Saturday, December 29, 2007

Profound thought for the day

The only thing worse than a lack of beauty and excess of brains is a lack of beauty coupled with the misguided conviction that one has brains.
Both abound in law school.

{genesis in the 20 minute break. Fellow philosophers in the picture: pR and abhishek krishnan}

Mating Season

The few readers that I have managed to acquire through subtle publicity (such as leaving my blog address on the lib comps) are complaining. I am too sentimental, some say. Too wannabe, state others. I tried to change. Really, I did. The results are below. And they're not very encouraging.

So, here's what I hope is a funny poem. Well, maybe not at first glance. But I’m sure that if you look hard enough, you’ll be able to see the humour. Now, look really hard. Or you might just miss it. It’s quite dark. The humour, that is.

On the epidemic of love that's been going around the campus.

The script is ready, the stage is done
Nervous the actor, ready to run.
But, with shifty eyes and leaping heart
He steels himself and rehearses his lines
“Umm…err…..”, and then a pause,
Before the “Would you like to go out with me?”
A play, staged a million times before
And still running, to packed, eager houses.

Raise the curtains, direct the spotlight
Let the actor with the rose
And the love-lorn eyes
Perform, and earn his place in the sun.

The lady enters, demure and shy
Knowing all, but playing along.
On her face dances unbridled joy
And with feigned surprise, she acts coy.

Some flounder, some stutter
But most get there in the end.
The script unrolls perfect
And the lady nods her head.

I sit in the front row
In my now familiar seat
And watch the play
Like I’ve done a thousand times before.
Laughing at each forgotten line
And green-eyed at each delivered one.

The show must go on, I know.
So, I lean back in my chair
And wait for the next lead pair
To come along, and take the stage.


Clarificatory notes

1. I am not heartbroken. In fact, I’m at this time as happy as one could be in law school. I couldn’t be happier if tomorrow was my last day here.
2. I am not jealous of anyone who’s popped the question. The poem demanded what I ended up writing there. Anything for my art.
3. I know my poems might lead to my categorization as a romantic, but I assure you I’m only a part-time one. Part-time being the time spent on the blog. As to the remainder of the time, ask anyone, “Is Bimal a romantic?” and they’ll look you up and down and say, “Bimal? He’s about as romantic as a rotten egg given on Valentine’s Day. He tries to be funny and cynical. Sometimes, he manages to achieve a semblance of humour. Sometimes.”

I hope this is one of the times I've managed to achieve the abovementioned semblance of humour.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

On heartbreak and poetry

Heartbreak is the best muse a poet could ask for.
So, fall in love with a girl who’s sure to break your heart. And who will mend it before she breaks it again.

The fall of the Phantom

DISCLAIMER: This post is only for comic book fans.
P.S- Just to clarify, if you haven’t read The Phantom, you are NOT a comic book fan.


Let me tell you a story.
Imagine a cave in the shape of a skull, in a forest denser than any in existence.
Imagine a treasure beyond measure, all manner of gold and silver, goblets that have touched the lips of Alexander and Jesus. All stored away in a cavern in that cave.
Imagine a tribe of dwarfs who, with their poison-tipped arrows are probably the most dangerous people you will never meet. For you wouldn’t dare to venture into that jungle.
They’re crowded outside the cave. Waiting.

Imagine, if you will, that this is real. For it is.

The 21st Phantom lies on his bed, with his son by his side. A life well lived is about to come to an end. And he knows it. He looks up at his son’s face, and sees in it the undisrupted continuation of the legacy of the Phantom. He readies himself for his final task.

When a new Phantom takes the task from his dying father, he swears the Oath of the Skull: "I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty, and injustice, in all their forms, and my sons and their sons shall follow me." It has been so, for twenty one generations. And it shall, he thinks, continue to be so.

Using the last reserves of the will-power that has so faithfully served him for 60 years, he utters the oath and waits for his son to repeat it. Straining his ears for an answer that, by all rights, should have been readily forthcoming, he feebly mutters the oath again. And waits.

And for the first time in the many centuries that the Phantom has endured as a legend, a myth, an entity feared by all criminals, a Phantom asks, “Why?”
And stands up and walks away from his father’s death-bed.

Thus it is that the Phantom fell.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

There are a million interesting things to write poems on. He chose to ignore them all.

Bimal, the Mallu, the alpha male
Could withstand anything, a tsunami, a gale
This is the story of Bimal the Mallu
Who, alas, was once a lallu.

He came to college, a shy young lad
Quiet and reserved, maybe even sad
It went on like this, for a year or so,
Till the excitement subsided and the 'studs' lay low.

Then he came out of the shadows, and into the sun
Loved by all 'coz none did he shun
For once in his life, he saw what it was like
To be loved by all, men & women alike.

He took to the limelight like a fish to water
Forgot that every girl was some man's daughter
And thus changed a boy into a man
The bigger the bounty, the harder he ran.

He learnt to be soppy, the tricks of the trade
Learnt to be smooth, a monster was made
With his greek god face and acquired skill
There was noone left who he couldn't kill

Women fell left, right and centre
From a student, he became an inventor
He wrote the book about bastards in men
'CHEAT, SWINDLE, DECEIVE AND LIE- How and when'.

But the best is yet to come
The icing on the cake, the cherry, the plum
He did it all with such an innocent smile
The women always thinking they had used him all the while.

But the poor souls, little did they know
A magician's secrets are not for show
Not to women, not even to the guys
None privy to the deception, the lies.

All think of him as a poor young lad
Shy and reserved, maybe even sad
But beneath lies a master, a genius of sorts
The charming prince, the king of torts.

That is the question that faced me today
And thinking about it, in class I lay
I was a player but he is the game
And there he goes now, with yet another dame.

Adhiraj Singh Malik. A friend. A really jobless friend. Artistic licence has been given a new meaning by him. I would like to be what he says I am. But I don't see that happening. Not in law school.

No, I am not being modest here. I don't do modest. If I am something, I make sure the whole world knows about it.

But I don't lie either. Well, not as far as its possible not to.

So, let me tell you that far from being the game, I am not even a player. Let me rephrase. Not even a substitute player. Not, for one minute, even a ballboy.
I am one among the spectators. I make smart ass comments when other people fuck up on the field. That's what I do. That's all I do.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Blogger's block

You actually expected something, with a title like that?

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Revisiting second year

I know I promised myself that I wouldn't comment on law school, but this was irresistable. I must have been really disillusioned with law school when I wrote this two years back.

Harvard of the East
Belly of the Beast
Whatever you may call it
To study here, I was deemed fit
Last July, I came here
Without even shedding a tear
Welcome to a happy life, they said
And then, to the system we were wed
Sincere student I was
But then I could barely pass
Scamming I practiced
And an O I just missed
Sliming, bitching and all of that
Eventually makes you a rat
Running in the rat race
A podium finish; a respectable place
CV value your ultimate concern
And not how much you learn
Somehow increase your CGPA
Eventually be someone’s TA
Law school makes you rich
But along the way friends you ditch
Cribbing all the way
All night and all day
Too depressing this poem
And so without rhyme I stop.

Joke. Please laugh.

----The manager called one of his employees into his office and told him, "Jenkins, I've decided to make you the plant manager."

"Gee, thanks, boss," the worker gushed. "What do I have to do?"

"Just water them everyday", replied the manager-----

"Bimal, we've decided to, in acknowledgement of your moral fibre and honesty, make you a SDGM member."

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

You write. Even though there is nothing to write on.

When I started this blog......have you noticed that your creative juices start flowing, actually gushing, when there are other things you are supposed to do, like projects? Its true; try sitting down with a conscious will to write something. You'll sit for a long time. You need to have more important things which you can sideline. I think the guilty pleasures of being a deviant spurs on the creativity.

Pathetic, eh? The pinnacle of my deviant behaviour. Not doing projects. Oooooh!!


Anyways, as I was saying, when I started this blog, I wanted it not to be a comment, as so many other blogs are, on our lives in law school. There are good ones, I'm not denying it, like nagarbhavi.blogspot.com. Check it out. (The nerve of me; commenting upon an infinitely better blog in so patronising a manner). However, the point is that there's no space for a new player in that category.

But now, now I am hardpressed to find things to write on. Writing is a difficult process. {You write, you cut it out}^n. Then you finally post it. Then you look at the time and go, "Oh, shit!! Projects!!!". Then you come back and edit it. Again. And again and again.

There you go. That's what writing is all about.

My blog is deteriorating, isn't it? Fuck!!!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!!

There can be posts without titles as well.

www.page52.blogspot.com
Fellow poet, comrade-in-philosophy and joblessness. Quite an interesting chap. You'll be missing something if you don't click on it. Of course, I'm here taking the liberty of assuming that there is someone reading my blog.
One of the benefits of having a blog without a count-meter is that you can always hope for the best case scenario. So, to my millions of readers- read away!!

We've all been here, haven't we?

Excerpts from a Stephen Fry book:

------"Where's it all gone, Donald? This is not the Cambridge I knew. The buildings are the same, you are the same, and yet.."

"You cannot step into the same river twice, for fresh water is always flowing past you. Your Cambridge was built of people, not of bricks and stone and glass, and those people have severally dispersed into the world. They will never be assembled together again. The circus has long since folded its tents and stolen silently away and you are standing on the empty village green wondering why it looks so shabby and forlorn."------

Sound familiar? Feeling sad now?
Misery loves company. Hop aboard!!

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

On the lack of emotion

I, ROBOT? 

There’s a hole where my heart should be
No, this is not a tale of lost love
Nor one of broken hearts
It’s just a tale, of a hole, where my heart should be.

When love came knocking
I could not feel it
It just passed through
And it never came again.

When death came, grim
I thought I might cry
But it wreaked its havoc
And my eyes were still dry.

Then I looked down
To where my heart should be
And noted there, a hole
There, where my heart should be

And I felt not sad, not happy
Nor angry, nor afraid
I just looked up, and moved on
Knowing my life would never be whole
And all because of a hole,
Where my heart should be.

A break from love, long overdue

A COMMENT ON OUR INTOXICATED TIMES


I lie on my bed
Thinking
About life and death
And crystal meth.

With that single deed
Of smoking weed
Did I land
In quick, quick sand

Next came cocaine
And for hours, I forgot my pain
Thought I was a rebel
And once, once I even saw an angel.

Head above the sand
In a desolate land
Knowing I should leap
But wanting only to sleep
This extreme bliss
Who would ever want to miss?

And along came a friend
“Your worries I shall mend
This bliss shall not end.
Give me a coin
And take your heroin.
You shall float in space
Play in a maze
You will never want
And there will be
Nothing that you can’t.”

And so I entered heaven
Thought I was a raven
Turned into a rainbow
Forgot many a woe
And a long time later
When I fell back to the ground
I tried being
And found
That there was nothing,
Nothing I could be.

Empty but for a thirst
For that land
And its blissful sand
For never ending sunshine
And imagined women and wine.

So I lie on my bed
And think of life and death.

Ladies(hopefully) & gentlemen, poems no.2 & 3

A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT: REALITY

The poet within
He sees
Things that never have been
Things that never will be

The lover within
He dreams
Of love that never died
Of hearts that never broke

And I;
I go, with wandering mind
To words never whispered
To lips that never met
To moments never shared
And then,
Then I shed a tear.

SHE CAME AND WENT, AND I'M STILL WAITING 

If only you knew
How much I’ve bled
Your words
So callously said
Drew so much red.
Oh, if only you knew.

You would turn back
Return to my embrace
And it will be like
The night never was
When you vanished
Without a trace.

I close my eyes
And hope
For hope makes dreams
And dreams,
Dreams make us.
And so with my eyes closed,
I hope.

That one day
You will know
How my heart broke
How my faith died.
And on that day
I’ll be waiting
In the rain
For you.

Two projects made love, and a romantic was born.

LOVE, IMAGINED

When the dew drops fall off you
It is in those moments far too few
That I love to just stand
Alone in that far off land

And just look at you
Wondering
Why I didn’t take the chance
Why I let you go

So many things to say
Every single day
Bottled up in my mind
Courage I could not find

Is it love, I wonder?
And then I hear the thunder
Lightning flashes
As beautiful as your eye-lashes

And I know for sure
That this is no mere lure
I will hold onto it
Till I have to let go, bit by bit

And even then, some moments
I will think about you
Wondering whether, in some far-off land
Someone else is holding your hand

How I wish I had asked you
That morning when off you fell the dew
And then I fall asleep
Dreaming of waking up next to you
And then I open my eyes
And sing the song that should’ve been sung
Long, long ago.

Applied for poetic licence. Waiting hopefully.

Over the past few days, I have realised something. Poetry is something that comes naturally to you. You don't try to write poetry. When you're bored as hell and looking for reasons not to commit suicide (no, I don't need peer counselling; I AM a peer counsellor myself), poetry arrives as a godsend. As ardent a fan of Oscar Wilde as I am, I still must find slight disagreement with his doctrine, art for art's sake. Poetry is not for poetry's sake. It's for the poet's sake. It serves several purposes, many of them therapeutic, even.

1. It makes you feel important. Ha, I can write poetry and you can't. So fuck you!

2. It is a good conversational topic. "Hey, I was bored in class the other day and I wrote some poetry. Wanna read it? {And throw in some good comments while you're at it}". But not me. I don't fish for compliments. Lesser mortals do.

3. Written well, it portrays you as a sensitive person. Any girl would prefer a poet to a porn addict.

I'm sure there are other uses as well. It's just that, in my current project-ridden state, I cannot summon up the mental energy to attempt finding them. In the next few posts, I shall be putting up what you get when you force your prototype young upright determined dedicated (i seem to be running out of flattering adjectives here) specimen of this generation (that is so often falsely accused of deteriorating moral standards and lamented as being a blot on the otherwise perfect progress of humanity) to labour through 60 hours of taxing classes.

First, you get bad legal jokes like the one you just read. And big, pretty words which sound and look good but are otherwise useless.

Second, you get pathetic attempts at poetry.

Third, you get someone subtly fishing for compliments by declaring at the outset that what you are about to read are pathetic attempts.

Hold your puke-bag firmly by your side. It will probably be the most important thing that you could carry on this literary journey. And here we go.
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