Thursday, September 23, 2004

A writer's prayer

Dignify my prose O' Lord, for I have written. I have plucked the words out of common vocabulary to defend meaning, even though my work is as original as Adams.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. I have discovered the innocous power of pro-creation, and exercised my right to its use.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. Out of anger, resentment, revenge, guilt, and joy. I have written as therapy, and I have written as rant. For pleasure, pain, acceptance and rejection. But most of all to share, to wonder, to touch, and to be touched.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. Contributing some that I know, every inch of reason and every mile of feeling, nights of dread, and days of hope. And also, contributing some that I know not of; virtuous saviours, self-negating messiahs, unforetold destiny, unquestioned faith, and miracles.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. Written down the questions that I along with others ponder. About life, love, justice and beauty. About conflict, fight, irony, and resignation.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. For in writing, I have acknowledged my intelligence, to portray, to tell, to fantasize, to imagine. And in consequence I have rejected the style and story of others, preferring my own. Degrading the greats of my time just so I could join them. To say of the world, as I see it. Another partial view, indeed.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. Clawing away at all that I reason as bad, and contributing to all that I feel as good. My judgements are all black and white in Your grey universe.
Dignify my prose O'Lord, for I have written. And in writing, I have chosen the testimonies of my heart, instead of the logic of the mind; mine and others'.

Wednesday, September 22, 2004


I was wondering around in the library, when I happened upon a kid of about eight, deeply engrossed in a book. From my viewpoint, the only thing I could note about the book was that it had lots of colored pictures. And he was not flippin through it like a magazine, but spending time on each page. My curiosity had been aroused.
I looked at my watch. Lots of time, I convinced myself, and walked around the aisles, callous enough not to attract attention and careful enough, not to loose sight of the kid. And the guy was really busy. I mean, people at my workplace are never this focused. I am seldom this focused.
Half an hour later, I reluctantly walked out of a conversation that had made me realize how little I know about photography. 'Point and click', I said; 'Nay' said he. 'At least 3 Mega-pixels', said I, 'For amateurs, maybe', said he. I got an intro into the world of lighting and color theory(Yes, I was on Mars for part of my life). And I found a good intro for the esthetically challenged (that means you!) here.
I was never a hobby kid when I was young. Infact, I cant remember ever having pursued anything as a hobby. Now, I had my share of books, board games, toys, video games; the whole shebang, but I never delved into anything for which I had to sit in a library. Like photography, or coin collecting, or stamps, constructing model airplanes, painting, etc.
The only thing that I did pursue, was computers. And the relationship has lasted - much better than my forays with the members of the opposite sex.
'Follow your dreams where ever they may lead you!', I said to the kid as I left the library. Its the only way to live.

Monday, September 20, 2004

Sundays are boring

Sunday is probably the most boring day of my week. Laundry, dishes, cleaning, groceries; all the necessary chores of life that have been put off all week are now upon me. Cheers to everyone who is sick and tired of boring house chores! May your luck be better than mine.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

A lover to a beloved

Translated from Faiz Ahmed Faiz by M.H.K. Qureshi

If today in the gardens of memory,
The breeze-breath blossoms flowers,
Then let it happen.

If forgotten pains from times gone by,
Desires to flash again,
Then let it happen too...

Its all right to meet like a stranger, as you do now.

Come sit with me for a while,
having met, this meeting,
will only enhance our sense of loss.
In our talks, in every story,
there be a thin veil of the unsaid,

I will not remind you, neither should you,
about broken promises,
nothing about loyalty or betrayal,
to wash off the writings of the dust of time.

If my eyes say,
Then should you so desire; listen,
if you do not so wish; don't.

And if your words betray their meaning,
Then should you so desire; speak,
if you do not so wish; don't.

I woke up today with the after thoughts of a dream still tinging my eyes. Sometimes the power of the unconcious is threatening, as is clear to me in hindsight. I push it away, deep down inside, like a secret candy I am saving for a really rainy day. But it raises its ugly head time and again, sometimes in solitude, sometimes in the best of company.
I should be happy that it came in the solitude of a dream, where there are no judges, no observers, 'no one to point the fingers, no one to take the blame'. And I was happy, lying in bed, savouring the taste. The very existence of this 'ehsaas' , belied the quickness with which it would vanish, but I enjoyed it.
In a sense of irony, I even thanked God for a few moments of delimma and delight. It just strengthens the belief that when we leave, a strange man in bermuda shorts and an un-buttoned huwaiian shirt, arms open, will be there to great us. With a wicked smile on his lips, a parent welcoming a child back who was reluctant to board the merry-go-round.

Thinking it must have been an experience of a lifetime, He goes,'How'd u like tat?'
And I just stare back, trying to find the emotion in his face, looking for a hint of remorse. Even a slight twitch would do. A small confirmation that I chose the right way, that my pain had a meaning, that my time was best-spent...
Maybe I will get this wish, too.