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The Observation Journal

Suicide is the only philosophical question.

Careless Whisper

Kinsmen and clansmen
Children and folk
Have never been my soul
Have never been my own

My social apparatus
My communal stance
My acquaintant nature
My friends and foes

My daydreams and delusions
My nightmares and hallucinations
My morning caffeine
My bedtime sugar

My name and legacy
My integrity and fallacy
My history unreserved
My life unfolds

Have never been my own
Have never been my soul

To lose them again
To find them once more
In friends like you I invest
With a careless whisper

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There are somethings that we all know,
To be universal, to be the truth, to be the ever bright gold.

The sun that shines and the moon shies
Away from the mundane clouds that Play, around like a child’s rhyme.

Kindness, love, hatred, jealousy
Spirit and wine and God’s grace
And the heartless life that loots the old.

But never have I felt the overwhelming power of the universality of the sweat of the brow,
More than a human, his fancies and whims. His ups and downs, highs and lows.

Not all I see either love or hate completely all the things they know.
Not all I feel is sadness or blithe for all the times, like a timeless river
That birth, life and death did flow.

But only perspiration that yeilds me the knowledge
Of your exhaustion, your heartache, your weakness and numbness,
Or the fear of mysetries unknown.

The aching limbs that tread the earth, The ailing age that all man feels,
The wailing souls that all the Gods see,
And the paining arms after their duties done,
Have all given their way to the sweat of the brow.

Thoughts in a Tumbler

It’s funny, how I try to resurrect the dead. Dead friendships, dead dreams, dead people and a dead WordPress account. They say, you always lose everything twice. Once, in your reality and once again, in your memories.

Can you challenge reality with your memories? Can you vow to crush it’s tyranny by keeping your restless nightmares going? How much can you fight? How much can you afford to lose?

People always want you to come to your senses and live in the real world. But how often are they themselves in the real world? We as humans, by evolution, are hunters and gatherers. We hunt and gather for our survival. The only difference is, we don’t collect meat and fruits anymore. It’s down to memories now.

And, I, the way I was birthed into this world, am a gatherer. Call it my ‘urban survival instinct’ if you want.

In spite of being a gatherer though, I am not a good one. I keep losing every lovely day I’ve ever spent and every friend I made and every one I ever loved and every memory I ever made just because I can.

I would like to leave you with these thoughts alone today. Not with answers, but thoughts.

Aadhith B Pillai

Rhymes #3

Rhymes #3.

Rhymes #2

The poem is written about a ride on a Coimbatore city bus, and how I missed my stop due to the crowded aisle.

Some Things.

My back arched and my chest bowed,
Over all my luck and a life beloved.
Mornings are a piece of harrow here, a mock
At a miserable routine. Some lies and some
Higher causes that make me climb those steps again.
21B was burning britght, all coffee brown and adult,
Some hopeless corwd on a ratchety town bus.

Some baseless dreams smeared with vermillion and ash,
Some more joined us with parallel clay sandal. They all
Smelt of labor, wage, and sweat. I saw shovels, humility,
Bags and books all on their way to another day.
My forehead poured out profusely and I wiped it hard.

There! My thumbnail cut a neat line across my brow.

It dripped a little and I dabbed a little. It condensed.
I kept staring at my thumbnail, washed with a fresh cut.
I heard jeers and jiggles and quackling giggles,
All in my head trying to take me low. I smiled for a bit.
I’m singing for you, how low can it get? The finger still
Resilient at a sin undone, blood drawn and I belonged
A little here now; for on my red I had sworn.

I counted his mates, one plus an eight.
The septuagenarian in khakhis screamed “Town Hall!”
I was pushed down, a little too hard and I fell
On the hot scorching tar. I looked up and my wrist watch,
Beamed and spread rays from Ra. I got my feet under me.

They hassled a little and 21B was coughing again. There,
I saw shovels, humility, bags and books, on their way
To a worthless day.

Singing for you, I lost my sense. A couple of miles extra
From where I left, to where I had to be. I turned my back,
Started huffing the walk and puffing the exhaust.
My insides burnt, with curses and screams from Ma. Never,
Ever, did she approve. She told me not to sing, to groove.
Noon t’was, t’was too soon to give up hope. I had to loose
My discomfort, and talk and rhyme like the pope. As if,
The world was full of big hearts and bigger lies.

I stopped a couple of times or two, for aching limbs and
The solistice sun. I had more than enough to catch
A yellow cracker or another coffee brown rambler.
I built up  this quest instead. Of walking all the way,
To measure the distance an extra penny buys.

For a change of wind and a show of green,
I walk into a canopy of Tamarind and Neem.
Crossed a railroad, crossed an overhead bridge, and
Crossed a little soul swaying high and low, with a swing
Fashioned out of her mother’s dusty saree, tied up
On the branch of a Gulmohar. She eyeball’d at me,
She was on a conjecture. She was not sure.

The Universe works in mysterious ways, to take
Our galaxies into different suns and newer worlds of peaceful land.
The little soul smiled a smile so broad and beautiful,
I stopped right there and smiled at her back.
And who thought that the world was a cruel landlord?

Her silent signs were questions of self-realisation.
Accusations at a numeric life. That day I smiled so wide.
A couple of miles changed into a reason to meet,
A co-existant soul full of satisfication. She started swinging
And I started leaving. I heard, “Anna! No main-road there.
Take the left fork!” A month it has been, she hasn’t left.
Guess life is always a couple of miles extra,
For some unknown reasons and beautiful some things.

Aadhith B Pillai

Rhymes #1

About Nothing.

Many a slumber lost in a sequence of fantasies,
Dreams that don’t let you wink or sleep.
Many a days washed away into palsies,
Of inner incests by salacious symphonies.
Many a lives lost in countless acts caused by terror,
Of letting the wonder dust fall into our homes.
Many a hearts to be satiated by sacrifices,
Youth to be killed, the wild to be wilderness’d.
Many a laws set apart for all to bend and some to rise,
For all to plough, some rest though.
While all sleep, when some infest them,
With hopes, with faith, with lies and with dreams.

Many a truths learnt by admonishing beauty,
Because to sing and to dance and to paint and to spray,
Is to flow like the wind, and like a nun to pray.
Many a battles to lose and wars to win,
Another cradle to knit for the Messiah to sleep in,
To blasphemise our brushes, to glorify sin.
Many a women to woo, many a women to wed,
Never take up arms instead. For only once He said,
“I made you both of mud.” But wider the muscles spread.
Many a men lust the crown, but it stays with the hierarchy,
The new world was created not with peace, but anarchy.
It never ends, but pumps away like the cardia in many.

Many a songs to praise, years to break down to days,
Many a hearts to feel, but no arms to revolt about nothing.

The Future Rhythm Machine

The term ‘generation gap’ as we all know is a big, dark, plane of frustration as we all have grown up. Hours spent in listening to the the glories of R. D. Burman, Morarji Desai, Satyajit Ray, Dhyan Chand, Amitabh, J. F. K, Castro, the Gandhis and so, who are praised to be the cultural stalwarts of supposedly the best era ever have been the subject of momentary pretentious admiration, flaunting retro lifestyle, unspoken silent curses and even impulsive disgust over anti-feminist, racist, orthodox, incapable people (not Indira and never J. F. K. of course) who couldn’t handle it and went away so fast (Big B excluded), so short.

Given the speed of today’s life, generation gap is the only sole truth you can feel as late as you wake up, sometimes at noon, with Ma’s jeers at our lazy routines and a completely messed up and hopeless, inbuilt biological clock. Worshipping the neighbour’s daughter who goes to the tutor’s at five in the morning, the milkman who’d ring the bells at six, the sun’s rays that helps the body synthesise vitamin D at seven is what you’d call our Kausalyaa Suh Prabhaata in the south and the morning Hanuman Chaalisa elsewhere. Thumping, meaningless and loud electronic music, fashion that is the bible of inappropriateness and unawareness which has stemmed up all the hatred for Twitter have been given a deaf ear and blind eyes. Why so?

Ever wondered if all our folks were praised by the hour for being so conservative, active and mannered? Or were they at all?  Yes they were, taken. Is that ALL that was expected of them? Was something even expected? No.  I dare not speak anything about the people who were well gifted with middle class lives when education was a scarce privilege. There are some hard hitting truths that our elders would never accept. Let’s say people who were born in the sixties and spent their teenage in seventies and eighties. Unemployment was the skyline, tuberculosis was the new age plague, tobacco smoking was a publicly admirable swagger and lifetime longevity was something either unknown or ignored. High infant mortality rate, a dozen kids every home and the way they treated women. Foreign investors were looting the country blind. They’d set up Carbide factories, pay the labourers shit, reap all the profits, subtly colonize the young nation’s economy in fields that were supposed to be our strongholds and answer irresponsibly when there’d be a disastrous gas leakage that’d kill thousands and affect generations to come. Bureaucracy was run on corruption. And youngsters were fighting untold, painful and a life threatening wars inside, against a society that would never let them fit in.

Directionless and bleak, countless lives were lost. Good, honest, students and youth that were taught to dream. Dream well and dream big, but were never provided with the syllabi, to always dream of a career that would require academic excellence. To always dream of a life under your father. And to always dream of a woman from your mother’s preapproved list of daughters in law. Healthcare was as far away as Mars and the States was as far away as the Moon.

Fast forward some three good decades, all you need to say to sum it all up, is smartphones. The magical, hard to believe, miraculous portal that will show you nothing more than another portal. Well, I’m not here to say anything about the internet. I hardly mean to say anything negative about it. I’m talking about smartphones. Glass slates, the modern day windows to take a peep at your neighbour’s room. Smartphones took illusions to the best level. Illusions that we, solely, have created, about ourselves. Again, I do not mean pretention. Pretentions are outwardly fancies and whims, which are aimed at achieving your description of perfection. Illusions are your barricades, set up as per your procedures. Silent lessons of pain, happiness, morphine and cyanide which push you through the hour to protect yourselves, is the illusion you create. Consciously, yes. Sub consciously, yes. It’s your basic way of life day in and day out.

One thing that I’ve learned so far after silently observing people in adversities (not many, but enough) is that society was never there. It’s a big, fat lie that we have been told from day one. I’ve seen nations, friends, races, castes, creeds, crews, political parties, regions, states, teams, families, communities but never, not even once, a society. You would be bobbing your head hard if you have felt what I have. I’m saying this out loud. And the one thing that made me say this was a small time electronic music critic, Kodwo Eshun’s book ‘More Brilliant Than The Sun.’ It’s a simple book which only aims at breaking every single norm that primitive jazz musicians had set, to create the futuristic true pulse music machine, “The Futurhythmachine.” I loved the way he let me lash out at Dean Morgan, The Beach Boys and Frank Sinatra for the way they moulded words to be the sole requirement for music because of which electronic, advanced genres of rock and pop-country music has difficulties getting accepted all over.

Sorry for getting dragged away. The point is that music has impacted smartphone users more than anything because it fulfilled our lust for melodies as they are readily available for a download, just a click away. We began searching for meanings through sounds. Background scores started to affect us more than songs, at times. That’s when I saw a direct relativity between jazz music transformation and the Indian youth and their barricades.

No matter how much we miss having a physical friend to talk to, we’ll always accept a WhatsApp contact and a Facebook friend as a substitution. I myself have a friend with whom I have shared everything, since the last two years. I know there is a person who is called so. Never have we hung out. Maybe waved a hi here and a hello there. I perform well as a WhatsApp contact they can lean on, and that is where some of their darkest secrets spill out. For you won’t know when there is an oil spill inside an oil rig. It’s a cycle. We all know, how in a virtual friendship, there is a submissive profile and a dominant profile.

Step 1 : Sub feels sorry.

Step 2 : Dom feels safe.

Step 3 : Dom feels happy.

Step 4 : Sub feels sad.

Step 5 : And before you can guess, the Dom is in a crisis again.

Return to Step 1.

And texts, words and chat screens have become our virtual reality. I say it again. Technology has offered us something far more resourceful. Connectivity to minds, not people. Minds that freckle, alter,  hide and stand out bold. That can connect with a sense of oneness. It eliminates the pre written laws of civil communion and let’s you assume avatars as you love. Again, not pretention but mere self  gratification. Unity is a mere description. But it begins at the level of a simple conversation. That said.

Our ability to accept betrayals, farewells and goodbyes readily is a coral curse, but a crux-al boon. And is how, someday, we shall present our children with not a society to fit in, but a utopian world to be proud of, where they won’t need to fit in. Never feel low about not fulfilling the parenthesis of perfection. We don’t aim at perfection in our physical self, but in our lives. Be a rebel. Terrorize the normal. Guerrilla warfare was meant for you. You already have a Che inside. Always be glad that you love at the speed of light.

Square One

Nothing much on my mind. Probably no one’s ever gonna read it. So, wuhoo! Have a good day me!

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