Thursday, November 8, 2007

THE ACT OF CREATION

Behold a child, a painting, a film, a poem,
A common thread runs thru all of them
The thread intended by divine sanction
Anointed as the act of creation

It all begins with a thought,
Seeking what was never sought
And then begins the courtship with the elements
Leading each other thru blind alleys n mysterious scents
All the time intended to magnify the desperation
It’s the greatest act of deception- this flirtation

And then comes the moment of clarity when all the pretense falls,
The body, the canvas, the reel, the paper fervently calls
For its significant other to come and surrender
To the needs of the self as well as each other

But alas, nothing has a clear start in this spherical globe,
So in the dark room, mind n soul, one has to grope n probe
And shyly, after many fits, starts and weird accidents,
The beginning is reached much to the joy of the elements

And then come suddenly, as the tsunami did,
The anxiety and relief, both dark n splendid.
The anxiety for the success of every moment that follows the present
The relief for the success of every moment that precedes the present

And passion rages on as the elements collide with a force so furious
It can make our dear physicists really really curious
The act is sometimes a war, sometimes a rebellion,
Sometimes love, sometimes life, sometimes oblivion
It is domination, bringing the other to submission,
It’s also submission, giving the other the joy of domination

The violence of a kiss, a stroke, a rhythm, a word,
Can put to shame the mace of the greatest warlord
And still the gentleness of a caress, a hue, a smile, a rhyme
Can unemploy our angels and saints and turn them to crime

It is the most selfish of acts and still its something more
It’s the greatest appreciation of God’s art – in the texture and color

And the suddenly, as if one can surprise one’s own being,
As if it were an illusion dat the central nervous system controls everything
As if some unknown reservoir of power is unearthed,
Untouched, unravaged, unspoilt but unattended
The elements reach the climax of beauty, of union, of perfection
This is the Act of Creation

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

HER EYES !!!

nazarein milana chahte hain, deedar karna chahte hain,
par zamaana beech mein aa jaata hai.
teri in aankhon ke kaale samundar mein doob jaana chahte hain,
par sharafat beech mein aa jaati hai.
un nainon ka kabhi uthna kabhi sharmana dekhna chahte hain,
par woh kambakht be-lagaam lattein beech mein aa jaati hain.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

JRM- My Karmabhoomi.. The Best of My Umang Memories

We talk about the people, the processes, the meetings, the professors; but never about the place where it all happened. That ugly piece of architecture that stands next to our college building. It lacks even the basic principles of structure- those of symmetry and functionality. But somehow it has proved capable of stimulating us umangites’ minds to come up with some of the most path breaking- maybe even a few ridiculous- ideas that have catapulted umang to where it is now. Here are a few of my pet memories of my proverbial Janmabhoomi, Ranbhoomi, Matrubhoomi- JRM.

Pratik Shroff (VCP3-2004), along with Chintan Buddhadev (Security Head-2004) conceived one of the most wacko ideas to comprehend the mystery called JRM. They played hide-n-seek with the committee members to understand what might be the places where the audience may hide during the evacuation before the Pronite. The jury is still out on how successful was the exercise but it gets an A for the innovativeness of the idea.

Cricket on JRM was many things to many people. For some it was trying to stay in touch with one of the many things that umang tends to take you away from. For some it was simply about recharging the overused batteries. For the select ambitious lot, it was a ‘platform’ to show their HoDs how versatile they were. I have to my credit the honour of breaking the glass notice board outside room 3 during 2005. After being bludgeoned by sponsors and journos alike, there is nothing like letting off some steam on the approaching ball.

And this is exactly why I empathize with Parinaz. It is common knowledge that the real reason why she used to kick the football as hard as she did was because she used to imagine it to be her VCP- what with it being white, round and quiet- just like me. I don’t think JRM will forget her lightning-like strikes in a hurry.

There are many things you do as an umangite which seem downright stupid in hindsight. It always used to irk me and Harshal that so many departments used to sit on chairs in JRM rather than on the ground itself. Somehow our miscalculation of the magnitude of influence a VCP has made us believe that if we set an example, the rest may follow. In this endeavor, we used to make it a point to sit right in the center of JRM, discussing nothing much, only how smart we were to have thought of this!!!

The monsoon’s gloom always brought a new cheer to JRM. My nose remembers the smell of the soil and cement willingly taking the raindrops into its embrace. It was almost as if JRM had a tacit agreement with the monsoons to trouble us. Even as we would be trying to come up with one decent idea to impress our HoD, the rains would appear out of nowhere- sending us scurrying for cover. Many girls would deliberately take longer to escape- they knew the power their drenched hair could wield.

But all this happened only pre-umang. During Umang it never mattered even if the area near the stage was under ankle-deep water. Somehow the mixture of the atmosphere and water created some sticky substance which kept the audience glued to JRM – even as the rain came pelting down.

JRM dresses up like a bride during those 4-5 days of umang. During the rest of the year, many other suitors would come along to woo her but she would only respond ib a civil and friendly manner- never more.

The Greatest Memory- 20th august 2005
War of the DJs- 7:30 pm.
I was asked to come to the college terrace by Ankit and I rushed there assuming some sponsor banner might have come off. Dylan and Harshal were already there when I reached there. They beckoned me to peer over the skirting of the terrace to look at JRM. Below innumerable crazy people were dancing to the beats of an obscure DJ- that they were crammed in a place meant for a far lesser population didn’t seem to matter to them. There was a riot of colors. Some had chosen black for this was the closest they had ever come to a truly happening party. Some had gone for the daringly vibrant yellows, oranges and pinks for either they were wannabes or didn’t care what they were. Some took refuge in the safe and somber whites and creams. Most didn’t care whether they were jiving, grooving, waltzing, garba-ing, bhangra-ing or simply head-banging. It felt great to have influenced so many people’s decision on where they should spend their evening. There are a few moments in life when you feel closer to god. This was the one for me.



Kunj Sanghvi
VCP4- UMANG’05
Finance Head- UMANG’04
Finance Committee Member- UMANG’03
UMANG Fan - Lifelong

RAINS


Another day of missed chances, misfortunes & endless wait drew to an end. As offices closed down, Palak hopped onto a train, no more bothering whether it was crowded or not. It had been gloomy all week but it seemed nature had forgotten that the obvious culmination of such weather was to actually bring in the rains. Palak & rains went back a long way. Back home at Rourkela, she would deliberately misplace her raincoat so that she had a reason to come home from school drenched in wet happiness. The rains had an altogether different effect on her. She would look up into the skies as rains would start falling so that she could feel the droplets seep through every pore of the skin of her face. She would make it a point to jump into every puddle that she came across as she made her way home. She would make Ramu kaka cook up delicious potato bhajjis to go with a cup of tea; and then sit in the balcony staring into emptiness. At times, it seemed to her father that she was looking for her mother. And one day, his fears were confirmed. On that evening, when he came home, he found his daughter on her customary perch staring into the sky. “Palak, baby what are you looking at so intently?” She turned, her blue eyes bluer with curiosity,“ Daddy, do you think these rains might be knowing mommy since they too come from the heavens?” A father gave a reply that would have shocked a scientist,” Sure, kiddo… mommy used to love rains just the way you do and she must have definitely sent them to make you happy.” The blue eyes theorized further,” Daddy, don’t you think mom would send me messages from up there? I mean, she would know if I don’t do my homework, or cheat in my exams – after all she’s in heaven and all! I wonder if the points where these droplets fall can be traced to form a message from her.” Saying this, she started testing the practicality of her new theory; but this time both- the father and the scientist remained quiet, knowing that the probability of her sending a message was as remote as his daughter ever having a normal childhood. Over the years science tried to shatter her belief but, as is the case with human nature, reason can be ignored when illusion gives you satisfaction.
The heavens finally gave in to the wishes of millions of Mumbaites crowded in tacky train compartments, buses & offices. For Palak, it almost felt like the arrival of a long lost friend at the end of a hard day. All her senses were suddenly activated. She stretched out her hand to feel the cool droplets on her sweaty forearm. She beheld the greenery becoming greener. Wet hair and wet grass are both one hell of a lot sexier than when they are dry. She heard the rhythm of nature as rain came pelting down on the aluminium roofs of nearby hutments. It feels as if the mad rhythm suddenly started following an orchestra-esque pattern. The tasteless rain water suddenly tasted so infinitely sweet to the parched throat that at that moment, it seemed there really is nothing more delicious. And suddenly, as the soil slowly took the droplets in it’s embrace, there emanated such an intoxicating scent , that normally only a peasant would have the good fortune of experiencing