Biking....

I set a new record. I have slept 13 hrs in the last 72 hrs. God!! I din realise the awesomeness in that untill I just wrote it. Three straight night-outs. Phew... I have been having too much fun.

Thursday night we started from the intsitute at 12 in the night. Biked down the Highway all the way to Bandra Reclamation. Took us an hour and oh, what a ride. The air presses so hard against the helmet that I have my nose pressed against the glass shield. Wizzing past the cars. At one point I was so euphoric, my mind playing Floyd in my head. Oh, it was heavenly. Was like in a dream, and then it happens. Just as we approached the fly-over bypassing the airport, a huge jet takes off, and is flying allmost parallel to us. A strange feeling rushes to my heart. It was just too great. The sound on the take off, the sheer size of the plane, the Pink Floyd still playing, ohhhhhh.... I actually started shouting - "Wow, wow, wow, wooooooooooow!!! "

When we reached Reclamation, Flloyd was still playing in my head. The place is nice. The moon was high in the sky. The water was great. We settled down to listen to sad songs on Pranoy's cell phone. Spidy seemed to have something on his mind. We spent some silent time there.

At around 3:00 we went to the airport and had some nice pizza and dosa and coffee. We were back in spidy's room by 4:30. Watched "100 Girls". I had liked it the first time I'd seen it n so I recommended it to Spidy. Turned out to be a bad idea. I liked the lead actress though. Cute. At around seven, we decided to go to the main gate. Had tea there and then we went to the Lakeside. The hill you see across the lake caught our attention. We decided to climb it. Took around an hour. The view from the top was good. By the time I returned to my room, it was time for classes.

Will write about friday and saturday nights later. Have to prepare a presentation for tomorrow.

* Wish You Were Here *

Preface to 'A Picture Of Dorian Gray' By Oscar Wilde

Exam time is the most productive(well...what is conventionally called productive) time for me. The people are so busy studying, I have no one to Lukkha with. And since I have no inclination at all to study, it offers me a great oppurtunity to explore 'stuff'. This is a piece I read today and it intrigued me so much that I have been reading it over and over and have not been able to proceed to the text of the novel. Well here it is...



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The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.

This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies.

An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.

From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

I Want To Break Free

Time flies by, nothing is lost.
No wound inflicted. No biting fronst.
No dark memory. No stone in the heart.
Nothing to win and nothing to start.

Still this life's an empty hall.
I scream, I grope, to nothing I call.
Outside, a race of roaring beasts.
This spirit not searches nor believes.

Friendship and love and expectations and heartbreak....

This heart longs for love.
Little by little it bleeds.
In waiting for "the one"
Faithful melodies it sings.

Huge love it begets..
From family, friends, so lovely.
But still it yearns for Her,
Her loving her inspiring eyes.

I guess the heart is never free.
Coz it doubts the love of all.
It wants too much of it.
Expects it to come from one and all.

And when that one special friend.
Comes along to love you.
Your heart clings on.
Clings onto them too hard.

This heart will want to know
All your dreams and hopes.
So you think in yourself...
You forget its only human.

I guess that is why it hurts.
So much when she says.
"I have to go, talk to u later".
Even when it knows...

She is not mine to own.....
She is not mine to own...

I just watched the part of walk to remember where he makes her stand at "two places at once" and tatoos the butterfly on her shoulder. .....love......it eludes me.



i have a friend i love....
i told her that i did...
i dont know if i should have....
she might take it wrong.

love, this thing eludes me....
why is it so different...
to all people who care to think
why is it so strange...

what is the difference i think
in love of lovers and of friends...
why does one have to clarify....
"i love you"......(as a friend)

it makes the meaning of the word
sound suspicious and insane.
it makes it sound low and ugly...
when it actually is so pure.

so i told her today....
"i love you" ...that is all...
i hope she understood it
for what it really stands...


i am no wise man.....i am only a crazy lover.... :)

Red Jelly and Sunny Rainy Days....(an attempt at song writing....incomplete)

Her smile reflects mid-summer's bloom.
She smiles at me and I have no clue.
She's more precious than the stars and the moon.
Like every man, I love her too.

She brings a warmth that's utter bliss.
Her lips like red-jelly, I wish to kiss.
Before she's gone, her touch I miss.
Never let this moment fade, I wish.

Her hair smells like rain on a sunny day.
Feels like returning home, in a funny way.
Makes me wanna make love all over again.
God let it always be this way, I pray.

My love for her grows more and more.
In my chest it feels like a lion's roar.
It surrounds my world, High and low.
And in my body, like hot blood it flows.

Walter Walter....

This goblet I hold- numb fever-
They call me names. 'Drunkard'
They say, but who are they-
Mortal robots. Working, working
For what they know not. And
I drink, I drink to you my Lord.
I drink to the numbness in my vein.

I sit on my couch of dreams.
I watch them running about.
He aches-cries for want of love.
And She from too much of it.
He wails in pain for the wound
Is deep; He, from too many to
Keep. And they pass through
Frames, wanting, and not the same.

I sit and drink and muse, hmmm
Ah! what fancy pictures to paint.
I do not want to understand and
The dreary pictures dissolve again
Nothingness removes the mask
That was. Now, the drowsy smell
Of Moon. Now. the music of the Flow
Fill me again Lord, ah, hell.

Sweet Love...

(Another poem I wrote long time back. Childish and stupid lyrics, but they still are special to me coz they remind me of my state of mind then)

I saw the young man
Kiss his lady.
It was a cool rainy day
The picture was hazy.

Hand-in-hand they went
Up to the mountain top.
They kept giggling and laughing.
They could not stop.

The boy said to the girl,
"You are so nice"
The girl smiled at him,
Then gazed the skies.

She had bright green eyes.
And lips like wine.
Her small, mysterious smile
A picture divine.

He bent over and kissed her
Innocent emotion and true.
"My Princess, My Angel,
I love you..."


Every dream comes true, atleast for a short while. You just gotta believe :)

She...

Sometimes I feel so bad that such songs were already written. I feel the same things and I wanna write about these feelings, but havng listenned to the song, it seems like no other way could express it better. And I feel so jealous that the song-writes had to write it before me....It's funny.

She may be the face I can't forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
Maybe my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a Heaven or a Hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
A smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell....

She, who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one's allowed to see them when they cry
She maybe the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows in the past
That I remember 'till the day I die

She maybe the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I'm alive
The one I care for through the rough and ready years

Me, I'll take the laughter and her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be
The meaning of my life is
She....She
Oh, she....

(singer- Elvis Costello)

LET US....

Let us go down into the valley.
Where the brook sings its song.
Where apple orchards and meadows are.
We could fall in love there.

With golden wings let us
Fly up to the icy mountains.
Cuddled up with each other
We could fall in love there.

Along the gurgling river
Let us go down to the plains,
Where the rain plays with the wind.
We could fall in love there.

Let us jump onto God's palm.
He shall take us to the clouds.
Where the eternity of paradise is.
We could fall in love there.
.......Mike.

Wrote this a very long time ago for the love of my life. Now its been many days since i last talked to her, and i am missing her soooo much. Wish we didnt have to live so far away.

WAKE UP TO LOVE

Everyone pines for love.
Everyone needs another.
Everyone dreams of the special someone.
Still love's a Phoenix feather.

Stories abound of sacrifice.
Sonnets of eloping rebels.
They used to kill and die for love.
Is that vigour just legend?

People of the world, listen.
Wake up to your dreams.
Love knocks at your door so often
Why don't you let it in?

Why feel sorry for yourself?
Why not let the stranger in?
Why not 'trust' just a little bit?
Why not take the risk?

Coz once the love flower blooms
Everything starts life fresh again.
I can tell you for I have loved.
I took the risk and i won the game.