Sunday, November 22, 2009


Now how do you like my new attitude? I’m cool, I’m hot, I’m this I’m that, I’m blah blah blah blah. Web 2.0 has kept us busy exploiting our egos that we hardly notice how we make pompous, pretentious farts of ourselves. Yeah! Even things at ok-write-write have not been so right. My indulgences on Facebook, Twitter and everywhere else have siphoned off my attention. I’m logging back in here after ages. But now I’m back with more reason. And I have a point to make.

In utter humility, I hereby proclaim that Web 2.0 is not the only one to blame for this sorry state of affairs. I guess it all begins with the self. It happens to every one of us. It’s what one calls a Paradox.

While we can thump our chest in pride and tell the future that we’ve seen technology grow from vacuum tubes to blue-ray discs in our generation. That we’ve seen civilisation take one leap after another, effortlessly; we’d also have to endure the sham of our social and cultural inadequacies. We are so fond of listening to our own voices that we hardly hear the voice within. Ironically, we are capable of dubbing these inadequacies as impairments and even seeking professional assistance to cope with it (Not overcome it).

Phew! We - have taller buildings and shorter tempers; have wider freeways and narrow view points; spend more and have lesser; buy more and enjoy lesser. We - have bigger houses and smaller families; have multiplied our possessions and reduced our values; and the list is quite endless. We have even gone to the extent of adding years to life, ironically it has only made our years more lifeless. In short, we have learnt how to make a living, but not how to have a life. Again, Paradox.

If you are somewhat impressed with what you’re reading, you have all the reason to shoot a mail and tell me how impressed you are. But don’t hurry. Not so fast. These pearls of wisdom have done their rounds on the Internet for almost a decade now. All you need to do is copy this “The paradox of our time in history” and Google it. Never mind the number of versions floating around or the number of authors claiming stake. Do take the effort to read the original passage; it’s definitely nicer than my hurried shower of (attempted) intelligence.

Coming back to my original point of discussion – “The Paradox” at a cursory glance may seem like a new drug combination of Paracetamol and Amoxicillin. Pardon my poor humour, but our lives are so milled to the pill. We are constantly on the lookout for cures and we are so engrossed in it that we don’t realise we are responsible for the maladies ourselves. First we stress ourselves beyond reasonable levels, then pop pills to party and de-stress. Then another one to trigger the libido; then one more to make up for the forgotten protection: Finally after the shit hits the ceiling, there’s also consolation “Take a Chill Pill. Dude”.

But end of the day, we also want to have children. But that’s because we are afraid of being rated impotent. Social stigma you see. Even when we are technically incapable of having children, we collate eggs and sperms; fertilise them in test tubes and hire surrogate mothers to bear them. Twins, Triplets, Quadruplets. We behave like spoilt kids in the ice cream bar.

Brangelina: Nice. But adoption isn’t for us to adopt. Isn’t it?

We have mastered the art of making suns of our egos in the galaxies of our minds. Some of us have even modified our DNAs in mindless pursuit of social acceptance: And before we even realise, we die slow and painful deaths, choking in own karma while we’re still alive.

Gone are the days of valiant men who rode horse-back and wielded swords to fight for their honour? Today men are of two kinds: paper politicians and e-mail terrorists. And neither knows honour. Our insecurities and inefficiencies have lengthened our working hours. Then for work-life balance we turn to the Gurus. The Matas and Swamis (and their scandals) of this world never seem to be out of circulation. Their list is growing at an alarming rate (multiplying faster than bunny rabbits).

And if all this was not enough, we also have Self-improvement and Self-help Experts, along with their mutual admiration societies adding to the chaos. Not that I loathe or despise the gurus or experts. What I despise is the lack of introspection. BTW how do you like this name? Write-ananda??

Thursday, July 2, 2009


Once too soon, life goes a full circle; but this time it feels good because I have found the right answers. If you've read my previous posts, you'll know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, it's still okay. This is what it is.

It all began when I wanted to see how I wrote when I was not paid to do it. It meant I could really write what I wanted to. No 30 days or your money back. No great deals now or never. No persuasion. No smart talk bullshit. Just take it or lump it. Plain heartspeak. I called it ok-write-write.

I had consciously decided to keep my posts far and few. To write only what mattered under the blog's scheme of things and only when it mattered. But somehow the posts turned out farther and fewer than I anticipated.

Somewhere down the line the enthusiasm had fizzled out. It felt as pointless as making a swine run on the treadmill. Isn't it natural for a writer to yearn for attention. More people read his works. And tell him what they think about it. Bouquets, brick bats, good, bad, ugly, worse, can do better, sucks, something.

A few months and a million wonders later, I got initiated into social media. Picture a bloke with a long beard, dark glasses and a looney cloak saying "BEFORE"; and another photo next to it with a clean-shaven 'Mr. Successful' look and a pseudo smile labelled "AFTER". And even worse, a headline like "Social media changed my life!"

Trust me, its really not so obscene. I am motivated to write because I know more people will get to read it and comment on it. At least I know that even if I don't make new friends I'll make new enemies. Whichever way you look at it, that's a great start. I am now reminded of a really mean line. The temptation is too much to resist."Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one!"

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


Sometimes I really take the effort and make the time and do what I love best. It’s called doing nothing. I’d love to see that expression on your face when you ask me – Oh, is that anything?

Anyways, this is just a blog; and thankfully I am neither in front of you nor within earshot. But jokes apart, it is something you should try and do. This is definitely the leanest and meanest DIY ideas you’ve ever heard or read. It’s what some higher mortals call “meditation”.

Seat yourself comfortably wherever you are and stop everything else. Yes, that includes slamming the brakes on your meandering mind as well. You’ll realise that it’s not as easy as you thought it would be.

It would be easier to face a charging bull with bare hands. But here’s the tip. Trick your mind to believe it’s a mustang and watch it gallop into the wild. Suddenly you feel like you’re sitting through what’s a mix of time-lapse photography and MTV. Chill. Everything will gradually slow down to a legible pace and lo, your mind is now ready to follow your command like an obedient dog.

Now that I have tested your patience beyond reasonable levels, let me resume my passage to talk about this woman whom you want to know. But that brings up the topic of the next best thing I love to do. Reading.

My family tells me that I read my first book when I was two years old. It was an old and abused copy of the Playboy. Apparently, it had belonged to one of my teenager cousins who presumed it to be lost until I… It even had his name on it followed by a heart and the bunny’s name, they told me.

However, I did read a few good books when I learned how to read. There was no Google or Wikipedia back then, so all I was left with was books. But with time, my perceptions of favourite books and authors kept changing. With all due respect I admit, Robinson Crusoe read like a gay man’s dream and the Count of Monte Cristo was a scheming old bastard who got a hot chick half his age. Perception did not spare the fairy tales either. It seemed that they were written by the Freemasons or some other secret society.

The moment of truth; it happened when I was twenty four and engaged to be married. She was a single mother on the verge of penury, who had braved the rejections from the world's leading publishing houses. And then one day, she was rich and famous. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who she was, what she did and when she'd bring out her next book. Even I was one of them. And her name was JK Rowling.

One book after another, I went out to buy and read and read. And read. Harry James Potter was everywhere. On my nephew’s tee shirt, in the multiplexes, on someone’s fresh cream cake and almost everyone’s mind. Ms. Rowling is a millionaire and everyone thinks her story is almost a fairy tale. As an ardent fan of hers, I only know too well how much she deserves it.

Every time I read a Harry Potter book, it feels like the first time. I discover something intelligent, virtuous and funny and it’s fresh. The metaphors are subtle and the values are intact. I don’t believe someone subsisting on welfare, could have written something as marvelous as the Harry Potter series. I’m sure most of us can’t even write our own CVs in that state of mind.

I only wish that the Harry Potter series had come out in my kiddo days. No! I’m not fighting shy to admit my awe for her as an adult. Even Barack Obama is a big Harry Potter fan. There can’t be a greater dude on this planet right now.

PS: After a sneak preview, some of my distinguished readers have reported that this post ends rather abruptly. I wish to reiterate that this is how I have thought it should be. There’s nothing more new to tell about Ms Rowling.

I also have one confession to make. I still haven’t laid my hands on a copy of “Tales of Beedle the Bard”.

I would also like to take this opportunity to tell my loving wife that I have consciously tried and avoided expletives as much as I can.