Purple Prose

Twitter of my life

2012-02-04T11:55:00.000-08:00

They talk. They really do. It’s surprising. It’s infuriating. It’s uplifting.

I’ve recently been going out, leaving breakfast for buzzards, leaving Sunday sleep for sunbirds, leaving weekend retreats for real kingfishers. Leaving everything to be living with the birds.

The little house sparrow outside my room seems to like me. The Coppersmith Barbet on the tree near my office looks at me, bobs up and down, and then starts muttering - a low musical balance of soft tweets and chirps. It's not a song. I think she's talking to me.

It's probably a measure of how much I miss talking to real people in the world, that I’m chatting with birds. But then, birds are better than bards. Barbets are better than babes. I follow them with my telephoto lens. A Drongo once scoffed me. The pond heron at Sewri gave me that dirty pooh-poohing look. The Kingfishers tell me to get gorgeous and come. I can’t help but follow.

They talk to me. I feel they’re going to show me something or lead me somewhere I need to be. They come flying from nowhere, fly into a big tree and suddenly look at me. While I fill my pixels with them, they choose to cast me off. Of course, they belong to a better world. They are packed with better people around.

As kids we all wanted to have wings. After Chidiya ud…tota ud, it always ended with Kavish ud. It’s only when we started growing up, we realised how unreasonable we were with our demands. It’s only when we lost reality to weariness and excitement to the commonplace, when we endorsed the ground.

These birds make me go unreasonable once again. They make me yearn for wings again. The freedom and power to decide on my own words again. The Kavish ud once again.

Like all my interests, this too will fade away. But the focus that raptor gave me, that quest to be elegant the bluejay offered or the chirpiness the cuckoo induces in me shall never go away.

You birds, am all here for you as long as you don't fly away. Will sacrifice many Sundays and I'll love you all your days!

Joie de Vivre...

2008-03-19T02:04:00.000-07:00

It’s not once that I’d visited the waiting room of an agency and it wasn’t once when I wondered what happened behind those jazzy, glitzy walls of an advertising agency. Today I feel sorry for the lonely guard, the ignorant CD picker and almost everyone who hasn’t made a trip to these wonderful places (read madhouses).

You enter into the workplace, where you’re generally welcomed by an arrogant look from the pictures of the idol, heroes ranging from the further up the ladders like Mr. David Ogilvy (with all due respect), Mr. Leo Burnett, Mr.Roger Reeves or the young and spirited Mr. Che Guevara. They look stern, but at once you come to know that they’ve done something for the industry (rather lots).

Then starts your stint with the ‘hi’s and the ‘hellos’. Their sound and enunciation (along with many other sounds) generally change in an agency. They are more of ‘hey’llos and haaiiees, and for those who don’t like to be ostentatious with words, use the casual, but the most amicable bhainchod which literally translates into a ‘lovable person’ and is also a versatile punctuation. So now you can puff up with self-importance once you’re asked “Kaisa hai bhain***d?” I do (smug).

The creative department would be chock-full of rustics, by the window side, with pencils half in their oral cavities. Sshh…they’ve accepted wisdom. The only people who think and act in an ad agency. The award goes to them. These copy guys would see you, but feign, feign that the pencil tastes better. No response. Move further on. The art and layout guys…they’d reply. However, they choose to greet you back on their Macs, with Adobe Illustrators and Macromedia Freehands, like you’re going to mark them on their sense of creativity and inventiveness or as if you belong to a gang of idea stealers.

Now is the boss. Maybe he’s there before you that day. With nose buried in IBM Lotus Notes (a standard e-mail portal for ad agencies), yes, this one is the happiest to see you. You’d find a sense of extreme solidarity every morning on his face. And now you know what’s ensuing…the fight for life. In general they are nice people, especially because they identify what you’re going through. They, therefore bestow pains on an easy scale.

The studio. This is where it all starts and ends. They’d acknowledge you well. The only people to shake hands in an agency (this is unless you’ve come with a job for them; otherwise they shake your arse). A straight-on-your-face “Baad mein aana” or a modest “Abhi nahin ho payega” is their speech tick. You, poor servicing fella, have to come back with an equally humble “Theek hai”, scorning and reviling them on your way back.

There are good times too. The lunch, where all sit together, like educated people, cussing the food or generally mocking at other teams. The birthdays, when half the times you look at the cakes being smudged from the face to the hair (at all possible locations) and then wondering if taking birth was actually all-that-needed. There are other good times too, like your boss’s day off or an approaching Friday evening.

There is an undetectable part to an ad agency too. These set of humans (or whatever) are called clients. They sit in their offices, probably which are well air-conditioned. They are cool and relaxed people (or whatever), who are invariably brought into being to light fire up our arses. Briefs from them (unless they come with gifts) are a hex and even if they don’t bother u much, they are not considered good quality. I don’t know why!

There are times of the ooh-s and the aah-s too. People, especially girls in an ad agency are by and large gorgeous and articulate as well (Surprise!!). You also tend to come across men who can boggle you. Weird hairstyles, heart-shaped goaties and freaky styles of chewing gums all originate from these agencies. And you go ooohh.

Nights are real nights here. Booze, dope, dance or misuse. All allowed. Play BC Sutta on full volume or watch Mallu sex clips on no volume… everything’s acceptable. Eventually these are just tricks to console yourself of a yet-another fucked-up tomorrow. Oh yes, the ‘F’ word is the life-blood of these places. You can’t say “FUCK” (in various voice modulations)… and you are tossed and hurled chez vous.

But even with all these ups and downs and the aah-s and the doh-s there’s one thing powerfully attached to an ad-agency. Every morning, when you wake up, you essentially want to go to this place. Believe me. Your ad agency never fails your slice of enjoyment and knowledge. All you know is that it’s gonna be another day, another fun, another war, another artwork and another LIFE! Life in the style of an advertising guy……….Ask for it!

Happy? New year!

2008-01-05T09:53:00.000-08:00

Ring out the old, bring in the new,

The year past is gone, let it go;

Ring out the false, bring in the true,

All is unmarked and so is you.

Ring out the old…Ring out the false?

Should acquaintances old be forgot?

Should links distraught be forgot?

And never again be brought to mind

Those who haven’t been a lil’ kind..?

Ring out the old…Ring out the false?

Can the broken strings unite?

Served us handful sobbing plight

It left no footstep, mark or place

That it has in my heart embrace.

I feel average; I always do

Whats ‘Happy’ with the year anew?

Time torn away, no voices call

But I don’t wish nor want to say..

‘Happy new year’ t’ye all !

Yes I do!

2008-01-03T12:07:00.000-08:00

I remember, Yes I do!

The one-room house where I was born
The modest window that glanced the day;
The earthy urchins that bubbled below,
And their freedom that borne my breath away.

I remember, Yes I do!

The roses pink and white,
The hens and Panzy who strayed blithe
The nest that the sparrow built;
And the yellow bulb that gave me light.

I remember, Yes I do!

The dark red bricks, the thin white lines,
The clean white gown near the Jesus-Mary shrine
Christian Cross, the ‘attention’ by the PTI;
And hence my sobbing fearful cries.

I remember, Yes I do!

My only fighter plane
Flew my spirits in feathers then,
The cuddling up to Mom;
And that caring kiss upon the head.

I remember, Yes I do!

Where I used to swing
Catching air with my wings,
Childish ignorance then, now sheer joy;
And all I wish again, that I were a boy!

My Coffee Maiden!

2007-12-02T23:28:00.000-08:00

Brown bubbles skate across
the smooth, scalding surface,
and cluster at the brim
of the hot mug of dark brew.

They crowd each other,
and murmur steamy coffee yarns
They nudge one another,
Happy to see her around

Each bubble is anxious
to be the first one to burst,
and flick its rich, sharp scent
into the crisp and clean of her’s

There they pass through the lips
Each relieved to be touching in
Its beans have been crushed
In its trodding serving bliss.

I am warmed on the thought of coffee
I call myself fanatic

I can learn a good deal from it
That satiates me with its death
May I serve the maiden?
Who is now my addict!

Green...

2007-11-29T08:37:00.000-08:00

As a child, I had a box of crayons. One night, I was soon done with sketching my ‘drawing’, hardly realizing that the crooked lines and distorted circles, I called scenery.

And then, almost half awake and asleep, I overheard the crayon box. “I don’t like red”, said Orange. “Nor do I”, said Pink. “I sit at the top”, said Blue, “And I give color to the sun”, Yellow quipped. I couldn’t hear Green; I wondered what it’d say. Black said “Am the Universe” and everyone fought. Green spoke mildly, “I am the undemanding ground. Everyone starts from me and ends in me. I allow the burden and wordlessly absorb everything. I I am pristine, Oh I am Green”.

And Green, I colored my scenery first.

Words...

2007-11-16T05:12:00.000-08:00

I still remember the c-a-t and the m-a-t. The o-n-e and the t-w-o. It was arduous and seemed practically impossible to form words. The alphabets alone, 26 in number seemed a task for 26 lives, almost hinting dyslexia in me, but I managed. I managed to learn them all and even more…lots more. But no language is perfect, no vocabulary is adequate to the wealth of this valued world. I learnt words in many languages, still I feel lost to them, eventually wondering what is it that can encompass the whole rich, harsh and subtle experiences of this world full of words.

I would wonder how alphabets go straight into words and how words went straight into lines. Lines that could separate countries, that could break territories and wipe out things as tough as human bondages. Lines, which could create splits thorny enough to fill up, lines that could eventually devastate the state of all valuable experiences and events of life. These are nothing but words that form two lines apart…far enough for even the same man to straddle from one to the other. The grammar affects these words, breaking up infinitives affects these words, using negatives affects these words. Life, however by any means is not a handsome word! Sin and purity, hatred and love, rebellion and support, destruction and nurturing are all words. If we remember them, we know them. We put the word out of our mind, and they depart. Eventually all comes down to life being a long sentence, the only need…to end it with the right WORD.

Copy Right Kaveesh...

2007-11-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

Do u like being copied? Aah..I plainly love to. Every now n then, every here n there, I find people copying me. I generally don't find anything that’s extraordinary or atypical about me, but I guess people do. Half of them elect to choose faults in me and then they try to incorporate those to burn out their follies. Its grotesque if u ask me. But I like it…really! It makes me feel so fundamentally outta the world. Gives me a reason to celebrate my ownself. Well, self-love generally needs to find out ways. My nephew asks me “How to be like u chachu?” and the other day a neighborhood aunt asked mom… “How did u teach Kavish to be such a well-mannered boy?”…Haha..I just smiled, smiled at her oblivious and dainty knowledge of my actual me. But, as I said…I like it always.

I always wanted to copy too. I thought inspirations work, but failed to feel inspired. I failed to be sumone else. Individuality.Originality. Novelty. Three things that I live by. But again, no one is made single handedly. Lots of people own me in some way or the other. I may have a thousand flaws, but still I am liked by many others to the extent of being emulated. My sister wants to be me in her next life. Why? She can’t answer. My students want to speak like me. Why? They can’t answer. My friends too like to take things from me. Why? I don’t care to ask.

As I end...I just wish to inform and request that There’s no Copyright Kaveesh. There’s just COPY RIGHT KAVEESH….PUHLEEEZZ!

Book‘ease’...

2007-11-09T02:12:00.000-08:00

With the same old drudgery for over a month, I started to feel as if I am made to fulfill some unfulfilled desires of a handful of twitchy intellectuals. Life seemed to be pissing at my own past enjoyments populating me with all the possible anguish that it could bestow upon me in this festive season. But there was one thing I knew for sure...that life was bloody determined to force every last vestige of me into boredom and misery.

However, I always know how to come out of anything that’s bogging me down. This time, I took to books. As I walked pass every shelf at Landmark, no matter what genre it was, I realised how that life inside me wanted to get back to its original blithe. From Jane Austen to Ken Follet, Indra Sinha to Gurcharan Das, from the Spanish dictionaries to the book of funny one-liners…everything felt special in its own way. The place looked gleeful and I seemed to have found the lost ease in those set of papers. The scent of those pages riffling randomly almost took me to trance. Nostradamus’s predictions, Occult, Sudoku and even kamasutra was bliss generically.

Books can never defraud you. That’s true. I have GBs of e-books on my laptop. However still, there is nothing that can beat those pages bound and spined. So here’s to anyone who’s at a loss to life and comfort. There is no other power than the power of words…no better ease than book‘ease’…

My Own Made....

2007-11-07T09:04:00.000-08:00

There are half a thousand things that I don’t like on and about this rotating earth, one of them being the kindly race of humans. Yesterday my Orkut homepage buzzed me bout my fortune….It enticingly showed… You are kind-Hearted and hospitable, cheerful and well liked..!

Just like every other day, I shifted my glance from it. But, then, I went back to it. I asked mortifying Orkut, “Who did u just call hospitable and kind hearted?” I am supposed to hate people who call on and I am made to be harsh towards the kindly race of humans. And then I questioned him vindictively, “Don’t you fuckin know that I have problems with each and every fleck of the kindly race of men??” and there I got the answer…Soothingly seeping into me… “I myself am a problem”. The greatest problem is within me. Laughter and cry, fortune and adversity are all my own made. Friends and relatives, those who come and those who go, are all my own made. My praises, my follies and my being above no one else are all my own made. Then why do I abhor what ‘I’ have not made?

It’s dense but the question again is my own made. Does this happen to anyone of you all too? Do u also hate what u have not made?