last few days i have heard the words 'stable' and 'critical' more than i had ever heard in my entire life. apparently they seem to be opposites but that is how we describe mr. pramod mahajan's condition... He is stable and critical. hmmm... must be a new phrase in medico political parlance, shall we say...
all of us parked at the hinduja hospital, yes that is what i am, part of the parasitic media, watching people come and go and speculate... am beyond discussing media behaviour, it is shameful, annoying and ridiculous... i thank god for the small mercy that am a print person and not a breathless, gasping, breaking news (quite literally!) tv types... the mutual admiration for each other is well known... so the discussion is best avoided...
stable and critical... stable but critical and critical but stable... amazing how the actual incident affects me less than the word play... and of course the speculation and conspiracy theory! i think the condition of media is stable and critical... we have become very very stable with no one to question, no body to write strong worded letters to editors. the quality of reporting, informing has plunged to critical depths... stable and critical... now it all makes sense!
today is not a good day to post...
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
khvaab marte nahin...
i have a friend in kathmandu... havent heard from her in sometime... no, i am not worried about her well being. am sure she's ok. but i am wondering if am thinking about nepal and the turmoil there because i have a friend there or because it truly is disturbing... there are several lows we as humanity keep hitting... and we keep at it quite consistently, like dravid's batting or something... but i dont worry about all of eually or even marginally equally...
it would be juvenile to say that power is huge force... of course it is. it makes you, hmmm what shall i say, careless?
and may be fear of losing it, is a bigger, greater and much stronger force... makes you more cruel perhaps.
what must it take for a king to let go of absolute control? what must it take for government to make sure kids dont die of starvation few kilometres away from financial capital of india?
what must it take for cops to investigate a rape case sensitively and not brush it saying it consentual sex can also cause injuries???
i dont think india will hold dow chemicals responsible or answerable for alleged offences committed by union carbide the company they took over... i wonder why...
i went for some street play organised by students at chowpatty... they wore letters and made "FREEDUMB" in chain... they tried convincing the traffic police that it was a peaceful gathering.. they dutifully sang "tu zinda hai tu zindagi ki jeet par yakin kar" after the cops didnt let them perform... they tried lighting a candle in that windy breeze... of course, the candles never lit... they didnt perform the play... but a constable, i believe, took the post card from them and signed religiously... some people went back thinking about farmers' suicides and the bhopal gas tragedy...
careless, cruel, powerful, weak, suffering, aware, persistent, arrogant, stubborn, sensitive, underdogs, DOGS.... all these keep taking some strange forms and meet me in real and in my dreams...
khvaab marte nahin... kyun pata nahin, lekin, khvaab marte nahin...
it would be juvenile to say that power is huge force... of course it is. it makes you, hmmm what shall i say, careless?
and may be fear of losing it, is a bigger, greater and much stronger force... makes you more cruel perhaps.
what must it take for a king to let go of absolute control? what must it take for government to make sure kids dont die of starvation few kilometres away from financial capital of india?
what must it take for cops to investigate a rape case sensitively and not brush it saying it consentual sex can also cause injuries???
i dont think india will hold dow chemicals responsible or answerable for alleged offences committed by union carbide the company they took over... i wonder why...
i went for some street play organised by students at chowpatty... they wore letters and made "FREEDUMB" in chain... they tried convincing the traffic police that it was a peaceful gathering.. they dutifully sang "tu zinda hai tu zindagi ki jeet par yakin kar" after the cops didnt let them perform... they tried lighting a candle in that windy breeze... of course, the candles never lit... they didnt perform the play... but a constable, i believe, took the post card from them and signed religiously... some people went back thinking about farmers' suicides and the bhopal gas tragedy...
careless, cruel, powerful, weak, suffering, aware, persistent, arrogant, stubborn, sensitive, underdogs, DOGS.... all these keep taking some strange forms and meet me in real and in my dreams...
khvaab marte nahin... kyun pata nahin, lekin, khvaab marte nahin...
Khvaab marate nahii.n
ahmed faraz
Khvaab marate nahii.n
Khvaab dil hai.n na aa.Nkhe.n na saa.Nse.n ke jo
rezaa-rezaa hue to bikhar jaaye.nge
jism kii maut se ye bhii mar jaaye.nge
Khvaab marate nahii.n
Khvaab to raushanii hai.n, navaa hai.n, havaa hai.n
jo kaale pahaa.Do.n se rukate nahii.n
zulm ke dozaKho.n se bhii phukate nahii.n
raushanii aur navaa aur havaa ke aalam
maqtalo.n me.n pahu.Nch kar bhii jhukate nahii.n
Khvaab to harf hai.n
Khvaab to nuur hai.n
Khvaab to suqraat hai.n
Khvaab mansuur hai.n
Monday, April 17, 2006
na jaane aaj ye kis kaa Khayaal aayaa hai...
when i was really tiny... (no no, it's not one of those stories about my happy and banal and ordinary childhood... just like the sound of it... makes me feel old and wise!)
when i was in school we were made to write "autobiographies" of things, like autobiography of a pen, a pencil, autobiography of a tree, a flower, lots of things. what must have been the purpose?
that we, as kids, understood or sort of understood the role and purpose and utility (ah that's more like it!) of those things.
that we, as kids, could have the concession of exercising our imagination, let it wander a bit and even get some points and marks and grades out of it. (but the crazy imaginative ones got the least marks. so may be the point was in doing otherwise! as in, give a perfectly-fertile-for-imagination-and-creativity situation and the deal is whoever makes the worst out of it emerges a winner!)
that we, as kids and perhaps as adults later on, could have some potential to see things from others' point of view, feel for something that is otherwise just a use-and-throw thing like a mango tree. may be think of animals and birds and trees and objects like pen and paper to be real and treat them well.
does anyone remember writing such stories?
can any school teacher explain? am still willing to be taught - to imagine, to create, to see things from the other side of the telescope!
when i was in school we were made to write "autobiographies" of things, like autobiography of a pen, a pencil, autobiography of a tree, a flower, lots of things. what must have been the purpose?
that we, as kids, understood or sort of understood the role and purpose and utility (ah that's more like it!) of those things.
that we, as kids, could have the concession of exercising our imagination, let it wander a bit and even get some points and marks and grades out of it. (but the crazy imaginative ones got the least marks. so may be the point was in doing otherwise! as in, give a perfectly-fertile-for-imagination-and-creativity situation and the deal is whoever makes the worst out of it emerges a winner!)
that we, as kids and perhaps as adults later on, could have some potential to see things from others' point of view, feel for something that is otherwise just a use-and-throw thing like a mango tree. may be think of animals and birds and trees and objects like pen and paper to be real and treat them well.
does anyone remember writing such stories?
can any school teacher explain? am still willing to be taught - to imagine, to create, to see things from the other side of the telescope!
na jii bhar ke dekha...
na jii bhar ke dekhaa na kuchh baat kii
Bashir Badr
na jii bhar ke dekhaa na kuchh baat kii
ba.Dii aarazuu thii mulaaqaat kii
ka_ii saal se kuchh Khabar hii nahii.n
kahaa.N din guzaaraa kahaa.N raat kii
ujaalo.n kii pariyaa.N nahaane lagii.n
nadii gunagunaa_ii Khayaalaat kii
mai.n chup thaa to chalatii havaa ruk ga_ii
zubaa.N sab samajhate hai.n jazbaat kii
sitaaro.n ko shaayad Kahbar hii nahii.n
musaafir ne jaane kahaa.N raat kii
muqaddar mere chashm-e-pura'ab kaa
barasatii hu_ii raat barasaat kii
Bashir Badr
na jii bhar ke dekhaa na kuchh baat kii
ba.Dii aarazuu thii mulaaqaat kii
ka_ii saal se kuchh Khabar hii nahii.n
kahaa.N din guzaaraa kahaa.N raat kii
ujaalo.n kii pariyaa.N nahaane lagii.n
nadii gunagunaa_ii Khayaalaat kii
mai.n chup thaa to chalatii havaa ruk ga_ii
zubaa.N sab samajhate hai.n jazbaat kii
sitaaro.n ko shaayad Kahbar hii nahii.n
musaafir ne jaane kahaa.N raat kii
muqaddar mere chashm-e-pura'ab kaa
barasatii hu_ii raat barasaat kii
Saturday, April 15, 2006
khuda bande se khud puche...
few blasts in and around places of prayer...
few blasts in and around places of homes, shops...
few streams and stains of blood, as usual...
few enquiries, few arrests, few trials, may be...
few committees, few policies, few speeches, even emotional ones...
few chai-coffee discussions, few sympathies, memories perhaps...
few blasts, in and around memories perhaps,
few enquiries, few arrests of chai coffee conversations may be...
few committees, few policies for shops and places of prayers...
few trials of homes...
few stains of blood on sympathies and emotions...
kya hamen pata hai,
hum kaise jee rahen hain, aur kyun,
kya chahte hain hum, aur kyun...
ya phir yehi saza hai humari,
ki
khuda bande se khud puche, bata teri raza kya hai...
few blasts in and around places of homes, shops...
few streams and stains of blood, as usual...
few enquiries, few arrests, few trials, may be...
few committees, few policies, few speeches, even emotional ones...
few chai-coffee discussions, few sympathies, memories perhaps...
few blasts, in and around memories perhaps,
few enquiries, few arrests of chai coffee conversations may be...
few committees, few policies for shops and places of prayers...
few trials of homes...
few stains of blood on sympathies and emotions...
kya hamen pata hai,
hum kaise jee rahen hain, aur kyun,
kya chahte hain hum, aur kyun...
ya phir yehi saza hai humari,
ki
khuda bande se khud puche, bata teri raza kya hai...
Thursday, April 13, 2006
aaj ke naam...
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
from the waste land by t s eliot...
i guess if april could do all that (no matter how much mr.eliot finds it wasteful and cruel, april sure has a fertile creative energy), it must be the force of the month stirring roots with spring rain, that makes me start penning on the virtual (i am yet to become a blogger!).
that i am technologically challenged, is an understatement. also brought up on the old world charm of pen-paper letters, writing for a stranger virtual space, makes me slightly fidgety.
i like the sense of anonymity in a crowd of a zillion bloggers. like being at vt station at 630 pm.
let me put down some random thoughts about my newfound love - radio.
i grew up listening to akashwani regional news at 630 am, dozing and fussing over a coffee, and all-week-lasting morning school blues that disappeared as soon as i reached my chirpy class.
i remember dozing off at about 11 pm listening to 'bela ke phul', vaguely overhearing parents' conversations about how to manage a middle class life and mildly worrying about the usually half done homework.
never imagined that a portable radio could have any better application other than being carried around on an india-pakistan ODI.
until the blaring television started hurting my eyes and ears and insulting my intelligence day in and day out.
until i got so busy with work, kitchen, hangovers, limited spaces that it was only radio that could follow me around everywhere and keep me busy while i was busy. ever tried listening to radio while having a shower?
until i figured that people listen to it very carefully, people take it seriously, not just fisherfolk looking for high tide and rough sea warnings. it is a medium that speaks to you, it is a medium that is cheap (or let's say affordable), at production and consumer level, it is a medium that reaches many many more than i had imagined, whether it is the BBC on short wave or just good (bad, actually) old akashwani. you could be corporate busy, illiterate, inaccessible, poor, young, old, housewife, or anyone else, the radio still squeals for you without threatening to change you or alter your life!
until the sounds challenged me translate the fragrance of jasmine fused with first showers of rain into a sonic wave that says it.
so what about it? i've decided to give it a shot... to get that sound, to voice the real, to air the voices of the real, to generate a kind of wave that stirrs a few roots, to change the world may be?
can't promise success and achievement, but will keep trying...
someone once said, vaade aksar toot jate hain, koshish hi kaamyaab hoti hai...
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
from the waste land by t s eliot...
i guess if april could do all that (no matter how much mr.eliot finds it wasteful and cruel, april sure has a fertile creative energy), it must be the force of the month stirring roots with spring rain, that makes me start penning on the virtual (i am yet to become a blogger!).
that i am technologically challenged, is an understatement. also brought up on the old world charm of pen-paper letters, writing for a stranger virtual space, makes me slightly fidgety.
i like the sense of anonymity in a crowd of a zillion bloggers. like being at vt station at 630 pm.
let me put down some random thoughts about my newfound love - radio.
i grew up listening to akashwani regional news at 630 am, dozing and fussing over a coffee, and all-week-lasting morning school blues that disappeared as soon as i reached my chirpy class.
i remember dozing off at about 11 pm listening to 'bela ke phul', vaguely overhearing parents' conversations about how to manage a middle class life and mildly worrying about the usually half done homework.
never imagined that a portable radio could have any better application other than being carried around on an india-pakistan ODI.
until the blaring television started hurting my eyes and ears and insulting my intelligence day in and day out.
until i got so busy with work, kitchen, hangovers, limited spaces that it was only radio that could follow me around everywhere and keep me busy while i was busy. ever tried listening to radio while having a shower?
until i figured that people listen to it very carefully, people take it seriously, not just fisherfolk looking for high tide and rough sea warnings. it is a medium that speaks to you, it is a medium that is cheap (or let's say affordable), at production and consumer level, it is a medium that reaches many many more than i had imagined, whether it is the BBC on short wave or just good (bad, actually) old akashwani. you could be corporate busy, illiterate, inaccessible, poor, young, old, housewife, or anyone else, the radio still squeals for you without threatening to change you or alter your life!
until the sounds challenged me translate the fragrance of jasmine fused with first showers of rain into a sonic wave that says it.
so what about it? i've decided to give it a shot... to get that sound, to voice the real, to air the voices of the real, to generate a kind of wave that stirrs a few roots, to change the world may be?
can't promise success and achievement, but will keep trying...
someone once said, vaade aksar toot jate hain, koshish hi kaamyaab hoti hai...
bol...
Bol
bol ki lab aazaad hai.n tere
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
bol ki lab aazaad hai.n tere
bol zabaa.N ab tak terii hai
teraa sutawaa.N jism hai teraa
bol ki jaa.N ab tak terii hai
dekh ke aaha.ngar kii dukaa.N me.n
tu.nd hai.n shole surKh hai aahan
khulane lage quffalo.n ke dahaane
phailaa har ek zanjiir kaa daaman
bol ye tho.Daa waqt bahot hai
jism-o-zabaa.N kii maut se pahale
bol ki sach zi.ndaa hai ab tak
bol jo kuchh kahane hai kah le
[sutawaa.N=well built; aaha.ngar=blacksmith; tu.nd=sharp (here it means bright);]
[aahan=iron; quffalo.n ke dahaane=keyhole]
bol ki lab aazaad hai.n tere
Faiz Ahmed Faiz
bol ki lab aazaad hai.n tere
bol zabaa.N ab tak terii hai
teraa sutawaa.N jism hai teraa
bol ki jaa.N ab tak terii hai
dekh ke aaha.ngar kii dukaa.N me.n
tu.nd hai.n shole surKh hai aahan
khulane lage quffalo.n ke dahaane
phailaa har ek zanjiir kaa daaman
bol ye tho.Daa waqt bahot hai
jism-o-zabaa.N kii maut se pahale
bol ki sach zi.ndaa hai ab tak
bol jo kuchh kahane hai kah le
[sutawaa.N=well built; aaha.ngar=blacksmith; tu.nd=sharp (here it means bright);]
[aahan=iron; quffalo.n ke dahaane=keyhole]
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
khvaab basera
khvaab basera
is vaqt to yuu.N lagataa hai ab kuchh bhii nahii.n hai
mahataab na suuraj na a.Ndheraa na saveraa
aa.Nkho.n ke dariiche me.n kisii husn kii jhalakan
aur dil kii panaaho.n me.n kisii dard kaa Deraa
mumkin hai ko_ii vaham ho mumkin hai sunaa ho
galiyo.n me.n kisii chaap kaa ek aaKhirii pheraa
shaaKho.n me.n Khayaalo.n ke ghane pe.D kii shaayad
ab aake karegaa na ko_ii Khvaab baseraa
ik bair na ik mahar na ik rabt na rishtaa
teraa ko_ii apanaa na paraayaa ko_ii meraa
maanaa ki ye sun-saan gha.Dii saKht ba.Dii hai
lekin mere dil ye to faqat ek gha.dii hai
himmat karo jiine ko abhii umr pa.Dii hai
faiz ahmed faiz
is vaqt to yuu.N lagataa hai ab kuchh bhii nahii.n hai
mahataab na suuraj na a.Ndheraa na saveraa
aa.Nkho.n ke dariiche me.n kisii husn kii jhalakan
aur dil kii panaaho.n me.n kisii dard kaa Deraa
mumkin hai ko_ii vaham ho mumkin hai sunaa ho
galiyo.n me.n kisii chaap kaa ek aaKhirii pheraa
shaaKho.n me.n Khayaalo.n ke ghane pe.D kii shaayad
ab aake karegaa na ko_ii Khvaab baseraa
ik bair na ik mahar na ik rabt na rishtaa
teraa ko_ii apanaa na paraayaa ko_ii meraa
maanaa ki ye sun-saan gha.Dii saKht ba.Dii hai
lekin mere dil ye to faqat ek gha.dii hai
himmat karo jiine ko abhii umr pa.Dii hai
faiz ahmed faiz
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