aloque

An man is only as old as he allows himself to be, I think. Experience has a way of dulling the senses, making once exciting things seemingly mundane. The truly happy man is one then who figures out how to escape this trap. Seeing life like its something new, day after day might seem juvenile, maybe even impossible, but I saw today in a 75 year old man,  a child's look of disappointment, the glee of an excited teen and the wisdom of his years just told him that he was all of those people. They continue to live with him and they make his life as happy as it is. How sad is it that we leave our past behind all the time? How sad is it to grow up and not recognise the people we were?

Have you seen the Hussain Sagar on a rainy day? The water becomes choppy and the skies and water attain the same dull grey, and the cool breeze signalling the 'any moment now' rainfall. Its so uplifting. Far in the horizon was an area where it was, in fact, raining and streaks of grey spread across the evening sky. I was in a hurry to get somewhere but the sight just made me stop, 2 vehicles nearly ran me over but I made it to the other side to take a couple of pictures. Wish I could put them up.

Damn, can I love this city more?

The Hyderabad map is worth 75 bucks and it is probably the best thing I have bought in a while (well, those 200 bucks over the weekend were something else altogether). Coming back to the map, there are so many places in Hyderabad that I have not been to, and when someone recently offered me the opportunity to explore all that, petrol paid for, I promptly gave my bike to the service station and am arming myself with a map that is almost as big as me, a camera, and a gut feeling that this is going to be one hell of a month.

Today was spent bravely venturing into territory that I have never been to before. Beyond the Charminar. Immediately the ornate masjid opens up in front of the eyes, beautiful and old. There is so much romance in old stone. The rickshaw pullers are still allowed in this part of the city and add to the comedy that is commuting on these roads. Another striking thing was the number of women in burkhas. Never seen so many of them in one place. Many minarets and domes poke out of the city scape giving it a true 'old city' feel.

Glad to have been there. Hyderabad, here I come.

You are definitely going to understand what I am talking about. You must. If you are reading this page I assume that you have grasped some fundamentals of working a mouse and have attended your quota of pre-school. If you do not understand the content to follow, then please try to master the fundamentals of working a remote (no pre-schooling required) and watch about 5 mins of any episode of Sex and the City. A formal introduction that says that you are going to have an idea about something that is yet to come must not lead to assumptions that I know what I am about to type in the next few lines. Mostly, I will be talking off the top of my head and a little out of my ass. And even I do not know what lurks in there sometimes.

I am talking about the human obsession for intercourse. Saying that word 'intercourse' might lead you to believe that henceforth follows a mature and meaningful discussion on the topic. Just to put things into the proper perspective, HaHa. Again, I still do not know what I am going to say further into the discussion. But, I am confident of the human race and will rest assured that a promise of further mention of sex will keep you going. Those who read that and have left the page, you will not have read this and this makes any insults a waste of my time and those who are continuing reading this, your time has already been wasted.

Inherent in the somesense that has been typed up above, and the undeniable fact that you are still here exemplifies the fact that we are indeed obsessed. But I have recently discovered, well actually confirmed, (the debate rages on whether personal validation is required to call popular opinion a discovery) that there broadly exist two distinct obsessions for sex. One is the pre sex obsession for sex, which manifests itself before the primary sexual encounter (the text book language still should not lead to assumptions that this is off the top off my head. This has all the makings of a vile sulphide bomb) (and if i have not lost you with innumerable strategically placed brackets, I will continue abruptly from where I left off) and make the average guy think about sex about 5,398 times in a day i.e all the time. This data should not lead to assumptions that extensive research has gone into the writing of this article. About seven minutes of typing without looking at the key board interspersed with 3 mins of hitting the backspace key and 3 yawns have gone into the writing of this article. (also just discovered that when randomly typing 4 numbers I give selective preference to 5 3 9 and 8 in that order). There is also the other variety of sexual obsessing, the post sexual encounter sexual obsessing, which manifests itself after the primary encounter, which makes the guy have sexual thoughts at all times except of course when having sex. I have been informed, as reliably as is possible, that options in thought during the actual encounter include reciting the ABC to and fro (Pre- schooling required) remembering the players of all the cricket teams in the world, thoughts about all the old naked women seen in the past 23 years, krishan kumar (well, no, no one should ever think of krishan kumar). After finishing that broad classification of sexual obsessing, we will go back to the top of the head for some pretence of normalcy.

Staying true to my identity I will now ask a few questions of myself. Of course, no one else is still reading this.

Q 1) YOU ARE???

Q 2) Is it true that it is impossible to be stimulted anymore by the time honoured pre sex sexual obsession aids such as soft porn when a person crosses the line over to post sex sexual obsessing?

Q 3) Do Harold Robbins' readers focus on the *gasp* story-line after the big thinggamagoo?

This post would not make any sense if there wasn't a BIG thank you in here for Adi, who has inspired me to this state of somesense.

Some after thoughts:

So, the word is out. A l o que is short for a lot of questions. So you thought that it would be something deeper than that. Well, genius sometimes misses the simple things, I say.

I have also been told that reading my page conjures up pictures of a fat, middle aged, lonely man who is trying hard to be nice to everyone in his perennial search for acceptance. Per cep tive.

Neuro has realized the immense responsibility he has as the last of the particans, and has now resolved to breathe fresh nicotine fumes and pour the rum and coke back into Hyderabad's lungs and veins. Bless you, man.

Most of the reasons that I have started this blog have been fulfilled, and I am thankful for that. And the biggest relief of all has been that I am past obsessing about it. Now, all I have to do is remain carefree and also reasonfree. Security has a tremendous way of allowing a person to do that. Another thing I have to do is get a thesaurus.

Cannot set my lonely heart free,

cannot fetter it in chains either.

It's bound to run amuck, you see,

I have my feelings to consider.

I love its escapades in secrecy,

once bland, now too much colour.

The senses hurt, now torment me,

but I welcome the ache, so tender.

Cannot count, the ways of my folly,

cannot resist, the sweet surrender.

Moments like this are rare. Just when I think life is settling into a monotone, it jumps out at me like Hobbes when Calvin returns home from school. Sure, I am going to get mauled but I love it.

Meeting an old friend, long walk in the park, pleasant conversation, laughing out aloud, taking my helmet off to ride the bike as the night breeze lifts my spirits, the smell of impending rain, bonding with my brother, chocolate chip ice cream. Seeing life from a perspective that I never would have. Kick me up the back side when I complain about my life.

Our mother is the darkness

we will live seeking light,

die as the light finds us.

Before we lose our wings

we will live happy as can be

die in the throes of pleasure

As our flights crash, smiles

will remain as pure, no cares

of unraveling life's mysteries.

to honour and obey

in sickness and in health

for better or for worse

till death do us part

They must be the most repeated and least meant words in the entire world. But, every single time I hear them, my heart skips a beat and I think that is what life is about. To find love and give it my all and then some more. So, I am a dreamer. I intend to continue dreaming till it happens. And then some more.

Here I am alive and breathing

inhale exhale inhale exhale

Here I am alone and unfeeling

drained from all of your tales.

Who am I fighting so hard?

When did I make these choices?

Is it you? Is it me? I am just tired.

All I hear now are empty voices

whose words are wounding deep,

Here I am, you are still unseen,

taunting, questioning. No escape.

Don't rape the silence that might heal,

here I am, shoot me where I stand

plunge your knives into my neck

Rat a tat rat a tat a tat and

don't leave me alive, thats a mistake.

Tear into my skin and look inside

but it still will not make me care,

New understanding you will not find,

my conscience is already bare

There is one thing in life that is ever elusive to me. I happen to think that, in it, lies the key to my satisfaction, happiness and true ability to stay in and enjoy a moment with consistency. There are many good moments in an hour, a day, a week to overshadow the bad, but the bad are long lived, and always tend to resurface. The solution is as simple to say as it is hard to find. Balance. That is the ingredient to a happy life. And striking the right balance is hard enough to justify the end result.

I have always gravitated towards the extremes of all things in my life. Interest in something usually leads to all out passion that burns hard and fast without stability, leaving no space for anything else until it fizzles out, a damp squib that promised to be so much more. Similarly, disinterest in one thing will lead to a malaise spreading to other spheres of my life, making me withdrawn and manic.

I have never learnt to compartmentalise my feelings. Never learnt to accept happiness and grief with equal nonchalance, victory and defeat with similar detachment. Never found the right balance between work and relaxation. I will either work myself to the bone or sit my ass at home languishing, forgetting my responsibilities. I have never found the equilibrium between my self imposed loneliness and my desire to have a social life. I have never found a meeting ground for my bloated ego and my insecurities, ever growing, in parallel directions. Its one or the other in extremes, like my little brain is incapable of handling both at once, in moderation.

I know the things that work for me, that make me happy. The problem lies in that that I cannot find a balance between them. I always have one or more things in disproportion when they are all equally important, equally unhappy to be ignored. I always hope for that perfect day when everything lines up precisely.

A moment in time when a light descends

as a magic spell over all that is pretense.

A moment in time that holds a promise

of a dawn over a disappearing mist.

Why hide your fallacies when all fear ends?

A moment in time when pain is forgotten

from every thorny path you ever tread upon.

A moment in time that holds a promise

of a flower bud in wait for Spring's first kiss.

What is a thorn on a rose reddened ocean?

A moment healing every tear that streams

a cold stream for every shattered dream.

A moment in time that holds a promise

of the first stroke of a passionate artist.

What is a broken dream when Hope is supreme?

A moment when all love that is lost in vain

makes amends through a vengeance shamed.

A moment in time that holds a promise

of a first time lover, eyes closed in bliss.

What love is lost when you reach out to regain?

Another piece of verse written years ago that I relive frequently....

This has been an amazing day, one for the soul. Nothing spectacular happened, but thats just it. The human being's happiness is mostly not in the spectacular.

One of the best kinds of compliments a person can receive is one with an element of surprise, from a person I respect who recognises somthing in me that I haven't ever thought of myself as being. After all, I have been sticking to my theory that the best compliments are those that I'm already sure of. At least I'd know that I wasn't being taken for a ride. Maybe, I didn't give people enough credit. Maybe, I didn't trust them enough. I was comfortable and that is where I wanted to be. But, today was so different. Receiving praise for something I have done without any pre determination, just being myself is a very nice feeling.

And that happened twice today. First thing this morning and last thing tonight. If there is someone scripting my life, and days like these make me almost believe there is, all I have to say is good job, dude.

Someone asked me if writing for an audience is bad. Well, not really. Many people make a good living off that. There are also many people that try to do that their entire life, unsuccessfully. Yet their regret remains that they weren't appreciated and not that they did not make enough money. There is absolutely nothing wrong with writing for an audience. But, there is something wrong in imposing expectations on the audience. Then there are bound to be disappointments. There are bound to be compromises in my own work. In an ideal world writing and appreciation should remain separate things, with appreciation following the writing, and the appreciatio should then be only a confirmation of self worth and not a definition of it. I mean, I cannot think of myself differently every time I post and receive comments that I like or do not.

That begs the question, who then is the audience that I want to impress? Is it FA, queen of the charts, who will not comment unless she can start off a witty repartee or make the comments a debate? Is it PMoW who has decided to form his opinions and stick to them at too early an age? Is it sweet Aran, who has nothing to say if it is not nice? Is it AR who says nothing at all in his morbid style most of the time? Is it DRP, whose brashness is inadequate cover for a mind that is capable of thought? Is it Mr. N who is a better writer than his endless conversations with the FH team might lead anyone to think? Is it the Princess, who I idolise as someone who follows her heart? Is it for the hundreds of others who read me but were uninspired to say anything at all? Is it me, bereft of any self esteem, not knowing what to think of what I wrote unless someone else tells me? Once that train of thought has left the station, the answer becomes a foregone conclusion. It has to be me. Now is the hard part. Writing and not caring about the consequences. It will happen sooner rather than later.

I really like helping people confront their fears. Being strong for someone else is easier than being strong for myself, and doing that in turn has always helped me be stronger when dealing with my own issues. There is a high in getting someone to get over the fears they thought they couldn't. Just as there is in facing up to my own shortcomings.

This day has been about that. This is the first I have felt comfortable about having taken Aloque off the public blogs. This is the first that I have seen myself for what I was, and felt strong enough to deal with it.

This is something I wrote about 8 years ago, but it has helped me each time I was afraid. Just put things into perspective...

I could feel the creepy chill

run up and down my spine

as I stood at the doorway to hell

the weakness of my mind.

He stood there in silent coldness,

face covered in mystic hood

and a silvery scythe in hand.

I ached to see beyond the darkness

but I saw only what he would

let my senses assess.

Life breaker, soul taker

devil's lover, great leveller,

Grim reaper.

Stepping back, ruled by fear,

I saw him grow in awesome stature

and I closed my eyes in desperation

to avoid the unbearable apparition,

as I waited for his scythe

to make that final strike.

The last bit of courage in

my surrendering soul

rebelled against instinct

and grew wings of its own,

coaxing me to open my eyes

take a deep breath, face that device.

Teling me it wasn't Death,

just my fear in all its depth.

I took a hesitant step forward,

watched his hood fly,

as he faltered

and I saw fear in unexpecting eyes.

Those small wings grew some more,

I felt courage begin to soar,

as I ran screaming towards my fear,

and laughed as he disappeared.