Major League Hockey

Sound of Silence

To my imaginary readers and non existent followers, I have only this to say. Pardon the absence, and excuse the momentary appearance before I amble off, back to the real world. Much has been happening out there and ironically, all that activity in the real world (Morpheus would disagree as to the notation) has been juxtaposed well with the silence on the blog front. The sound of silence has indeed been resounding. And that is what I am coming to. 

A couple of years ago, I met an old man outside a coffee house on McDougal Street  opposite the subway station performing his version of the very popular Simon n Garfunkel ballad, Sound of Silence. As we got talking, the man says nonchalantly, tuning his guitar,’Paul Simon, the bastard. Stole my song.’ I weighed the significance of this moment. Was I in on something that might take the rock n roll world by storm, was I in a position to say,’ Wrong answer. Minus ten.’ to a high school kid on a buzzer in a high school quiz, was I the facial expression at which the Washington square pot heads would be laughing at uproariously when they heard the old man recount the tale, or wait, was this Paul Simon, the old bastard himself, indulging in some abstract, resigned personality shit? As confused I may be as to my attributions, as dubious be the ownership; and as many commas I may have used, this still remains the greatest piece of poetry (or satire, as you see it) on the banalities of living. Here’s a snapshot:

“And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence”

In the words of Simon (may have come from the old man too),

‘Civilization inevitably plummets to its demise while being wallowed in the messages of savior it is not yet ready to accept or even recognize. Messages that are, ironically, delivered by mankind’s own musings, taking the form of neon signs’

And the power of words, just black ink on the backdrop of emptiness, is something I continue to stand in awe of. Revolutions have taken birth, governments have had an untimely demise, eras have been chronicled. All in the power of words, my friends.

In that context, old man, may you continue to spawn millions of Simons in the years to come. And in that context, Backstreet Boys, on your upcoming album and fancy tour, Fuck you.

Meet the parents!

Yesterday night, very drunk, I decide to check my Email (?), and there it is, the email from my dad that goes:

Sathya,

I know this email will find you in high spirits….

10,000 miles away! Man, parents can sniff these things out….

On Ageing, Death and such…

Wrote this one to cheer up a friend. Don’t know what to call it yet.

Do you age as you grow
or do you grow as you age?
Don’t ask me
it’s not in my page.

I started with death
and am ageing toward life
I am so many years younger
than I was at five.

You are so good with numbers
Tell my age, will you?
It’s not just polite
but a compliment too.

Don’t break your song,
or think you are old
I once was the same
or so I’ve been told.

I had it in my bag
Here, take some hope
Don’t fear for me,
I always bring more.

I am joy,I am wonder
I am carefree too
I have defeated already
that which frightens you.

Solo Pic!

Some everyday conversations have contained some comic gems. I decided to put some of these fun bytes together in a category that I chistened ‘funtastic’. This is, in other words, a blog filler, whose sole purpose is to make me feel good when I have nothing original to say. Also, by means of this category, I have introduced characters A and B, and will continue to introduce others like C, D and the rest as the need may be. AA, BB… may also make frequent appearances since these conversations often involve members in excess of 26. Here’s one which cracked me up today:

A: Sathya and Sidharth get together for a solo pic!

B: I want to be a part of the pic too.

A: No. I said solo pic!

Something about nothing or nothing on anything?

I want to write a song. But the process of writing seems to be too complex. Looks like I might have to have a few “GRE” words in handy , but I am usually a guy who is sometimes ‘lackadaisical’,sometimes ‘cavalier’ about language. Looks like I would need to make the last words of every sentence rhyme (or they would call it a crime, something like that!), but I always thought it was rumor that humor and tumor rhymed. Looks like it helps if your piece was funny, but again, I am a guy who laughs loud when an old lady trips and falls. Also, I came to know a subject is essential. I thought about this for a while (lack of subject matter started to look like a good subject). I have nothing to say about death (or life for that matter), I think Nature is gay and romance is bullcrap, I don’t care if God exists or not. So, looks like we are stuck, eh…writer’s block, writer’s block…But then things are taking a diametrically opposite turn as you are beginning to witness. As I look back (or I could say, ‘in retrospect’ yells Visu the consultant), I have written something about nothing. All these days, I wrote nothing about anything. So, something about nothing seems to be a better thing in comparison. I started to write a song and I dont have one. But I have a blog that I didnt’ start out to write. I was so bored  but I have been engaged for a while now. But now I have bored the living shit out of you, the reader. The process of writing is quite simple, I conclude. You only have to be bored enough. Now that I have bored you so much, I feel the time is right for you to start writing. You could write one of those masterpieces like ‘Gone with the wind’ or ‘War and Peace’, that only a person bored to death could come up with. And what’s more, only stupendously bored people would even read that. So, maybe, you were bored even before you started reading this. Anyway, now that I have accomplished to get some material written, I will let you have yours be written.

Cheers!

“A pen is mighty to the bored!”

stop and stare…

New York City’s been a dream, an obsession. Watching No Direction Home wasn’t any help either. Beat Generation, William Burroughs, existentialism, Woodie Guthrie are taking their toll on me. ‘I love NYC’ has come to mean more than mere tourist-advertising black and red on a lame T-shirt. I mean, reading toilet graffiti on the walls of Cafe Wha? has been topping my agenda for half a year now, No Shit(pun intended)! Another day in Cincinnati parking my sad ass either in the lab or in TUC and I’m gonna lose it. Getting to a point where I’m sick of the inaction and the monotony that is my life. When such is the case and the day hath arrived, I can’t help humming ‘stop and stare’ all day cos I’m thinking on the same lines now…

“This town is colder now, I think it’s sick of us
It’s time to make our move, I’m shakin off the rust
I’ve got my heart set on anywhere but here
I’m staring down myself, counting up the years”

on how Whiz kids give me the wheeze…

I was engrossed in some serious brainracking a while ago. Yes, I was playing chess with my 6 year old niece and 10 moves into the game, I had lost one each of my rook, bishop and horse; not to mention, the only way I could save the king was to lose the queen (pointed out again, by the afore-mentioned 6 year old niece). As the game progressed, I salvaged some of my lost pride and set her up to lose her queen. Am biting my fingernails hoping she’ll fall for it when she halts, looks at me, laughs out loud and yells, ‘daddee, look what sathya anna is trying to do…’. Talk about adding insult to injury. In cricket at least, rainfall may raise hopes for the downtrodden but what in chess?? Saved by the dinner call. Sitting in the basement, I notice some cds in western clasical music. Possessing a peremptory knowledge of some Beethoven and Mozart, I try to make a comeback after that despicable chess debacle by citing a few song names and generally showing off. As I am talking, my niece picks up an old violin lying at the side and plays every name that I utter. As I am getting used to constant, consistent thrashing of my mind and spirit, the next activity beckons. A bug’s life. This time, its the turn of the younger one. Yes, my 4 year old nephew. My numerous attempts at playing the damn thing have failed. Not to worry, says the little guy as I swap the remote control for his snickers. And as a final nail in the coffin, I ask for the subtitles to be switched on….

God, the kids of today….

where there’s a wills, there’s a way….

This comes as I sit home resigned to the fate that I will smoke to my last day. Yes, I have failed at my numerous attempts to quit. I sit home watching the bright whiteness of the tumultuous night and contemplate the ill-effects of not smoking. he he…

If the only light at the end of the tunnel
is the lighter flame to my cigarette end
Might as well watch my life go up in smoke
and take him to be my friend.

(photo courtesy: Karthik, one of those homies who just cant quit.)

on the hives and the hive-nots…

For the eyes of adolescents in career dilemma, confused decision-makers and Indian parents!

So if I decide to waiver my chance to be one of the hive
Will I choose water over wine and hold my own and drive?
It’s driven me before
And it seems to be the way that everyone else gets around
But lately I’m beginning to find that
When I drive myself my light is found.

From ‘Drive’ by Incubus.