounding valleys echo with the holy chantings of the devotees climbing up to the top for darshan, creating an atmosphere of spirituality. From Purnagiri, also known as Punyagiri, the river Kali descends into the plains and is known as Sharda. For visiting this shrine one can go upto Thuligaarh by vehicle. From this place one has to trek (the road is under construction upto Tunyas ). After the ascent of Bans ki Charhai comes Awalakhan (the new name is Hanuman Chatti).The south - western part of 'Punya Parvat' can be seen from this place. Another ascent ends at the TRC of Tanki. The region of temporary shops and residential huts start from this place upto Tunyas. From the highest point (the temple) of Purnagiri hill the pilgrim can see the expanse of Kali, its islands, the township of Tanakpur and a few Nepali villages. The old Buram Deo Mandi is very close to Purnagiri. From Tanakpur or Purnagiri it is possible to trek to Tamli and even to Jhulaghat along the Kali river.

My Sweet Lord

My sweet lord
Hm, my lord
Hm, my lord

I really want to see you
Really want to be with you
Really want to see you lord
But it takes so long, my lord

My sweet lord
Hm, my lord
Hm, my lord

I really want to know you
Really want to go with you
Really want to show you lord
That it won't take long, my lord (hallelujah)

My sweet lord (hallelujah)
Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My sweet lord (hallelujah)

I really want to see you
Really want to see you
Really want to see you, lord
Really want to see you, lord
But it takes so long, my lord (hallelujah)

My sweet lord (hallelujah)
Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My, my, my lord (hallelujah)

I really want to know you (hallelujah)
Really want to go with you (hallelujah)
Really want to show you lord (aaah)
That it won't take long, my lord (hallelujah)

Hmm (hallelujah)
My sweet lord (hallelujah)
My, my, lord (hallelujah)

Hm, my lord (hare krishna)
My, my, my lord (hare krishna)
Oh hm, my sweet lord (krishna, krishna)
Oh-uuh-uh (hare hare)

Now, I really want to see you (hare rama)
Really want to be with you (hare rama)
Really want to see you lord (aaah)
But it takes so long, my lord (hallelujah)

Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My, my, my lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (krishna krishna)
My lord (hare hare)
Hm, hm (Gurur Brahma)
Hm, hm (Gurur Vishnu)
Hm, hm (Gurur Devo)
Hm, hm (Maheshwara)
My sweet lord (Gurur Sakshaat)
My sweet lord (Parabrahma)
My, my, my lord (Tasmayi Shree)
My, my, my, my lord (Guruve Namah)
My sweet lord (Hare Rama)


(hare krishna)
My sweet lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (krishna krishna)
My lord (hare hare)