Piano Choir

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This is wonderful... a Piano Choir by Dan & Dan.. worth the watch

Foot and Mouth Increase

His humility started with his feet
A full time reflexologist on call
Pedicured. Manicured clothed with
silk stocking in white
Slipped lovingly into the soft skin of the lamb
On the background played melodies
"Blessed are the feet of the saints"

While his toes, all ten of them, seem excited
His polished nails beamed a smile
Lighting up the ground around
As unto a lamp that lighted the paths

The cursed world called it the
"Foot Fetish"
But the believers
Knew the truth involved
Kneeling down they tithed with fear
Blessings flowing
Wads of valuable papers piling
Smiles on the face
Smiles on the feet

His toes squeaked
His shoes screeched
He merely translated those sounds
And his lips uttered.

Millions fell at his feet
Pedicured nails and scraped dead skins
A whole new industry it birthed
Powered and Packed
In faith they drank
Morning, afternoon and night
Humili - Tea.

The Parthian Shot on Felony Frank

Felony Frank read the words of love
His fuse wire was a bit thin so on and off it blew
Granules of love washed off with acids red
Felony Frank was now a man to dread
He parked his car to a screeching halt
Put on his smile mask - and rushed to the mart
A quart of salt and some oil he bought

On his kitchen counter, where he seldom worked
He took a vessel and the oil he spread
Generously added the salt,
His thoughts, his learning, his mind he poured
Mixed them gently and pickled them for good
Walked to the balcony with a sinister smile
Shedding tears of a slimy crocodile

Felony Frank now sits empty headed and clear
His fingers script what his ears want to hear
His words over the cuckoos nest often fly
He is too insane to even be sly
Even the music finds no place to rest
As a ball thrown on the walls they bounce
And tired on the ceramic floor they fall


Now he inspects his pickled dish
Soft and soaked it needed some garnish
With deft hands he mixed the stew
Bu the pesky pickle from the vessel it jumped
Now Felony Frank chasing it all over the road
He fell in a puddle and smooched a toad
Blink !!!!! in a micro second flat

Appeared a radio jockey talkative and fair
Took Felony Frank straight on the air


Now Felony Frank pickles are the craze
They are baked, packaged and sell hot cakes
They come in hues so varied
There are some with nuts with twin flavors married
You can pick it at the mall, or order it over a email
While empty air is the guarantee for the price
Your soul and mind will be free of avarice

No more stress, and no more cares
No more challenges or pulling hairs
Felony Frank the greatest of them all
Is booked for years in seminar halls
His message is crystal clear
"Life can be lived with absolutely no care
Whether its here or there"
"Dont huff dont puff, he exhorts,
Over what you cannot see
Great pickles are the solutions for eternity.
So Just Be."

Brick walls, iron gates and the talkative Indian

Ever since I rejected the clock and the calender to measure time, I have taken this journey of moving across ages and eras with a bit of an ease. Sure it does at times, trouble me on handling the now, but understanding 'time' in an eternal sense, and measuring it with chunks of events can provide more meaning for the future while living in the 'now'.

Thats' when I journey across the time when life was very uncomplicated, when children knew the real source of milk and eggs and the adults actually journeyed on foot to go places. What fascinated me was the architecture of the old houses. They were constructed with the traveler in mind. The 'thinnai' or the front yard had a place for the traveler to cool his heels. refresh himself with food and drink and even spend the night sleeping there. The traveler carried news, he shared knowledge, probably in return for the care given. They spoke, sang, exchanged notes, as unto FB in real life - flesh and blood. The architecture hence was totally Indian accommodating conversation and dialogue, opening up the hallowed portals of home to a stranger was not an effort but a natural process. For a typical Indian was given to prolixity.

Generations have come and gone, the mortar and concrete phased out the lime and tiles. Cow dung spread anti septic flooring have vanished in a belch, ceramic tiles and marble have taken the pride of place. Wicket fences facilitated free flow of conversation have been replaced by the brick walls as unto a 'fire wall'. Modern architecture is alas self centered, inward focused, shuts of social life, glorifies safety, finds comfort behind the iron bars and in short makes a idol of his own.

The Indian today wants to talk, he wants to share, he wants to throw his home open and let the words flow in. He wants to break down the brick walls and bring down the iron gates that has made protected the idol in himself. He wants to be free. Will the Son set them free??

Fly in a Spaghetti

I spend my hours in a limited geography, dovetailing all my energies on single point of study to go beyond the usage of my limbs for acquisition of knowledge. Sometimes those social straight jackets beckon me; a dear friend who dreamed of celebrating his 21st wedding anniversary in a top notch club hands over the invitation. My emotions are mixed. 21 years of married life, quite an achievement, but the party in the club celebrate is a bugbear for me. Then comes the dress code Collared shirt and shoes. I try to wiggle out gently slipping in the weirdest of stories, his resolve to have me takes a new dimension and it persists. I refuse to make a jotting of this event on my red book of 'dos and donts' planning the eleventh hour launch of 'great escape.com' .

Sunday evening, Iam promptly reminded with a call as unto a pop up window on my laptop, and literally pushed to attend the event. I relent.

The only black decent shirt, pressed and preserved gets out the shelf, but I skip that labor of shaving as its evening after all and my dark skin tones and my black shirt are sure to cover up my facial flaws. Can an evening at a club cannot happen without what is known as the 'bottle breaking ceremony'?, and so I need to take a chauffeur driven vehicle, from the wide range of choice available to me yet Iam left with no choice but to plonk myself in one of those ubiquitous auto rickshaws. Its costs money and clean Rs150 bucks for a 10 km ride.

My trip had some wisdom of the auto driver added up to mine while we conversed on the economic scenario, the stingy upper class, some politics thrown in... To my surprise the roads were quite deserted and my drive, as unto a hot knife on butter, smooth and fast hit the destined place - the hallowed portals of the ‘silk stocking’. Now the rows of fancy cars on the parking lot overflowing into the road sent me a momentary daze as I was accosted by a thin 'beedi like man' on the gates who enquired of me my purpose of the visit. ummm.. haa I really did not know the name of the member... as I decided to stand in the gate and call from my friend and wait. The call was not going through hence I waited in smoke of burning coconut shells that were used to smoke the mosquitoes away.

Now my time of conversation began with Security staff on duty. I probably asked the most potent question to start the conversation - How are you? and Goodwin (name changed) took over as preacher with verbal dysentry. He started with his life in a hill station working for the TATAs along with his wife, all expenses met with a meagre salary, picking tea leaves and then his decision to quit the job to cover his loan taken to buy 3 cows (that died) and an auto rickshaw for his younger brother (who cheated him). His logical mind decided to take a VRS and clear up his debts and land up chennai with his family, and he hates it. Not an hour passes by without my fond memories of my days in Munnar, he said... moving him to tears as he lit his beedi.

I consoled him he was not very amused or impressed, and our conversation took a turn to silence, as I walked down towards the main road to take a look at the statue at the entrance. The statue was of a man. Mr K Kamaraj, once the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, who was barred from entering the club for violating the dress code. The club rules stood straight refusing to bend and apparently the statue was stationed at the gate as a fly in a spaghetti for the creme de la creme of Chennai to have a unavoidable glimpse of the backend of the man who was denied entry.

An advt that subverts?? Brilliant

The intellectual who writes Obama speech

Jon Favreau, 27, is, as Obama himself puts it, the president's mind reader. He is the youngest chief speechwriter on record in the White House, and, despite such youth, was at the centre of discussions of the content of today's speech, one which has so much riding on it.

On December 5, 2008, a picture of Favreau performing a suggestive gesture to a cardboard cut-out of Hillary Clinton surfaced on Facebook. Favreau was said to have issued an apology to Clinton[7], whose spokesman referred to the photo as "an example of just good-natured fun between former rival camps".

Identity and Cool Menthol Filter

1969 as i stepped into High School.
The armor of care around left behind, with beady eyes rolling,vulnerable and overawed.
Social ferment and lawlessness, hushed voices discussing Dravidian issues and the imposition of Hindi constantly tickled my amydala causing my mind to envelope with doubt and fear.

The radio on sunday afternoons and some war torn newspapers presented hopeful lines
- "Cool gives you new kick and the menthol filter does that trick"
while these lines reverberated in my mind my hands flinched not as I took in the first puff followed by a cough and I got me self the first rung of the ladder to handle my high school. Soon I had hitched my ladder to the stars while I greeted the Apollo Team ( Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin and Michael Collins). I regained my identity while my lips gently caressed the filter till it reached the fags end.

Lord Deliver me from these Dees

Do people want everythink in shrink packs? Give them a list they will put on their outlook express and do it to perfection. Solutions for most problems for many can be handled by doing a list.
And my friend gave me a way to handle tasks... He said "
First make a list of all the tasks to do, then every morning run through them the 4 Ds. The D's are Do, Dump, Deligate and Delay. For the first time I decided to take it seriously and went a step further.

I did a quick design of four squares on corel draw, with quite attractive colors and made it my screen saver. Then I put all my jobs on the note pad and distributed in the squares. Beleive me I have so much to do so soon I just dont have the time to sit on my computer.

Now I need to decide whether to dump this method or be Delivered from this. I prefer chilling out worrying about the jobs undone.

Some fish food for your mind

I work with children. My sole aim is to make them have great fun. This is in direct conflict with their parents who do not want them to have fun. So I have two huge fish tanks, one has hundreds of guppies and another one of similar size with two huge golden fishes swimming majestically.

Now I sit and explain to the parents how important it is to make children leaders and not a bunch of code developers with a herd mentality. Saying this I look at the fish tank that has the two golden fishes. Subliminal communication.

To my dismay I look at the ambitious parents focusing on the tank that accommodates the guppies and spot a pregnant mother giving birth and tell me "Sir, I want my child to generate marks like this, can you help?"

Well then I ruminate for solutions and think within " Madam I wish you were reading text books during the process of insemination instead of screaming with joy"

Ive had to take the fish tanks away. Its always better to join the crowd than to swim against it. After all there is a need to give some purpose to millions who have decided to commit their lives to be ensnared hook, line, sinker or net some day.

In fact I saw an appointment advertisement with a huge visual of a hook. I told myself "this fisherman has got balls"

The empire strikes

This blog is called word creates. I believe words have the power to create. Bear with me as I get excited to see Obama choose Joe Biden as his running mate. It cant be by design, or is it?

Surely the empire is ready to strike back with Americas own Obama Joe Biden

Whack on small butts....

Tom had this problem with books, actually he had a problem with whatever his parents told him to do. Pretty normal behaviour... For a child who implicitily follows or takes orders and holds his moma's hands for shopping and who studies without on his own may not give the parents enough fodder as they interact with the others. The Big 'uns are strange species, either way the kid feels hassled. If the pop is soft the mom makes up and vice versa.. for its firmly ingrained notion that there is no gain with out pain... so an occassional wallop on the butt not only satisfies the urge of the alpha male to display his superiority but in the process the child gains immensely. The tigress of the home may take the stick and try it on the child to wake up the sleeping lion.Some red clots on the butt hopefully reduces some reds on the progress tracker. Its strage how the tail and the head are linked. A study of the nervous system to research this phenomena will sure do good. MRI reports of the the brain and the ultrasound reports may overlap...

we have been given two ends
one to sit with
the other to think with
success depends what we choose
heads you with
tails you loose

Brain and the Newspaper

I remember a friend of mine comparing the relationship he had with the newspaper with that of a woman, a private time tucked in the corner, fondling (the pages) etc He said it was a sensuous pleasure, but what he probably meant was it appealed to all his senses.

Over the past decade this rustic beauty (that pepped up many lives in the past), has donned fashionable clothes, talking prim and proper, desperately trying to live up to the Joneses - the digital media.

Her pristine charm of a natural speech, odor and wartime crude looks had for long equipped me for the battles of my day, but alas today she fails to stimulate me; titillation is the most she can do. I end up either leaving my home ‘brain dazed’ now that I have to rely on a good book, some music, a gym and a great breakfast to start my day. Life has become more complex ever since my newspaper changed.

As I rolled in my bed in the morning, the thump of the newspaper alerted my auditory cortex sending signals to my motor cortex to move and pick up my paper from the balcony, the smooth internal movements of information in my brain was possible considering that the activity of reading a newspaper held much promise. The smell of ink and paper activated my sensors in the nasal cavity sending scent messages to the olfactory bulb, sometimes these signals was so powerful that they would touched upon my amygdala, the brains emotion center. So before I could actually start reading my senses were stretching its sinews for the day. Then reading, cranked up all the other parts. The black and white images, highly pixilated, requiring a twitching of eyebrows demanded a highly imaginative mind that excited my visual cortex to bliss. I miss the triggering of emotional chemical, dopamine, by finding mistakes, spelling and factual, identifying news items being repeated and the frustration of navigating through a maze of hap hazard print to continue the story that leaving me in suspended animation, and engaging my brain with the second greatest emotion – anger.



My newspaper today reaches me after passing through a host of software. Designed to perfection, spell checked to accuracy, pleasant layouts, large high resolution color pictures, well researched short articles, prim and proper types. The thump is not audible thanks to the high pitched ambient sound from TV, my groggy sleepy eyes and my dragging feet leads me to the internet as my newspaper slithers on to my dining table. But then I have the option, if my breakfast spares me of my hands then I flip through it, if not it’s ignored and ruthlessly recycled. Barring the Sudoku the newspaper does not challenge me its just another content deliverer like a website, surely not my stimulant anymore. My brain rises up late these days, I push my day with some bird brained soft skills, and I feel like a worm for sure. Wont my newspaper make a comeback, crude from the trenches; ink marks all over, smelly and produced by humans who err, full of passion and courage?

The bushman with soft skills

Leafs, Beads and some metal pieces strategically positioned on the anatomy not just to hide or reveal but to adorn. The pristine nature is on display as these little bodies breeze past the ramp of the world, captured by the lenses of nature's eyes their innocent casual gait nee the zip of a gazelle that could make the urban mind loathe the clothing of his body. Try enslaving a bushman with a choker of a necktie, the pincher of a shoe, the chimney of a hat, a squeezer of a belt or just try to gild a lily.

Well then in the jungle of corporate hustling the communication happens from the attire than from the mind. Yo! A scrub from school who languished with low grades can shop for image from fashion street and hurrah to Pygmalion he is ready to deal cheek by jowl with the scholars. Add a simple 2 day 'tongue cleaner' workshop to transform a garbled tongue to a suave and fluent dude, sprinkle some attitude with some make over from a hen coop, and a fancy phone, bingo the academic flop is ready to make it big in the corporate world.

The masquerading accouterments are off the shelf, after all skating in an air-conditioned rink is no sweat. A leading private bank has designated the hues of the skin to fulfill the terms of employment. Naïve as I was I literally dumped my banker who was rude and efficient to a private bank that sported well designed pay-in slips, envelopes and well draped girls only to hear apologies in husky voices so very often " Sorry Sir it wont happen ever again". I even placed my trust on a so called Private Clinic and disregarded the rude and unclean Government hospital till I had my wife shake hands with death.

Quote moby dick Now I would rather sail a ship with a rude efficient captain than a friendly inefficient chap. The best will be to run carefree as a bushman.

Pages of dream

T

he date and time of execution was set, dark clouds seemed to find a place above my head, the sight of light that greeted me with glee seemed to eulogize the darkness which was fast slipping away and I was, with much strain, trying to hold on to darkness with a long piece of cloth, entreating it to sustain the blindness forever.

The chirping of birds for long had gone past my threshold of listening and I was more inclined to the clanging of chains and the click of iron locks and my mind was inure to mirth and joy of youth and it seemed to find solace and comfort in the meaninglessness of commands. The life of freedom and choice seemed like the ruins of xanadu, the musical notes as unto poisoned arrows of pygmies. The scorpion of hate and scorn crawled over my feet and the ground was strewn with thorns like words fallen on ground crashing on metal ears.

Even as I wish to drench my pillows with tears, I realize my pillows for long have been the stone and my heart hardened, like my pillow, failed to acknowledge pain that can moisten my glassy eyes. Cages with rounded strips of steel as my closest companions, I seemed to reconcile to the dungeon of rebellion and darkness.

Perhaps, words of freedom where the last thing I wanted to incline ears to. My eyes caught a crushed paper on the floor, a leaf of a magazine probably used to wrap up some sort of metal nails. The randomly formed creases, typefaces distorted, the color of rust interspersed somehow seemed to mirror the state within.

Little did I reckon that in this little paper was found my window to paradise far away from the world of grades and assessments, laws and questions, pain and desires? With my heel of footwear, not of my choice, firmly planted on the cell of my dungeon I let my eyes to fall on passages to liberty. First my eyes then my head and then my whole being including my soul was magically wrapped up in this little printed page.

I did never dream that I will be far away from the stringent measurements of judgment, nor did I dream that the rhythm and melody of my heart will one day find perfection along with the cacophony of my the clanging chains of law for I dreamed not at all. And then I came to the realization that the paradise of my being lies not in a world yonder but in a choice of challenges and wishes strung in perfection with words that can enliven me and many.

Bondages are seldom managed but at best broken asunder – in the mind.

NO BARKING

An occassional taxi was the only metallic danger in the rough roads of yester years, so a game of cricket with a makeshift stumps (school bags) in the middle of the road was a natural reaction to boredom, jus' the way we loiter into Coffee Day to butcher some time. Ambitious cricketing shots often found its target onto a neighbour's glass window or the lawn, in these circumstances our exit strategy was well in place. But then every human has his nemesis, and that was the 'BEWARE OF DOGS' BOARD

The creative landlords paid more to the artist who emphasised the teeth of the dog for additional effects. Those boards hanging on the gate post sent shivers down the spine often time restricting stokeplay. This was probably the reason that India had very few belligerent cricketers in the past, most were good gentlemen who feared dogs and fast bowling.


Cut now, 30 years later, obviously the matchboxes called homes have now place for dogs, we get to see them occassionaly in Discovery channel or on Nat Geo. The homes today have electronic surveillance that do not poo or bark or wag tails. The gates are closed and are embellished with 'NO PARKING" boards often outshouted by the commercial message of the sponsor who paid for it to make sure your parking lot is not blocked (he! he!). May be its part of the CSR programs for large organizations??? but you find them in all gates, some gates have atleast 5 of them.

From Beware of Dogs to No Parking we have come a long way baby

Dark men in a Station Wagon

A longish car, nay wagon, shaped as the front of a serpant, and the snout pointed downwards as a swine. Its dark tinted glasses are as night willingly ushered in to hide the corruption of the soul, bouncing away all the elements of sanity and light.

And in sits an animal clothed as a man, who has climbed the pinnacle of deceit, and meditates to have his heart go harder and his blood go colder. The collective carbon emmission of a buzzing port city hangs its head in shame as they jostle cheek by jowl with the words of his mouth. His words and deeds combine as a fatal mix of acids in a chemistry lab. His attire flawlessly white, are as white washed tombs, and a symbol death adorns his neck and his wrist, in thick gold. To sting as a cobra, to devour as a python, to scavenge as a hyena are deeds that he toggles effortless as a nerd flits across the sites on screen.

A champion of ignorance, the success story of our age, the leaders of our polity and business, lives at ease by churning the morality of the ignorant and fears of the fools.

Lord of the Roads

Jug Suraiya is one of my fav writers, he is good at rubbishing stuff in style.. read it
Inspired by him I tried my hand at writing here goes:


A pesky kid, who hates to equip his cerebellum will be admonished with a prediction of hitting the streets soon, insinutating that the worst and despicable are in the streets. On a cognitive level, streets are meant for the filth of the earth to reside and thats the connotation wayside owns. Culturally we are constrained to maintain this standard to make sure our caste system is alive and kicking without the lines getting blurred. Personal hygiene is part of our culture and ritual intricately woven with our celebrations and worship. Pumpkins completely mutilated and squashed on the roads are a monthly affair for purity of soul, holiness will hit new high when the goey matter of the pumpkin skids a motorist to split his head. Free play of bacteria, leptospirosis, plagues moving our streets are celebrated now and then with blaring sounds of filmi music belted out from conical speakers. Its pay back time, for all those rubbish we contributed to keep the legacy of our culture alive. The solution probabably is to get people to own the streets and legally make them their homes. Ownership in exchange for payment . Urinate for Rs150, spit for Rs100, big job for Rs500. The government must provide legal documents and those who consistently pay should be provided with a ownership deed to legally own a stretch of road. Banks and Financial Institutions must provide loans to this cause. Anyway its unfair to drag names such as Mahatma Gandhi, Vallabhai Patel or Sarojini Devi to the streets.

GRRR EAT

Finally I decided to stop sowing oats across the shrubs and thorns and hoard it instead. "I will fill my barns, I boasted, and stock for my generations to come". Then I was beset with this terrible uneasiness that started from beneath my tummy traveling to my head. I promised me that I will live within my fortress mighty and the moat around so despicable that its filth will keep strangers at bay.


Surely my days of the old and deeds of my past caught up with me when I was given a book to read. This has sent me on a tailspin once again. I had come to this conclusion that the whole belief system was a muddled scoop of noodles, but then this book far from untangling it provided me with the cutlery to consume this confusion.

Even as I partake of it, there is a severe sense of uneasiness. Am I heading for a bout of food poisoning?

This takes me through ideas that had been so badly battered within me and cast aside for want of words - like bones that are dried in the vale of death. With precision it wraps these dried bones with flesh and gives breath of life. Now this army of ideas are mobilising itself to plan a frontal attack on my determined sloth and isolation. The strength at its possession sure has a easy opponent to overcome.

As I throw this book and scream "F--- I wish I knew there was hope."

Sumo with cash

If the transactions can be done
With riches and gun
Then my heart will yearn
And my belly will burn
When my friend has it all
But alas Iam so small

Yet transformations cant be done
With riches and gun
Then my heart will burn
And my mind will learn
For my foe must cease
And be at peace

Man will wrestle all his life
For its matter that is right
Heart beats with the stocks
Numerics can help minds spark
Their savior resides on wealth
Devourers of good health