Depressed

State a critical view putting on philosopher’s lens,
Speak of the pressing issue with profound sense,
Recite a nihilistic poem that had you impressed,
See how quickly the world calls you depressed.

Express such views that are socially obscure,
Paint all your belongings in violet and azure.
How long will you keep the emotions suppressed,
Just to avoid being called again as ‘depressed’?

Criticize the mundane ways our lives are led,
Vocalize the fact that everyone shall be dead,
Resonate with the pain of a human distressed,
Odds in favor of you being branded depressed.

Not all sufferings are reasons to die,
Not all pains aggravate when you cry,
Some people do like to idealize strife,
Oh strife, ultimate reality of human life.

भूख की चूक

कई निकले थे घर से, लेकर थैली और सपने
कई मां बाप के उम्मीदें, कई खुद के अपने
सपना तो सबका एक ही है, घर-गाड़ी-पैसा
वो ही दरिया-राह-कुटिया, चित्र कला हो जैस

कौन कहता है कि वो सब होते हैं अलग
कभी पूछकर तो देखो कहा कोई नई तलब
चलते ढलते आ पहुँचे वे इस चौराहे पे
अभी समझ आया लुप्त थे वे पहले से

देख रहे यहाँ से वहाँ, आख़िर उन्हें जाना कहाँ
किसी किताब ने न सिखाया, मंज़िल है कहाँ,
प्रमाण पत्र है कई, रह गई बस एक चूक,
रोटी तोड़ना सीख गए, सीखे नहीं है भूख

The Hunger Untaught

Many set out from home, with bags and dreams in hand,
Some were their parents' hopes, some their own to command.
The dream is the same for all: the house, the car, the gold,
The same old river, path, and hut—like a story often told.

Who says they are different, or seek a different fire?
Just ask them once, you’ll find no new desire.
Drifting and wandering, they’ve reached this crossroad today,
Only to realize they were lost long before they found their way.

Glancing here and there, where is it they must go?
No book ever taught them the destination they should know.
Certificates they have in plenty, yet one flaw remains deep:
They learned how to break the bread, but not the hunger to keep.

Limits

I am a teacher. I teach teenagers with little attention spans. I have to use techniques that capture the attention of such minds. Hence, most teachers (not college profs/lecturers) have to perform to a classroom. All adults know this - How we set our fake smiles and high pitches to appeal to the children. That we perform. That’s the second performative art I learnt.

The first one I learnt was writing. Though it isn’t strictly performative, I once upon a time converted it into an online performance wherein I would write and post a blog every Saturday night and used to guage response in comments and feedback. And here i am, back at it, to tell you the 101 lesson of art. Not one-O-one. It is the hundred and first lesson. It’s a lesson that every performing artist learns when they live long enough.

Human mind and capabilities are limited. Despite having new experiences and continuous accumulation of information, we tend to become repetitive after a certain amount of time. Any new person we meet becomes boring after some time. Maybe a week, sometimes a month, mostly a year or two, and if you’re lucky enough, it may be longer than your lifetime. But yes, they become repetitive, to say the least. That’s true for full-time professionals too.

Many often tend to notice how a certain artist’s songs are repetitive. I got bored by the time I read Chetan Bhagat’s fourth book and Tolkien’s fifth. That’s why any artist has a solid life of 10-12 albums on average. Then, we know them. After that, people become predictable and boring. It happens to movie directors and music producers. It happens to artists and writers, content creators and YouTubers. There is some good news though.

The artist should realise and plan accordingly. I plan my interesting methods of teaching for 2 years long. After that, I shall become a burden. My writing was never planned, but I knew that I had an upper cap. Well, know this as a performer. Know this as audience. Too much of the same artist will become predictable. And that is how people are. Everyone becomes boring when you wait long enough. Thats why a wise man once said “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” Then, Nolan became boring.

శూన్యం

 తీయడానికి ఏ కథ లేకపోతే, రాయడానికి ఏమీ రాకపోతే, ఆ రాకపోవడం గురించి అయినా రాయొచ్చు కదా అని ఒక గొప్ప కళాకారుడు నా చిన్నప్పుడు చెప్పాడు. నా పరిస్థితి కూడా అదే ఏమో మరి.

ఏమని రాయను చెప్పండి. ప్రకృతి అందాన్ని చూసి మురిసిపోయే ప్రతీ సారీ, దాని వర్ణన చేస్తూ, జ్ఞాపకాలుగా తీసుకున్న ఫోటోలను ఇంటర్నెట్ లో షేర్ చేయడం వలన ఆ ప్రకృతి పాడైపోవడం గురించి రాయమంటారా? ఎప్పుడో ఒకప్పుడు మన మనసుకి నచ్చి చేయాల్సిన కాలక్షేపాలను పిల్లల మీద రుద్దుతూ అవి కలిగించగలిగే ఆనందాలు కనుమరుగై పోవడం గురించి రాయనా?

పిల్లలకు చదువు, సంస్కారం నేర్పించాల్సిన బాధ్యత కలిగి ఉండే ఈ సమాజం తమ చదువును, సంస్కారాలను మరిచి రకరకాల వ్యసనాలకు బానిసలుగా గురించి రాయనా? లేక భావి తరాన్ని సాకే తీరిక, ఓపిక లేని నేటి నెటిజన్ తరం వారి బరువు బాధ్యతలను వేరొకరి పైకి నెట్టివేయడానికి చేసే నాటకం వివరించనా?

రాజ్యార్హత, రాచగౌరవము కనకపు సింహాసనమున కూర్చోపెట్టిన శునకాల చేతిలో కారం అంటిన కీలు బొమ్మలు అవుతుంటే ఉద్వేగభావాలను భద్రపరచనా? ఎందరు మంచి కోరి మాట్లాడినా, అహంకారము చేత కళ్లు మూసుకుపోయిన వారి వాదోపవాదాలు కలిగించే మనోవేదనను వ్యక్తపరచనా?

Different dreams

Morning 4:40 AM. It was civil twilight, the sky was the bluest blue it ever was. Kristn was walking up the stairs of the stadium. That stadium where the concert was held last night. Soda cans and chips packets lay around. As he climbed up, the changing rooms and washrooms became visible. They spread out on either sides of the white wall that faced the stairs. Their black doors reminded Kristn of his piano keys. He stepped out of the stairs and stood facing the wall. He looked all around examining the whole area, left to right. There she was, dead. She laid motionless in the same black dress.

Kristn was a background piano player at the Deli city’s concert hall. He has been working for four years now. He had been the piano player for every Tchaikovsky concert. After his music course at college, Kristn signed up for this job, partly because he liked his music and partly because it afforded him that small studio apartment next to the city metro. He could go anywhere he would like to at very little cost. Also since most concert gigs were in the evening, he always had time to do other chores and gigs.

Last night, he was playing for that 12 year old Violin prodigy’s Mozart 39. Last night, he was also in love. Since the past few months, the feeling kept fading in and out. Specifically fading in every time Vadin walked in and fading out as time passed by. Vadin was the new recruit at the hall, she was the storekeeper and worked every Tuesday and Friday. She attended her music school on the remaining days. Vadin might have been Kristn’s 3 year junior at the school. She was learning the flute and had the air around her.

In Kristn’s life, she came as a respite from the monotony of life. He seldom found any life in all the pieces he played. That lively feeling that ever pervaded in his late teens at music school is now lost. The pieces repeated and the job lost its sheen. Life was otherwise mundane. Vadin on the other hand had been bustling with energy. Young energy. She’d always volunteer for all tasks beyond the storekeeper job. He only noticed her from a distance. He never mustered the courage to walk up to her and talk to her.

Maybe, he never felt the need to either. He wasn’t keen on establishing a friendship or relationship of any kind. But he adored her. Until last night, she was just a graffiti flower to him. Colourful and lively, though near, too far to interact with. And now, she’s gone. Consumed. Consumed by the darkness of the world. She consumed the pills. She took 30 pills, 3 strips of acedifenac, equivalent of drinking 60 cups of coffee minus the water. Bad death for an innocent soul. At least, that’s what Kristn felt. Kristn thought.

For Vadin though, it was a completely different story. Her parents were musicians. She was in music school by consequence, not by choice. Though she liked the flute, she never wanted it to be her career. Indeed, she wouldn’t have picked up the music school if it wasn’t zero tuition fees for her just because her mother was alumni of the college. She wanted to use music to make some pennies that she can spend on learning economics and finance. Those were her choices. But, finances of her father couldn’t buy her that dream.

She took up the job at concert hall recently, to save for her dream degree. She had been a great worker, dedicated employee and the ideal student all her life. She knew she drew Kristn’s attention at the concert hall. No one knew anything about her suicide. Not her parents, not her friends. She was a happy-go-lucky girl as far as everyone knew. And then she died, 30 pills in. While the why of death cleared, the how of such a decision remained undisclosed. As I woke up of my sleep wetting the pillow, the causations for such an attempt couldn’t be traced back for the dream’s portal is closed.

Regards.