Digging for Meaning

Something peculiar in today's ET caught my attention. Pg 4. 'It is patently absurd victory' - TK Arun. The reporter has this to say about Samsung - 'The company is likely to gloat a bit - as a result of the lawsuit, this one-time maker of cheap synthetic garments is now squarely in the same bracket as the bluest of haloed Silicon Valley blue-chips.' Hmm.. I smell a Brahminical bias here.. The author suggests that the cheap synthetic garment maker should feel good about the loss because its more than it could have ever hoped for. After all, it came from the low cast profession of  making 'cheap synthetic garments'. The fact that it stretched itself out of its impoverished roots is laudable, feels the Brahmin inside Mr. Arun. His spirit still lives in the 20th century India where there were 'low cast professions' and 'high cast professions'; where they myth of who deserved what was continuously spun by the few in the 'upper circles...

[This is a ridiculous story. It is based on a scene in Godard's movie 'Bande a part'] A minute. The three of them were sharing that one minute together. A romantic girl in black sweater and two boys wearing old hats. The young souls were wearing their bodies loosely. It was as if they had not yet decided on the uniform they want to wear for their lives. Perhaps, they wished not to be bound by one uniform at all. Right now the boys were wearing the bodies of hollywood film stars and the girl was wearing a radiant body whose sole purpose is to extinguish in love. They were seating snugly in a cafe booth. The young sits close exuberantly, the old indifferently. The youth in its modern temper was sipping at Colas. It was a moment of awkward silence that triggered it. The minute of silence. There was nothing to do and hence they must sit in silence. एक दो तीन... Words stopped. Lips were persed. Everybody was keen on knowing who breaks first. The silent minut...

Uncertain fists in the air Raised for causes ill understood. Uncertain fists as proofs of desperate existence,pumped in empty air. The proof of a life lived sustained on the noxious fanning of outrages. The sadness and badness of the world continuously pumped through the digital veins of the world. The connected soul, battered incessantly by the tidal waves of outrages. Before comprehension can dawn, submerged in another outrage. skin thin outrage, blood thick issues wasp's lifespan worth interest ageless reality man. disconnect. DISCONNECT.

[another ridiculous story in development] This is the 3rd episode in my newest graphic story. You can read about it here..  http://thejinxedone.blogspot.in/2012/06/tatkal-my-new-graphic-story.html You can see the story developing here ->  http://pinterest.com/thejinkatrip/tatkal/

[This is a ridiculous story] Cheat codes! Everything has cheat codes. Sure, even this situation would have a chit code. Only if I knew. In our deliriously celebratory mood on the occasion of the end of another work week, we had set out about on town. In our dreamy eyes we saw ourselves burning the dance floors, riding the Janpath like a boss and dining at the choicest of tables in the Capital. Naive that we were, we ended up spending most of our time stuck in traffic on NH8. Which essentially meant quick dine & having to leave back for home un-drunk, un-danced, un-delirious. It was 1 A.M. on a Friday night. As we approached Gurgaon, we saw barricades on the road at a distance. It was the usual police checks at night, nothing out of ordinary. The traffic goes slow, some turn back, some shake hands. As we approached the barricade though, we saw a bright white light being flashed intermittently towards the car at the barricade. Apart from the usual police people,...

Without letting me know, the sunday sun slipped away, the gathering darkness instigated hungers in my being. the touch-phone remained untouched. the unfinished projects remained unfinished. the story remains, without a start and without an end. must i eat? must i create? must i reach out?  the expanding tired weight pulls down energies... the excess, the excess, the excess!  the meditative escapes into menial chores provided stillness and peace, but no solutions.  what to do? where to go? whom to meet? what to eat?  The mind vacates through the gaps in between the internet browser's tabs. Hammered friday, alive saturday.. sunday with a promise to end. 11 pm. Maybe I can attend to the to-do list. Maybe I can at least start that one idea. Maybe I should just justify the sunday with some useless proofs of my existence. kitchen is a better place for that proof to exist in rather than the internet. But old habits die hard. Click publish, and on with the M...