Which?

ich?So which of the two is the tracks you would prefer to your wheels rattling on? Something that you have juddering through for the last three years - but boy! Mind you, the gravels on the track are well qualified to make trip and lick the dirt of the ground - or, a well furnished bed of roses, where firstly your feet will not be stinking after a lengthy gruesome ride, and secondly your limbs will not be succumbed to exhaustion - the only merciless factor being that that track is actually knitted with you fascinations, and you have to be man enough to get it down to the levels where it can sneak through into veracity.
Once again, the former track has boulders of regressions, daunts, mind storming numbness inhibitions that are well geared to pluck you out of your ecstasy. However, the latter one is - as already been claimed to be a bed of roses; smelling pretty, maybe giving you nothing but at the end of the road, you’re making sure you will not be losing out on your share of exhilaration and the drive that will inevitably make you strive forward and probably lets you free to go for the kill!
Okay, so one of the bombarding questions set up to imperialize your hub can be, that why go for the former in the first place? But nonetheless, that is not something to be so incredibly drenched under; lets just say your own realizations betrayed you; you ran out of expectations towards them, and well now you’re out of time as well. Wish winding up the hands of the clock could actually get the time to slip back. Poor, innocent soul, aren’t it?
So how is sanity defined? Does it hold the traditional explanation; or would anyone please customize it? The former track might be a judder, but then there is a surety that that one might end up somewhere fruitful. And the nearest implication to the mention of the ‘fruitful’ is a well furnished life; name, wealth, recognition… However, and maybe, the other one might be umpteen hazy; you cannot bank upon the fact that this one could lead you somewhere. Agreed, that you’re spellbindingly in love with this one, but that MAY OR MAY NOT bring the shades of success, and all the ones that already have already been called above.
Now if running your eyes through this piece snoops in perplexing lexis, and the shades of (traumatizing) confusion, I should palpably be contemplating for a mind scratching, obnoxious, grotesque tangle for myself, huh?
Judging between the two journeys is certainly a daunting task, but really, which one should be kept in focus for? Conventionalities, or ecstasy? Now here’s a funny bit of a survey. All friends - on being asked for the same - went in for the latter one; certainly seemed they were more inclined on the affection towards it rather than the scope and the ‘money’ it could’ve brought in. Call it immaturity - well, that’s your call; but you simply cannot wipe off the fact that even 20 year olds got brains off the table, can you? Now, pouring light in the civilization of parenthood, I was asked to purchase the contrary; funny contrast, huh? Now, cal it their maturity, experience, the want to get my name fluttering and breezing amid the big ones.
And please, for some people who just adore experimenting with their lives and who cannot resist the mix and match attribute, well the two seeds I’ve mentioned cannot get along collectively. You cannot expect a magnum opus out of my life by simply coupling the two of them. Associatively, I do not wish to get down and argue about the same.
Once again, its back to square one. Ecstasy or conventionalities?
Another ground of concerns is the fact that despite the mammoth score of the number of bricks on the wall constructed between the two polarities, each of them fights for a larger possession. And instead of conflicting with traumatizing inhibitions (which actually happens after a notorious drive into exhaustion and tiredness because of the Armageddon between the two), you prioritize to let both of them settle for an equal share. And then the game of swings and switch overs bumps in. Whenever you go in for the former one, you feel you’re killing your own happiness, you’re making yourself succumbed to the darkness plagued with morsels of anguish of agony. Or to say, you’re cutting down your own wings of creativity, innovation and giving it in for an episode of hideous cramming which (is what you feel, still unaware whether the sensations are accurate or not) cannot get you camouflaging to its colours. Once again, on the contrary, when you rush in for the latter one and sideline the first one, you feel you’re choking your future, one that can for sure get you escalated amid the profits.
And by the time you actually come down to drawing out a conclusion, you’ve run out of time. And then you probably aren’t left with anything - be it tradition or the other.

Lose and Loser...

If I could, I would have loved to carve out a replica of Taare Zameen Par. Or probably something as a parallax to it. But this was however, the best I could pull off. So who is really the loser; the one standing on the pinnacle, the pinnacle of the under ground, of the losers? One who knows what he desires from his life and has the incredible brains to formulate a plan up to his destiny; or the one who doesn’t, but has the most powerful of the fantasizing powers of coming up with something humongous in the near future. I still stand clueless towards the definition of the species belonging to “L” world. And in accordance to my exploits, I pulled off two seeds that can in fact germinate the perfect contrast of working out the conclusion of the experiment. So we got one person who does KNOW what he wants out of his life, is exercising with all his might, plus, is all over the place fanning his wings on so many other things. Ignores nothing, acceptance seems to be the flavour of the season. A mammoth score of fends on every list of his - be it facebook, orkut, the phone lists, or anything else. And the other side of the world exuberates something completely contradictory. A person who is currently nothing to be called upon the stage for. A perfect example of a ‘student’ in actual terms - just slogging with his college life, probably trying to get along with his studies, cramming the hefty books scripted by the authors who contemplate themselves to be no lesser than Einstein! The roots are in fact restricted to just one branch, hasn’t really kept his chin up when it came to exhibiting the exuberance of his talent. But the attitude doesn’t push him down. Fascinates all day about making it big, having a space that runs on his own rules, a place where the sun shines and sets in accordance to the timelines he lays out. Vulnerable towards speculating what the future has tanked up for him, gets along easily to clear the coast for his fascinations to run freely. But then, I came across another fragment that held the filaments that were obnoxiously different. Obnoxious because the intolerance levels were switched on to a ghastly portrayal. He doesn’t really care about the ground he’s standing on right now. Even doesn’t throw any concerns towards the renovation of his tracks; however, he dreams to imperialize the territory that firstly leaves everyone fascinated, and secondly is completely spellbinding. But is he really justified - for a mere spectator watching this play come to life in a theater, its bound to be crap. Now why would anyone want to have a grueling judder on the track he has lay his foundation on, and then pour in a boulder of something extra! Instead of ignoring what can definitely get him to the house of wealth, fame and apparently life he’s introspecting something that MAY OR MAY NOT have a scintillating effect in his life. Once again, is he justified? More importantly, are the people encapsulating his verve worthy to see this? Even that person doesn’t really know the dreams and fascinations that he’s been knitting over the past recent years would buy him anything. However, what if I say the foundation track (we just spoke about) was apparent handcuffed exercise (not entirely!!) and the latter one was the intended one! Introspecting the length and amount of words contributed towards all the three sections, its certainly sure what the person (who has scripted this) is like. Probably I know myself a lot!! It may not be a claim for being a loser - or wanting to be one - but still there are so many inhibitions that actually force you to fall in line with the contrary. Yes, you do fascinate to count yourselves among the big names, but cannot help yourself until the assets are all cooked up. Not that you do not possess the resources, but they’re all stuck up in the web of your nerves. And probably you’re asked to get them matured before breathing life into them. Now what do you do? You wait…conspicuously? The conflict between time and your tolerance has turned itself into the Armageddon, and you still cannot help it! The platform you’re hunting for with every currency of desperation lunging forward hasn’t been renovated, but yet again, you cannot help it! Once again, you wait? Annoyance and vexation, followed by perplexing lexis (as the readers of this column would have bound their limbs by) is all you can purchase. But really, are you still the loser. For the present, probably you are, and as for the future’s call, well you’re not sure! But all fingers and toes are crossed! Circumspect it to be the most bitter tonic you have to gulp in (with nothing else to opt for) to let the perfect sneak out come to terms with you. Now the judder of this phase is completely stoned. You’re thrashed hard onto the rocks (by you yourself!), claiming to be living a disaster of a life, succumbed to jealousy when getting on with inspirational movies, or a few numbers that sing out success and how it took people to accomplish crawl up to the summit. Fascinations augmented, arrogance personified…what else can you ask for? People who score aces in their mid terms and finals have ignorance wrapped up as a present for themselves - and the card reads the sender’s name as yours! So what is all of it? A lost out battle?

Railed back on track...

Ahem ahem! So like the regulars, its really pointless penning (or typing, but whatever!) down this one as well. No social issues, no whining over the “breaking news” (which, yeah do strike hard!) this time. And it is really one of those days when you’re standing on the summit of tiredness (and wondering that amid the tiredness, and the exhaustion, how did you manage to climb till the summit.). So much so,. Even writing a blog page - and making the count of your blog posts augment - seems to be a taxing job. (however, Like always, the ‘but’ is right behind you!!) But the monkey on your back doesn’t let you breathe if you try giving up on writing; it puffs out monkey breath right in your ears unless you agree to come to terms with it. To take it from the top, I had the instigation of my new semester today. So what is it that is prophesized when I say I was entering the gates of my uni after an apparent 3 weeks - a tangle of reminiscence? The craziness, wackiness, FUN (mind the bold letters) coming to life; the regulars striking in (we know all the regulars, don’t we? Facing the dawn which seemed to be on a different planet in the vacations, running around from the 4th floor to the ground floor for one lecture and crawling up back. I mean, what sense does it make? However, much to say that the ‘regulars’ also incline to fun, huh?) But oh boy! Reality check is still left unchecked! The exhilaration is still buried in darkness; the excitement is still hunting the graves for its soul; and probably for the first time, you are extradited as a freaking ‘speculator’. (yeah, because everything is actually running on the road you directed the last day!). Moreover, the first words you let your voice box draw towards your friends is “Hello Sir” (and one wonders, ‘man! Why on earth is he being so ‘notoriously’ formal with me? Do I need to hunt for an asterix?’ But even the bliss is a menacing deception, just as you like it!). However, only this time the “sir” actually means “jack ass”! and you stick to it. And amid the dark exuberance that you’ve put (not to forget, that you love being called as gruesome, grotesque and weird; you’ll probably make out with the person who calls you by those claims!), there are flashes of fiery FUN and obnoxious humor. When no one around you has an idea that you had been struck by a mind numbing disease over the last slot of vacations, its hilarious to watch people jump off their tables to get away from you. They actually start measuring distances when it comes to facing you. And the slot which completely freaks them out is what gets the tickling drive out of you. “I have been…told by the doctor…not to be in touch with a per…person who’s had Cpox…and to be away for a month.” and then you end up portraying yourself to be a demon, or the one of the security people guarding the gates of hell. (feel superior, huh?). (and by that time, MONKEY PANTING IN HUGE PACKETS!!) So for a spectator (and the ones watching the afternoon ‘weep shows’!!), its firstly unfair, and completely intolerable for a person to be apparently secluded when he’s got the claim to be a part of the populace. You’re considered to be a threat, and probably the only one can dictate terror! People run away from you, its only you who can be considered to be the bordering on the qualification mark in a terrorist group. (on second thoughts, why not serve the nation on the borders? Just go and hug the opposition; no arms, no weapons; a peaceful war). But once again, contradictions! You again find the same attitude being delivered to you as scintillating. (want a break from the outlandish segments?). So then, the hideous university ride finally begins. Finally, feel like home. As soon as you enter the campus, even on a bright sunny morning, there is a certain ghastly tickle; with the ‘sixth sense’ pointing to a turbulent scenario waiting at the other end of the road, all geared up to chew you up (and wont even throw up - how rude!!). (really trying to augment the length of this piece, but…what the hell..??? Hardly anyone cares to read it). And if among the people who do wish to un their eyes till the end of this piece, keep your sarcasms and what you call as ‘witty’ comments in darkness.

Don't want to make it sound BIG...but I'm back...lolzzz

Okay! So I’m scripting this one down after apparently an era. And boy, it surely kicks the excitement and exhilaration within me. Like all the grimes I’ve renovated my blog with, probably this one wont make enough sense either. But anyways, who cares for the screwed “intellectuals” who cant even be perceptive towards an article written by a 20 year old. Ha!
But really, coming back the blog-ism is pure reminiscence. There is certainly nothing better than a hot, boiling cup of coffee; with a piece of writing, and watching Australia screw the Kiwis on their home grounds; the Kiwis denying a boundary every second ball. Really gets the tickle out of oneself!
So why I really couldn’t be on the publishing lists all this while; yeah, all credit to the plagues of chickenpox that were driving me into the blizzard of seclusion, monotonous mind numbing inhibitions. Just try featuring out this equation: out of nowhere (on the Christmas day, you fond out you’ve been infected with Cpox. For some there might be scintillating news blasting into the territory - you might not give the examination tomorrow, but what the hell; the teacher for that particular subject is way too easy going, and would give you a 40 on 60 even if you had portions of grimes and crap stacked all over your answer sheets (what gets the word ‘worse’ pop up to life is that the re-examination would be held after a year; so when all your friends are partying out, you are sitting in your room cramming what seems to be an irrelevant and not to forget the most menacing of the pieces of text; cursing the author of that book to work on something instead of writing; because his writing curses the students!!)
And then, you have no idea that you’ll have to be stuck within one room for a next 3 weeks! Alright yeah, probably for the jail convicts, this thing doesn’t get them astounded (and why the hell should it! 3 weeks of solicitation would apparently be a bliss to them!). But hey, for an outgoing person, who loves being a part of the populace, who loves paying a visit to the neighbourhood market everyday (no matter if the market is drawn in filth or not), who loves LIVING OUT in simpler terms, and who doesn’t envisage to be confined within the walls of just one room; its undoubtedly a curse.
Forgetting the street food is what swings in the nuisance. Though all the oldies at your place ‘advice’ to not have them, but you pay for a sneak out. (doesn’t happen anyways!). The mouth watering pani puri, chola bhatura, kachoris, samosas. Now, why on earth would anyone deny that? You end up making a decision that you’ll make your favourite cuisines cash in justification for their call (me talking big, huh?), even if being sick for a couple of weeks more was brought in.
Moreover, everything seems to be running away from you. You prophesize to have everything belonging to your desired lists of comfort in that one room; that doesn’t count to a heater, or anything that conditions your health, but you actually mean the internet wire, loads of DVDs, a couple of EA sports of games. But guess what? You suddenly realize that life’s all that sunny.
(and by this time, the Kiwis had struck back. Man! Was I so incredibly wing in saying the Aussies kick brilliant ass!)
So reverting back, yeah, the veracity is far, far away from your wildly loosened anticipations. To begin with, the internet that could’ve been one of the alternatives to the bitter(sweet) medicines to provide relief for you, but the wire cannot be stretched till that room. And to get it done, the guy who could’ve fixed it demands for a price of Rs. 200 (and you end up saying, “what a jerk!! Just a wire!). No television, and no radio. And then you keep wondering scratching your head, what is it really that can keep me going within this time limit of 3 weeks. (and to add to the disgusting injury, you’re cell phone doesn’t catch the signal in that room. Beat that!). (after a couple of minutes, the Aussies are seen lifting the trophy! I was so damn correct in the first place. Still wondering what made me switch tables!!) So the question still stands on the pinnacle of all heights, waiting to be accomplished, but like I said, the sun isn’t shining (man! When did the clouds get so concrete?). All you can do is sit with the laptop, and probably write. But then having struck by a confinement (and then writing) doesn’t really make sense. I mean, not to me surely. How can probably one write being under the same quilt for 3 weeks, which at the end of every day is stinking more than the filth pot. And you can only get up and maneuver yourself out of the room if you have to pee. However, the filth doesn’t restrict itself to just there. No coming in touch with water, no washing your face, no bath. “EWWWWWWWWWWWW”. well, if you want to take your chances and begin with some writing, you can try, but wont turn to be a clean one!!
You believe the only couple of DVDs that you’ve got after umpteen cradles and persuades would be a “time pass” after dark, that’s not how the equation works. Your pa snoops in to your room, and dictates you go off to a nap!
Ever heard? That there is a alternative medical solution to every ‘fall’ of yours. Well, I wont say it really brought me wonders, but yeah, kind of worked! The anti allergic pills that you have draw the angels of sleep, for the entire day! Now the ‘time pass’ thing was a definite fixture, you really don’t have to scratch your head the entire thinking what has the plan of action for the entire day. Easy enough to hit the sack instead. But what really unleashes the dark, turbulent and menacingly traumatizing slots is that you keep dreaming (not day dreaming, the traditional dreaming; the one in your naps) throughout the stroke of midnight - on the new year’s eve as well!!
I wont be here writing my diary (lolzz), but after those 13 days, really the sun and the sky seem to be taken out of the oven, absolutely in mint condition. The first ride after the ‘convicted’ confinement is purely bliss. You don’t mind the heat in the middle of the December chill (it actually oozes the sweat out of you; IN WINTERS!). To cram it up in one nutshell, life is shining gold otherwise.

iRoNiC...

A rare triumph, and a bummed out celebration! The two filaments don’t really seem to knit well with each other, do they?
Sitting in a secluded quadrant, the caves of solicitation branching out to all portions of the arsenal (however, the last immediate strand doesn’t even lead to the directions of the concerns!). Anyway, sequencing it up with tangles of words and a perplexed degree of language, that apparently was never fantasized nor envisaged to shape up a spectacle out of itself…THE IRONY? It does sneak itself in to pull the boundaries of laurels within the envelope of reach. What nurtures the tail of the trail bangs on being nothing short of a stroll in the park to be posited…CELEBRATION, FEST…ZEAL and ZEST! Cash in the latter two for me, and zap out the former chunk for charity. Seems to be the perfect fairy tale with a drag of assault at its closing episode.
So the nucleus that is wrapped around recursively by this idea along the periphery is the justification of the triumph. And on a pivotal ground, the inclinations onto which this justification leans. The grueling judders destining to feat and a probable astound of glory have celebrations and parties waiting at the summit, or aren’t they? And the most perturbed curse to be granted access to is, when the pinnacle of all accomplishments is the next door neighbour, but is conjectured to be a step higher – and an indefinite count of iterations flags off.
What more addition can make the perfect assortment of ecstasy, exhilaration directed by the victory vandalize? A mammoth mountain being squeezed into the perception as a miniscule fraction of a “nothing”. At this spot, optimism augments its confinements towards globe trotting and space trekking. But how many graduations does it encapsulate under its possession. Contentment succumbs to its own injuries.
Alright, the stride for betterment should pull up its socks everytime. On the contrary, it’s the only time when the corridors of eccentricity denies to immortalize even for an experimentalist. In the most defining sequence, what is the tail of the tale? A dash of optimism cutting itself loose, or does the big L has cannon balls being shot in all splits of the cargo space…

PizzA HuT FiesTaaaH...

A fizzed green apple drink – with the effervesce hovering in the prophesy of a crystalline exhibit – kept by your side with the droplets of water exuberating a flirty intimacy with the walls of the glass, a Russian mushroom embedded pasta (exonerate my memory for not reserving a portion of itself for the name) that when squished within the sharp edges of your teeth virtually caress through your tastebuds – enthralling all of its four divisions to dump the rattle of infuriation and disgust for letting the gravy of abhorred tadkas stream over them for the past couple of weeks, and now having a contingent of herbs bestow warmth on them – moreover, the sensation of liquid cheese with sprinkles of mint tangling with your saliva makes you experience what love is, AT FIRST TASTE!
Hold on! The awe-inspiring ride still has a bundle of astounds to take the wind out of your sails! Next up, the cheese tortilla – though it was apparent stack of voided expectations that could’ve been queued up outside the confinement of contentment – anyhow, a scoop of white sauce (or whatever the chefs prefer to call it), presented in the center of the cheese-and-tomato projection over a virtual papad like thin crust was like a relish of hot chocolate on a vanilla scoop.
And then the definitive slash of icing over the cake, the good ol’ dash of Italian and Mexican flavours infused in the pizzas, hypnotizing all your senses on the grandeur, leaving them numb (Probably the adrenaline’s scorch knitting the voluptuous taste escalated beyond the pinnacle for me, but that is the ecstasy for pizza lovers!). anyhow, it was an uphill task to brick a wall contrasting the country tang (with the only exception of a red sauce to spice up the country!) – owing to the speculation from its name, THE COUNTRY FEAST. And the paneer blanketed, the prophesized Mexican PANEER EL RANCHO (trust me! Most of the chews were serviced by chunks of paneer and certainly, the thick pan crust. To me, it seemed the traditional Mexican spice had eccentrically paralyzed its verve).
That is how the most scintillated and as sensational (and a smidgen of strangulated ambiguity) meal assorted with straight-from-the-oven garnish of cheese, topped with the otherwise reluctant to be swallowed down the throat sabziyan that mounted on a clamp of mint conditioned, heavenly extraditions had been served on our platters.

ThAnK GoD ItS FridAy...

Undoubtedly, a ridiculous and ludicrous textual arsenal snapped on this blog. But it isn’t a grueling ask to judder through it and escalate the count of my profile views. And running through it isn’t a peccadillo! Nothing alien that has been entitled and scripted in this passage, and nothing that would get the mind scratches buzz out to their business. Accordingly, a few claims of ‘crap’ and ‘shit’ that knit the strands of this particularity shouldn’t spin out leaving anyone astounded!
How does one configure the seeds of exhilaration for a Friday – where the groove is just a step away, and the ecstatic bewilderment is probably waiting in a corner to pounce at you – and that for a Monday – where all the jazzed shades of parties have annihilated and a virtual dull verve has once again looped in.
A Friday evening is prophesized to synchronize all the nerves and stack them into a bag of delight. Splashes of exhilaration are everything when the breeze flowing on the onset of an ‘incredible’ weekend strikes and at the same time, smears through my face, dumping my sorrowed lexis. For a fractional fragment of the population, its all about the groove of an indefinite stretch of gluing their eyes on the television screen, or for the others its all about sticking their feet on the dance floor. The sweetness of the posited fun awaiting at the other end of the day even takes water along the bitter route. Apparently, the reason why we (my batchmates) tend to bunk all our classes, lecture and practicals for the entire day on a Friday – to pay tribute to our ecstasy! (On the contrary, a bunk is like a desperate slurp that remains engraved on our tongues…and it has the privilege to strike down at any point in our daily schedules!)
Think you’ve had enough for Friday? Well, stick to it, because the spark with which a new week flags off already has water spilt over it. All of it in actuality stems out a dozen of hours before the dawn of a new week wakes you up…The exercise of waking up with the cry of the hen every Monday mornings is an absolute sin you cannot fight swords or retaliate towards. What’s more? It seems the time has slipped back by a couple of hours. Puffed eyes (and for the Sunday night party routers, ‘BLOODSHOT EYES’), a scoop of crankiness buttered all over, the head seemingly snatching the all the shackles of your body bulk… (Alright! Not that you cannot flesh yourself out of it, but Monday dawns are the ones where the darkest of nights evidently will not mind filling in their prioritizations over them!)
it is like a virtual cliff that we scale ourselves onto. The bottom (where the climb instigates from) adheres to the new week sparked, and crawling up that indefinite stretch doesn't really hypothesize tolerance to imperialize the territory. But the same crawl does possess the judder to ram throughout the extension in an apparent click of the finger - much like the scratch of gold among a pile of nickel!
now for laddering oneself from the zenith of that exhilaration till the sink. well, it sweeps out and reciprocates by a greater magnitude - just like those incredible magicians that dare to wipe out everything kept under your nose; the weekend scoots out at an immaculate blaze. I'm everytime recursively tangled in the shackles of the rubble at square one...