Greys

Try as you might -

The greys won't be undone

In your wounded black & white.

The Sopranos sleeps with the fishes now

That's my Sicilian message after nearly a month of watching all the six seasons of The Sopranos, the great gangster TV series. Nothing else can perhaps convey my sense of relief as the last few minutes of the 21st episode of the sixth season rolled on. Relief that finally there were no more episodes to watch, that the story finally ends after much blood, gore and misogyny. Yet, I watched. I stayed fascinated with this violent story of a mob family that plundered through the lives of people, killed and slaughtered.

I can say I was obsessed. Every day as I came back from work, it was always to the next episode of The Sopranos. Coupled with a beer or two, I was like an addict writhing for my next shot of heroin. After hours of watching episode after episode, I went to bed with a strange sense of nothingness, as if everything that was in my head had emptied itself out. In more ways than I can comprehend, I felt relief over that emptiness too. I no longer had to think about anything that was bothering me.

Which brings me to the question about The Sopranos. What made this TV series such a landmark in the world of entertainment? Of course, it was a deep commentary on the American society. But what was it trying to achieve in its narratives of some wiseguys who were often robin-hoodesque? They were ruthless in their business dealings and unforgiving of betraying associates. Yet, they gave their money and time generously to all who they loved. They were deeply sentimental often yet grotesquely unintuitive to the pain caused by their sociopathic ways.

Vanity Fair's Peter Biskind gives an incisive critique of the series in An American Family

Disrepair

Hush, this toilet seat is falling off;

I hide but the yellowed curtain is reproachful.

Look at the sink, you cunt,

There are holes you can't repair,

Because teeth that shine can't see ever,

Including your tobacco blighted ones.

That raspy curtain voice came to me again

When in a single windowed study-bedroom,

I wished upon a music-less kite.

It haunted me in ragged dreams,

In snide voices by the cafe,

While I lfited my feet to a winded window,

In the footfalls of my flatmates,

In aunty's toothless grin,

By shrubs of wooded side walks,

In the friendliness of the society dogs.

Apparently, there is something to be said

On the state of disrepair.

On this note I leave

We are playing dear -

It's the game of love,

You said. Silly me

To think you wouldn't

Cheat, change the rules

And jeer on my losing.

On a sleepy weekday afternoon of my Psychology class in the summer of 1998 (or was it 1999?), I decided to write an ode my friend who was leaving Bangalore to work in Dubai. It was heartbreaking & nothing less than a poem could fully express what our friendship meant to me. It was he who taught me the importance of "thinking through", and it was his single minded devotion to understanding the truth of our world that motivated me to do the same. But it was his always restrained, gentle and quietly mischievous manner that influenced me the most.

After many years, I am re-visiting the poem and it's reassuring to know that despite all the blows and cynicism of adult life, I have managed to keep my passion and humour alive.

Inebriated on life

Should we, lil bird,
Under the bright blue sky
Roam into the corners of eternity
Sigh at the intensity of the splendous lines
Twirl within the spaces of our minds
Waltz on the undulating waves of time
Stare at the autumn vibrant butterfly
Toe onto the vertigo of infinity
Seek if for a moment to be blown
To die, to annihilate ourselves
Phoenix-like rise, smile,
Hold hands and walk on dusk-dappled beaches,
Weeping within ourselves
Singing aloud the life-song.

Balderdash

Time's punching me senseless

'Coz I, spud, plonked

My big arse on indecision,

Under-evaluation,

And other such self-flagellation.

Really, self-indulgence is such -

Pleasant occupation for suckers.

Kargi & his gloating

Had fun interpreting this image of my cousin Hysen outside the Colloseum.

Image courtesy Hysen & Oneida

Once upon a time, me Khargi, a wanderer of many names, took to walking past every broken monument in the dark in celebration of inconsistency. You see, incoherent habits such as these are really a way of cocking a snook at the world and its greats who are no different from the dead-and-gone aggrandized, narcissist builders of these egoistic monuments. I come here to laugh at the slowly corroding facade, and at the damp corners where dogs surreptitiously pee and lizards mate. You see, I might be a nobody and will leave behind no legacy, but at least I don't have to continue pretending centuries after I am dead. Or roll over in my grave because a dumb-fuck of an historian wrote that the old apple orchard was abundant because I was impotent.