e t c e t e r a

Whale hunt

2008-07-04T03:01:00.008+05:30

An' experiment in storytelling', Whale hunt is a project by one of my* favorite interaction designer/artists, Jonathan Harris. An ex-fabricante, he 'designs systems to explore and explain the human world combining elements of computer science, anthropology, visual art and storytelling'.

I remember seeing two of his pre-fabrica projects, 10X10 and Wordcount long time back and it had fascinated me with its smartness. Most of his projects stimulates our basic instinct of wanting to know, which the seniors say killed the cat. They allow you to play and yet not feel like a stereotypical addict (O.K, read bum) whose thumb can't forget the joystick even while its holding the mandatory burger.

'Whale hunt' retains these attributes but takes us on a journey and offers space (And what a space it is!) to create an experience different from the rest of his works. It is documented like a journey and hence takes us on one too, not necessarily the same for each one. It introduces us to Inupiat Eskimos in Barrow, Alaska, and captures a thousand-year-old tradition, the Inupiat whale hunt. The law allows the community to hunt 22 whales every year to maintain their food supply.

Check it out and see the primeval reds stirring up the dead greys.

*I am that you are not.

Polish Film Posters

2008-04-09T03:24:00.008+05:30

A post on Polish Posters is the sanest thing to do if your webpage is in need of some jazz. Look how mine shines. Anyway, the reason behind this is an accidental discovery of a folder containing images of posters designed by Eryk Lypinski, who alongwith Henryk Tomaszewski and others, revolutionised the art of film posters in a Poland ripped apart by WW II. A condensed history of what followed is here.

Prominent among the ones who came later and are now names, are Wiktor Sadowski and Wieslaw Walkuski.

Once you have figured how all the names are pronounced, check out a great collection of Polish film posters here.

Frequent Flyer

2008-03-24T12:03:00.007+05:30

This is a story worth remembering for our grandchildren's sake. On a drunken night, Paul's shoe (the one for the right leg) was stolen by a friend. And ever since, it's been a world of epic revelations for the free and single stud.

It's on a trip of a shoe's lifetime which is only getting better. I dont think Columbus's shoes would have enjoyed all those days around the world because it were on his feet and not safely wrapped in a nice polythene bag. My friend Satish and the fortunate thing spent a nice evening at the Gateway of India a week earlier. This was probably the 15th(!) country Paul's shoe was visiting. Enough to put any travelling gnome to shame. Ever heard of a shoe getting the better of its owners legs?

Find out Where is Pauls Shoe.
I like the Paris picture.

See beyond Technology

2008-03-07T16:44:00.003+05:30

My Transparent Screen.
I had some fun doing it up like this. Of all the posts I've tagged 'useless', this one takes the cake. Discover Mighty Optical Illusions, for they run a step ahead of Photoshop. My friend Mochu made me look up Rene Magritte's works after seeing this. I suggest you do the same.

Art by Film Directors

2008-02-26T15:47:00.007+05:30

I picked this book off the footpaths of Flora Fountain and that too for less than what I pay to borrow two DVDs. I tried to articulate the experience of reading it in many ways only to be embarrass myself after knowing the amount of clichés in my jargon.

'Art by Film Directors' has been compiled / authored by Karl French, undoubtedly the least known name in the book. It features 23 filmmakers in the likes of Jan Swankmajer, Jean Cocteau, Peter Greenway, Alan Parker, Stanley Kubrick, Federico Fellni, Wim Wenders, Satyajit Ray, Fritz Lang and their artworks—Photographs, Paintings, Illustrations, Sculptures etc. Featured above is a ‘reimagined map’ and a ‘fused creature’, both by Swankmajer.

Colors

2008-02-26T14:38:00.003+05:30

The 73rd offering of the Quarterly that was created in 1991 by Tibor Kalman and Oliviero Toscani (who also funded the venture) is out. The issue is called MONEY and talks about all the many forms the same exists in. The magazine had gone off its provocative ways since the first few issues but nonetheless, has been bringing out well designed / compiled editions on pertinent issues dealing with human rights, value systems and various forms of discrimination.

Their website offers articles as pdf's. It will take a while to load , make sure your browsers are updated. Also, do check out the some additional info including earlier covers, here.

N.B: Michael Bierut cites Kalman and talks about a few of his interesting ways in "Thirteen ways of looking at a Typeface" posted down.

Moto sans Foto

2008-02-25T21:21:00.007+05:30

I am sorry to inform the Motorola company and the rest of the world that I famously put my much defaced MotoRazr phone inside a toothbrush-holder half filled with waters of bygone time in a very basic bathroom of a new hotel that actually looks pre-independent in a non offensive small town called Vidisha in Madhya Pradesh. Thus, I managed to seriously damage its mic. which resulted in the callers not being able to hear me even after I woke up half the occupants of the nice hotel.

The first thing I did was removing the water from the toothbrush-holder. Then I rushed to the best repairman in Vidisha who opened the handset with his bare hands. I, not able to withstand the sight, told him to carry on and went to work. When I got the cursed piece of instrument back , I noticed a couple of badly torn strips of Scotch tape holding its insides. Right after, I was told that it was out of the skill sets of the unassuming but undoubtedly competent technician and I would need to go an ‘original’ service centre to be heard. The technician took Rs. 300 service charge without even a hint of smile. The ‘original’ service centre informed me two weeks down the line that the cost of repair would be slightly lesser than the cost of a new handset of the same model.

The point is I miss the camera in that handset. So, I thought of compiling some photographs taken using the same and putting them up for your kind notice. They might be small to look at here but if you let it grace your computer by saving it on to the desktop or something, you will see they’re a little bigger.

N.B : For all the challenged brains wondering why can’t the camera be used if just the mic. is conked, please understand the silly thing won’t start up without a SIM card. You might also want to know that I am not the kind who carries three spare ones in my wallet.

Inert and proud of it.

2008-02-25T18:02:00.002+05:30

What better way to restart an idle blog than doing it without excuses. Read on.

Mutatoes

2007-08-04T12:24:00.000+05:30

Rubber Johnny meets his botanical cousins.
Mutatoes is a project by Berlin based artist Uli Westphal. It is a "collection of non-standard fruits, roots and vegetables found at Berlins Super-and Farmers Markets. Uli's project serves to document and archive these last survivors of biological variety". While you are at it, don't forget to check out his other works.

via the one and only swissmiss.

Things They Carry

2007-07-28T12:05:00.000+05:30

A simple, nice and very reflective effort.

A flickr photo pool on the things one carry around.
Out of many American pockets and satchels, I suppose, but a must see nonetheless. Participate if you carry around anything that the west did not put in your pockets.

Check it out if you won't get tired of seeing Moleskine diaries, iPhones, iPods, MotoRazrs and Lamys.

Peter Mendelsund

2007-07-19T23:50:00.000+05:30

Peter Mendelsund is also (with reference to Chip Kidd who was featured earlier) a book designer with Knopf. I dont know if he sits next to Kidd's cabin. You could also read this interview to know him better, if that'll ease your life any bit.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Typeface

2007-07-13T21:02:00.000+05:30

A brilliant essay by none other than Michael Bierut. Would make up for the entire time you would have spent cursing bad typo plus the time you spent trying to do something about it and couldn't.

Pourquoi?

2007-07-13T20:59:00.000+05:30

A small (not really, its 20 mts) video with around 15 not-so-small graphic designers like Paula Scher, Michael Bierut, Chipp Kidd, Stefan Sagmeister, James Victore doing the talking.

Click here.

Conversations

2007-07-11T16:59:00.001+05:30

A routine, to-nowhere-in-particular walk of two people and an ageing dog on a leash came to a gradual end yesterday. Since the appropriate reasons for why they started it is not known, the reasons why it ended is irrelevant, though it would be useful to remember that it had been three years since it started.

The two, a man and a woman to be more specific (however, in the beginning of it, they had not quite stopped being a boy and a girl) had followed the artless and beautiful habit without giving much thought about why they were doing it and hence, were regular. The dog only made things easier for them by pretending to be aloof. It kept as much distance as the leash would let and always sniffed for something that she never seemed to find.
 They never held each other’s hands or anything, not only because this isn’t a silly romantic story, but also since something like that would have been an affirmative act of mutual affection and they were just walking a dog. In fact, they never talked, most of the time they were thinking different things to themselves. Like the boy (lets call him that) was wondering what could it be that the dog was sniffing about and the girl (since the man is a boy) was feeling that it was abnormal that a road was taking a turn, taking all that trod on it along, when it could have run straight. But between their thoughts it looked as if they were having conversations, few and random, and were even careful not to break them while crossing the road. People believed they were deaf and couldn't talk. I don't think so. It might sound strange that after three years of companionship, they didn’t have things to talk about, but if you think again it is only normal that they are like this since, as I told earlier, they weren’t exactly perambulating but only walking a dog and it didn’t require them to talk about something that would have made long conversations. 

 The dog wasn’t particularly excited about the strolls, which is not to say that it didn’t enjoy them. It was aging, and was starting to find contentment in things that did not usually make animals happy, let alone humans. So, had it even known about its part in this underdeveloped state of things, there was nothing it could have done. It was after all, a dog; though with two people depending on her for the turn of fate, it is indeed difficult to agree with this fact.  

 Lets come back to what happened yesterday.
 After crossing the same roads and running out of footpaths like the other days and before it was time for the dog to turn around and for them to follow suit, the two stopped for no apparent reason (nobody knows it how it happened for sure since as the sight of two people pausing between walking is not unusual enough to be worthy of our precious attention). And the dog, feeling the leash tighten for the first time, stopped too and turned back to find two of them standing, suggestive of nothing since they weren’t even looking at each other.  

 They realised what was going on much later. And knowing them it would have happened separately at different points when their respective thoughts broke as thoughts often do.  It was a while till they finally looked at each other, only as an effort to make sense of what was happening. Everything seemed to come back to the way it used to be and it looked as if they’ll start back only to come tomorrow, but nothing happened. The dog was glad to actually notice the sights around for the first time. It seemed to forget about her incomplete search and felt the warmth of a fading evening in its eyes. 

 The man and the woman tried to talk, but, as usual, no words came out. They tried to go back to their respective thoughts, but it remained as elusive as what the dog was searching for. He tried to remember who had stopped first, while she noticed the silence around them. It was probably then that they realised that there was nothing left to be said. The dog showed no hurry and was sitting, careful still to leave enough distance, and looked away at everything moving, jiggling its ears to shoo the illusive flies buzzing around its head. 

 ---
 Of a meek last chance given to pair of dry mouths

vow!

2007-06-27T12:22:00.000+05:30

Visuals of the World is the longest inspirational website in the world and it calls for designers to upload their work to make it longer as they intend to get into the Guinness Book of Records soon.

Current lenght of the website is 155 meters!

Japanese Motion Graphics

2007-06-25T14:06:00.000+05:30

A motion graphic creator's file with DVD "Japanese Motion Graphic Creators" was released on February from BNN Inc., featuring the expanding whole Japanese motion expression such as PV, CM, VJ, web, animation, art and documentary.

PV, CM are commonly used abbreviations in Japan for Promotional Video(Music Videos) and Commercial Message(Advertisements).
via SHIFT

Rodchenko

2007-06-23T13:54:00.000+05:30

A bit of Constructivism since we were with Milton Glaser a while ago.

Alexander Rodchenko was a Russian graphic designer, photographer and artist and is considered to be one of the founders of constructivism. Shown are the covers designed by Rodchenko for LEF, which was the journal of the Left Front of the Arts, an association of avant-garde writers, photographers, critics and designers in the Soviet Union. The design on the left was used till the journal was renamed as Novyi (New) LEF in 1927, shown on the right.

If in case you want to see more, this flickr page has a great collection of various posters classified commendably into various countries, eras and movements. I'm still scouting Flickr for people who have put the network into respectful use, and revealing my ignorance about the same, the number is surprisingly high.

Kidd and the Master

2007-06-22T11:19:00.000+05:30

A must read. Chip Kidd interviews Milton Glaser.

Chipp Kidd

2007-06-20T17:00:00.000+05:30

All these while I was waiting for a good reason to put a post about him in here. Not that all those book covers he designed weren't reasons good enough, but you know, I felt that an occasion of sorts is coming. And here it is. Chip Kidd was recently declared the winner in the Communications Design section of this year’s National Design Awards presented by the Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum, which honours the best of American design since 2000. Kidd, a finalist in 2006, has been creating book jackets and covers for the publishing house Alfred A. Knopf for twenty years. His commonly found designs are 'Kafka on the Shore' (Murakami) and Osamu Tezuka's 'Buddha'-the comic series. Seen here is a part of the cover for 'Dry' by Augusten Burroughs.

Err..

2007-06-15T16:37:00.000+05:30

Here's what happens when you put a printer in front of a painting for too long. It realises it's just a machine and there's more to life. Seems like they have more to offer than what we ask.

The Missed Caller

2007-06-14T13:49:00.000+05:30

Ring. And as you casually glance at the screen of your phone, you are jolted into a ride of your past associations with the caller whose name you find displayed after a relatively long period. As it rings, you think of the moment's peace he has shattered, wonder if you should pick the call or not, and again ponder over the possible reasons why he has chosen to end the infrequency—a clairvoyant agreement by both parties, having understood that it is best if both are left alone. You tell yourself that it is greatly unfair since the caller, beyond doubt, wants to catch you abrupt and defenseless. Coward. You can choose not to pick the call at all. Choose between the multiple lies at leisure and return the call, when you are 'prepared' for a conversation, or the lack of it. But the self-respect and bravery that you have painfully developed asks you to answer the call because you know even he wouldn't be expecting you to, on the first hand.

"Hello", you say,instead of "Hello?" and win round one. But your devices are tested as the other side takes a little too long to answer, and the same throat which helped you make the addressing a little heavy, goes dry, in a moment.

There is silence again, and it helps you gather back your courage since the other person doesn't seem to be keen on exploiting his advantage. Is this a moment of some emotional cognizance or of deep contemplation? You are confused again. Though it blurs the image you have built of your caller, you still feel the discomfort of the likely conversation about things past, and tell yourself that if it were you, you wouldn't have bothered to call ever, helping another contact in your phone fade into the oblivion when you clean up the list or change the cell phone or SIM for that matter. But look at him.

Now you know the silence is too prolonged to fall under any of the comprehensible situations. And now you say, "Hello?", making it obvious that you have other business to attend to— yet another victory.

But then you realise, you are not talking to him, there is no conversation, just noises, of an abandoned street? You are talking to 'something' else, not an entity but something vast and omnipresent. Now, the situation seem more familiar or graspable, so to say. You are caught in this flux of thoughts memories and snapshots before you understand where you stand–At the mercy of silly gadgets, which can not think and still get the better of you. You think about the days when you used to be proud of the fact that your name starts with the first alphabet. And before throwing your phone onto something soft accompanied by that imperative swearword, you think of the caller, walking somewhere, the last thing on his mind being you, unaware of the pressed button of his cellphone inside one of his pockets.

And its subsequent thoughts

2007-05-27T13:33:00.000+05:30

It doen't matter.
I'm here still.

The Moment...

2007-05-25T15:33:00.000+05:30

Am I fucked or not.

This is not an hour of mere, ephemeral curiosity but that of confrontation—of an existence of lying to oneself, of comfortable and nonsensical conclusions about life and my ways of going about it. Of unhealthy hours trying to convince a hundred people whose faces you don't even remember.

It matters because I believe (Or am i lying to myself again?) the fifteen minutes in front of me as I am writing this, 'could' change my life for good or otherwise.

But there's a hidden layer of events unfolding around me as I do this. Things that I would secretly put away to help you focus your sympathies on me, who is sitting with a slicker-than-Almighty and shining MacBook Pro inside one of the swanky and air-conditioned Coffee bars (in Delhi, for all those wondering about the noise in the background) sipping a foaming cup of of cold coffee and Brownie.

I am worrying if I would ever be out of this hell.
I would know in fifteen minutes now.

Its pretty hot outside.

Instant Light

2007-03-27T21:50:00.000+05:30

I am reading 'Sculpting in Time'. All of you thinking 'By who' can queue up at the back door, I'll meet you individually after I am done with telling this.

Apart from wanting to watch all his films chronologically, It has also prompted me to share with you something precious I stumbled upon long back while scouting the web. A set of polaroids taken by the master! They are from 'Instant Light', a book published by Thames and Hudson compiling most of the pictures. The Guardian has a review of the same accompanied by brief commentaries written by Tarkovsky's son.

Also this is a good site if you want to spend some good hour reading/viewing things related to Tarkovsky, instead of watching cricket.

And please say hello to my sister Reshmi, whom I thank hereby for gifting me the book last year.

"...An artistic discovery occurs each time as a new and unique image of the world, a hieroglyphic of absolute truth. It appears as a revelation, as a momentary, passionate wish to grasp intuitively and at a stroke all the laws of this world - its beauty and ugliness, its compassion and cruelty, its infinity and its limitations..."
Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time.

Saul Bass

2007-03-20T13:42:00.000+05:30

A must see for all the Saul Bass fans.
Also check out http://www.designmuseum.org/design/saul-bass.

You can kiss my ass later for this mother of a goodie.

Zoomorphic Calligraphy

2007-03-15T16:34:00.000+05:30

Work by Hassan Musa, a sudanese artist living in France.
More information here

For All Seasons

2007-03-10T12:27:00.000+05:30

Since I've gotten myself talking typo, this should be of interest to the ones who have kept aside their social work, kitchen maintenance, baby feeding, pedicure, monthly car wash and rolling joints to read my blog which technorati says is ranked 2,763,138 in the whole blogosphere.

Check out www.hahakid.net/forallseasons/forallseasons.html
The download might take some time but I promise you wont forget this for a long long time to come.

About Face, Limbs and Antennae

2007-03-08T11:55:00.000+05:30

Oded Ezer is actually more of a graphic designer than a biologist. Just that he tends to divide his Hebrew type into head, thorax and abdomen at times. The results are not only organic but transcendent.

Help yourself to some pollens at http:////www.odedezer.com/index.html

Power-Puff

2007-03-07T12:23:00.000+05:30

I recently found this monsters inc-ish powerpuff-ish ash tray from a junk dealer.

It also looks a bit like what we thought alien crafts would look like, as soon as we could think what alien crafts would look like. Posting this since I thought you might be interested but mainly for the lack of anything meatier.

Reza Abedini

2007-03-06T13:19:00.000+05:30

Let me take the honour of introducing Reza Abidini to the mortals who are recklessly ignorant to still not know who he is. Actually, you'll get all the information you need on him if you click on the link given below, but as you read rightly between my first line already, I would like to assert a certain acquaintance about the person in discussion.

Reza Abidini is one of the preeminent Iranian graphic designers whose work (mainly posters) are expressions of a culture that he is deeply rooted in. He is also a professor of Graphic Design and Visual Culture at the Tehran University. Reza just received the 2006 Principal Prince Claus Award of €100,000 (that is Indian Rupees 86,70,000 approximately) presented by the Prince Claus Fund, Amsterdam.

Please follow the link to read more about him and his work while let me sit back and relish this moment when a great artist's portrait is going to be hung on my virtual wall.

http://www.rezaabedini.com/

An Ill Feeling

2007-01-15T16:08:00.000+05:30

I've discovered that I can make a post in here only when I am feeling sick—mentally or physically, if not deeply disturbed or depressed. So the more you see this place inactive or stagnant, understand that I am a happy man, seeing, doing, saying and hearing things which makes me feel glad. But then there are times when the virus hits the fan and you run for cover. This post is dedicated to my long forgotten tonsil glands that brought back sweet memories of my childhood by playing up for more than a week, got me ended up in a bed, with a squashed ant's perspective of the world.

Making the most of it

2006-10-11T17:17:00.001+05:30

There could be many bright sides to the otherwise dull situation of you waiting to see a person, in a meeting that you hope would be your last with him, in one of the long, dark and needless to say, hot corridors of an obscure Goverment office that, not surprisingly for its asbestos roof, is called-Barrack 12A, in one of the obscurest of our country's states with the most indifferent people to match moving around, at 2'O clock in the afternoon with an empty stomach and without a book.

However, one of them is that, as I've discovered today, you can pick your nose as much and as long as you like without thinking much about what others are going to think about you.

Changing lanes

2006-08-30T21:11:00.000+05:30

I was curious when the Kerala State Road Transport Corporation introduced their new fleet of buses sometimes back. They were way too swanky for the ‘Gods own’ roads and even made the old drivers look like misfits. I wanted to know what would happen to those coloured tickets.

I remember the KSRTC buses best for its excellent drivers apart from the rickety clang-clongs. Whenever I used to board them, I used sit in front behind the driver. It made me feel that I have entered a cockpit of sorts. Only, it was a light green coloured dusty corner with minimal and barely cool switchboards, meters, the usual barely functional gear/brake conglomerate and finally, a dejected but right-on-job driver. Apart from a Road Rash like view of the journey, there was something that I used to really look forward to then-the tickets. From the moment I enter the bus, I would feel restless to know which colour would it be-the brown, the dark green, or the rare and collectible orangish-yellow?

My worst fears were confirmed during my home trip recently when I boarded a bus and saw the conductor slowly coming towards me. The ticketborad, and its neat rows of tightly pinned tickets, was missing. Instead, he held in his hand, a small gadget in which he could enter the code of the place the passenger wished to alight and wait for a second for it to spit out a freshly printed white ticket. Had he looked a bit friendly, I would have definitely asked the conductor if he actually liked them any better. Besides that, I was too busy thanking myself for keeping the tickets from the last few journeys.

Making way

2006-08-19T15:59:00.000+05:30

A tree was being cut down to make space for a new parking lot. It was some 7.30 in the morning and they were around seven of them, the cutters. With axes, saw blades and ropes, they went about their work rather lazily as it was made complicated than usual by the relentless drizzle. There were some 50 odd birds flying above, a worried congregation of crows and cranes. That meant some eventualities common with any such case of invasion; some nests would need to be rebuilt, some eggs will hatch prematurely, worse still; some chicks would take their first and last flight down. So under the grey sky, there were white cranes, black crows, grey cutters, and a pale me watching the formalities and watching in particular, the three cranes that were sitting on the topmost branch of the tree being cut, as if nothing was going on.

There were some Auto rickshaw drivers close by, watching the event curiously, sipping their first of the numerous cups of chai of the day. The tree wasn’t giving in easily, but the parking lot has to be built, and realizing the grave need, seven people battled the old wood in the rain in the best way they could. Two of them were holding a rope that was tied to the trunk to make sure the tree is brought down exactly where they wanted to, two people were axing around the bottom of the trunk and the two other stood nearby with the saw blade, waiting for their turn. The last one supervised the tough situation- the tree has to be brought down posing no danger to the commuters and it should not fall on the freshly put concrete in the future parking lot.

Five minutes passed, and the three cranes stay put on the branch that was now shaking a little with each blow of the axe. They sat stil, their claws gripping the branch as if they ar not going to let the tree fall. The others, had put their little brains into good use and are now just making noises and fluttering around. Some of them would have even thought of a new place to build their brand new nest. The cutters, now getting worked up, had found just the right way to begin an otherwise uneventful and wet day. Both cutters took turns and made an asserting sound as they threw each blow.
My eyes went back to the cranes, which were yet to find the going tough as they sat determined and stationary. My point of interest was, specifically, to see that moment when they let go, give up, take flight to join their friends up there and say ‘Goddamn it guys, we could done it if we were together’. The tree began to shake more violently to each blow. The cutters withdrew; content of doing a task duly and the two with the saw took over. The guys holding the rope checked the damage by pulling it hard and displaying to the meager public that no tree, after all, is too big to be shaken.

The saws were doing their job just fine and the tree showed all signs of going down after a good fight. The show was drawing towards an end. The cranes at least seem to be affected now. They moved up the same branch as the rope was pulled again to test if the tree was weak enough. They moved, settled by the root of the branch, closer to the main trunk, and changed their orientations such that they are now visible to everyone standing down. I looked around; there were anxious eyes, probably waiting for the same treat as mine were. To catch that moment of truth which has repeated itself in history, of human civilization winning over the adamant (in most cases like this, stupid too) fellow beings, to see man teaching a few lessons for nature to remember, to see the cranes leaving their branch, giving up and making us closer to our common goal. Oh what a moment that would be. Though we humans are not as silly as the birds to celebrate such a moment, I sensed that a few claps could be expected.

The men stopped sawing. The tree was to be pulled down by the ones holding the rope. They took a deep breath and took some steps backward to make the rope tensed enough. And with a roar that sent an explicit signal to everything on top, they pulled their first. The tree shook violently and the cranes had to balance themselves by spreading their wings. The others who were seated on the nearby trees took off momentarily and seemed to show their rebellious friends what has to be done. The men seemed to be more excited to go for their next try. The rope was tight again as they stepped back and looked at each other, to get the synchronization better this time. A matter of improvisation, though obscure to others around. The holds were strengthened and the tension tested, the one in the front led as he did a counted down to three. And there they go! The birds almost fell off and had to use their wings again but the tree decided to go another round. The spectators were eager, as the drama grew tight. Everyone knew the tree wouldn’t stand the next pull from the mighty ones down here. The other two men left the saw and joined the rope pullers. Added strength, lifted morale. It was all moving towards an end worth celebrating, no matter what the cause was. The count down has begun once again and the birds strangely, looked calmer than ever. The pull, as expected, was the best one, the old tree swayed and slowly started it’s fall, tilting forward and giving up just at the moment it should have swung back, if it were to stand another round, and descending at a pace slower than expected, the rope pullers gave way and some of us stepped back as the tree did its farewell bow. The sigh, which would pronounce the victory, reached everyone’s throats and waited for its turn. The cranes started to loose balance and as the tilt began, spread their wings, calm as ever. The tree fell elegantly and the three cranes never let go. The sighs, denied of their moments, choked the onlookers. The cranes had held on, and when the tree hit the ground were slammed to the surface, and were killed instantly. One had bounced off the branch, and was lying a little away from his friends who were still clasping the branch they were sitting on.

The crowd dispersed slowly, and some auto drivers were the first to move forward towards the tree, one of them with a plastic bag in his hand. He finally separated the dead cranes were from their fallen home and stuffed all three in his bag; they would probably be fed to some hungry kids later in the day. The cutters wiped their sweat and moved towards the next tree. I looked up as one of them worked his axe down the trunk. The perched birds flew off as the vibrations reached the top and settled on the next tree. Except for five cranes, on the topmost branch.

The beginnings..

2006-08-03T18:07:00.000+05:30

It’s been a while since I had put anything new in here. The problem, as always, was time. This time though, it was not the lack of it.

I am home finally, and am spending my days sitting lazy, swimming in time. I know the statement might confuse those who know me as I do the same every other day and the days in between-whether I am home or anywhere else. The difference is, now, it just feels plain nice. I spend my day re-reading old books, re-watching the seen-films, re-thinking my old thoughts and re-doing things that I used to do as a kid (You know there’s always that convertible-corner that was your own private office-cum-bedroom- cum-kitchen-cum-car-cum-spaceship. Also there’s the wall that used to be your consistent opponent in the games you are yet to invent a name for).

I was, for a long time now, longing for such a homecoming. For those who don’t know much about my existence, home for me is a greeeen strip of land in a small village called Perumudiyur in central Kerala. Long time back, when I was still kid enough to shy away from lady nurses and bathing soaps, this place meant for me, the world itself, as viewed by the most inquisitive pair of eyes in the whole district of Palakkad, from a high enough level of four feet from the ground. It had everything and everyone that I needed. A huge old house, three and a half acres full of gallant trees with grass taller than me and under them, snakes, mosquitoes, snails and flowers; paddy fields in front of the house and a streamlet flowing through them, grandmother, her retarded brother (I am yet to find a friend so true) and a karyasthan who used to look after the cultivation and oversee both my spare time and the laborers. A world so wonderful, responsive, right and feudalist enough for a young boy to grow up and belong.

The place today, is only a pattern of reminders of olden times. A lot of things have changed. Corners have been straightened, walls brought down, people and conversations, buried.
But even then, not even once was this place unable of making that odd beat of my heart forget its turn when I entered its gates. That lump in my throat has never failed to choke me every time I walked to the place my grandmother is buried.I have felt lost each time I took a walk between the trees still managing to stand. I am so glad to be back here. I had once written to a friend of mine about how this place peels off everything that I’ve managed to gather in and around me for years and leaves me with just those memories that this place has given me.

If there is anything that would be of your interest among all this nothingness around me, I swear I’ll fight my laziness to keep you posted about it.

I got a haircut

2006-07-15T14:56:00.000+05:30

The fact that it’s been three years since the last one makes it quite an event and well deserving of a post of its own.

A door to the heavens

2006-06-29T16:34:00.000+05:30

Early morning, as the cycle rickshaw made its way through the never-ending line of pedestrians to Swargadwar, Puri’s own sacred beach, it made me realise the first mistake of the day. A top angle point of view of holi isn’t all that great; the moment is pretty much earth-borne. And atop my rickshaw, I am clearly not a part of what is moving down there, busy baldheads incongruously embraced by colours, lepers at regular intervals and local beggars taking their day off to rub their untouchable shoulders with the babus from Bengal. They are all marching forward in great anticipation but cogently hiding what’s ahead around that distant corner. A sizable chunk of colour-splashed mankind, up and racing the sun.
Finally we leave the lot behind and the rickshaw puller gives out a sigh of relief as the long road shows mercy and starts winding down. It runs a straight line between the rows of shops and widens up before taking its final turn to the left. And there…the shops, the people and finally the road itself gives way to the eternal stretch ahead.

Life ceases, God begins.

Hundreds of dots silhouetted against the sun that glows sublimely from inside the gloomy blanket of an atmosphere thickened with prayers. They raise their hands to the sky, and move down to the sea, only to be swept fiercely back by the dark viscous waves. The colour of the holi disappears in the retrieving tides, revealing heads and limbs burdened and bowed down by guilt and confessions never made. The prayers convert into a roar loud enough to pierce the gloom overhead. The skies open up and the subjects of the Lord of the Lords bathe their sins off in the ephemeral radiance of their benevolent One.

There are other sights too, like that of our own Jack and Ross on honeymoon doing the Titanic with widespread arms, minus the ship but nevertheless greeting the sun as the local photographer captures the moment without fail. A little far away, an old woman, for a brief time forgets her date with the God and decides to have her time playing with the water.
I spend around thirty minutes allowing myself to be swept by the surreal surroundings. I make my way through the unvarying invocations and look around, only to realise I am only being looked at, from high up there.

On my way back, as I walk the road with the blessed ones, I don’t forget to take a look back. There are people still rushing in, leaving life behind and diving into the dark waters, dirty with the sins of the ones who dipped before. Colours and sins disappear, that’s what happens around that corner, all that crowd blend into one, to call out to Him in the same voice. The roar lowers down and I hear my rickshaw puller’s voice on top of it. He is waiting above the uphill wind. I wonder why he isn’t taking a dip. May be he’ll have a private date with the benevolent One later. May be for now, he’s too busy counting the money he gets carrying the reluctant sinners to Him.

A pin in my brain

2006-06-13T14:46:00.000+05:30

One eventless day, after hours of sitting alone and checking and rechecking my Things To Do-list, I managed to find the existential grounds beneath the words like ‘urgent’ and ‘priority’. I realised that there’s nothing much to do for the day. For a prolonged second I even felt there’s nothing to do at all, any given day...if you actually think about it.

Then I switched my computer on, and was online in no time. There was finally something that was urgent. I needed to know if my condition was curable.

This has followed me since I can remember, the urge to go stationary. My body wants more and more of it. I could just sit there, for hours, watching TV, surfing net, pretending to read a book or even blissful, doing nothing. Sit and rot, Just do it.
Crazy things happen in between though, like my mind splits into two - one starts yelling to get up and do something, and the other reassures me that I am doing something, propositioning the vacuum and trying to make sense of all the nothingness there is. My body is the one who waits, for the spat to get over, for the conclusion.

Wikipedia-arguably the best thing that happened online since the explosion of pornography, describes my condition as ‘severe procrastination’. Apparently it's not such a healthy situation for a being to be in. But, most definitely, nobody has died because of it so far. As it turned out what was missing in the little pieces of information I already had was just the jargon. There isn’t quite an enlightening insight about it. Buddha must have had something different. Crudely put, it’s just the laziness, gone sour. Of course it might be the symptoms of chronic depression just around the corner.

Nonetheless, my online research (yep, it indeed is a lot of hard work) did succeed in finding souls who celebrate the condition. What's more, I even found out that some of the inspiring greats of times-past and present were the ones to define the lmitlessness of procrastination. Leonardo Da Vinci, it seems deserved a capital P in this regard. What do you guys think he was doing all those twenty years that took him to complete Mona lisa? Isaac Newton was out there under the tree when the apple fell on him for no other reason either. Mark Twain is supposed t ohave famously said, "Never put off for tomorrow what you can put off to the day after tomorrow". The other names include Isaac Asimov, Albert Einstein and guess who, Larry Page himself. I even managed to stumble upon something curiously funny called 'International Society for the Promotion of Procrastination' at http://math.usask.ca/~bickis/prox.html. You would also find some quotes inspiring you to do nothing at http://www.ucalgary.ca/~steel/procrastinus/quotes/quotes.html

Anyways, I do want to try and fight this highly respectable disorder. One needs to get over it, at least for a change. Its tough though, on a day when you would think that you have actually laid the ghost to rest and start walking the new road, you would sense the dark clouds hiding behind the buildings with no windows. Inside them, you would hear ,people crying, tired of over resting. Before you could tell yourself that you are not inside them, the doors shut and there’s darkness. The professors of void appear and sadness broods over.
One day I’ll chase them. When I’ll get used to the dark probably, when I could see things. Some thing to throw at them, or even hit them with- a remote control, or the bowl of potato wafers, even my computer’s mouse. I wait on, chewing on my moist sigh, for a silver bolt of lightning from between the dark clouds to strike me and light up my world.

Departures

2006-06-11T18:17:00.000+05:30

I keep thinking.
What’s wrong with us?

I keep telling myself not to give much thought about it.
There’s people all around. I stand stranded in middle of nothingness.
My self has stopped reflecting. I take them all in. People. Time, Things and everything else. Succumbed to the womb of a black inkpot, I stand stranded.
Or is there anything around?

I keep looking.
At myself. In the mirrors and everywhere else.

I try to see where came from. I stare at myself, as the dark corridors of my house and those creaky wooden stairs build around me. I realise I am standing at one of the bulky windows of Vadakkeyara. Looking out to see if I could still see those sights. The rain. The neelanmaavu and beyond. Far off, near the veli, the souls laid to rest keep talking, about the crack in the walls. They say it’s all covered up but they can hear the sounds. The neelanmaavu broods over in front of me, waiting for its turn and watching us. I close my eyes, only to realize they were never open.

I keep trying to talk.
To the forgotten. To the omnipresent.

My mind is still beside the placid green water in the well and the ezhuthachanprani in it. Nothing moves. Everything is still and afloat. Everything. The do’s, never done, and the don’ts, repeated. Memories and dreams pretending to ignore the dead faces around. Thoughts and actions.
Suddenly,something fell on all of us with a big sound. A huge branch. On top, the kilichundan sways as if it has shed the weight of its lifetime. The ezhuthachanprani and everything else dissolves tracelessly and disappears.

I keep walking.
Past the well.

Past the moovandan that never grew to bear fruits. Past everything to the vadekkethodi, there, across the kalluvettiyakuzhi, I see her lying. “Just an afternoon nap”, says the vazha placed on top of her. “Out of habit, nothing else”. She’ll get up soon. Just in time for her tea and after that she’ll have a little bit of time to see what sukumaran is up to, before molu comes. “Had it been the older times, when you used to listen” says vazha hesitantly,“ she’d have had time to talk also, about what she had seen and heard”. I look at her, ignoring vazha’s insignificant conversation. I try telling her I need to go. She’s deep asleep. The mole on her stomach resemble the inert ezhuthachanprani. The stomach moves up and down slowly, in regular but late intervals. “The lesser you breathe, the longer you’ll live” says vazha. I get up.

I keep counting.
The number of maavus. Maybe they are counting us too. I look down the well. The ezhuthachanprani is still there. It is eating the leaves of the fallen branch. I pick a stone, covered with its own share of moss, waiting to rest under the bed of memories.

I lie back and start the television. And everything comes back at me again. The dos and the don’ts, the faces and the limbs, memories and dreams. But now, they’re all moving. They surround me. I close my eyes and the noise sinks the voice of the mapla shouting outside, asking in his voice coated with the dust of tobacco, “maavu kodukkando?”

I keep thinking.
What’s wrong with us?
I keep telling myself not to give much thought about it.

Joining the bandwidth wagon

2006-06-10T15:32:00.000+05:30

Here’s blog number 60,000001, give or take a few tens of thousands.
I am doing this only after each and every cell of my body found necessary, a bit of virtuality, an existence between nowhere, contradicted only by the inane and abundant space around. I humbly claim my share of this ‘As you saw, the rest shall reap’ wonderland. Cyberspace, here I come.

2006-03-28T18:00:00.000+05:30