"Anthem"

This song is essentially a poem, with some powerful words, simple in their presentation yet meaningful and influential in their thought..! Cohen's baritone and almost prophetic delivery of these words brings out the feeling perfectly .. ! 

Catch it here : "Anthem" By Leonard Cohen

"The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.

I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring ...

You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in."

Intersections

The Shining Shoe. Almost imperceptible, those creases on the polished leather. Safely ensconced, within the black of that shine, the feet. Ready to trample; some leaves, a few ants and much more who dare, live to fall under that unforgiving sole. The Shoe. Organized, Prepared, Dedicated.

Miles away from it, the Head. The sanctuary, of unorganized, insulated existence. The one who knows himself. And the one who knows how to cover the turbulence inside. Mellow, mushy and pulp; the skull his very loyal cousin. Protecting it, from accidents, both good and bad.

One often wonders about the constitution of a man. Is it in his walk or his thought ? Is it in his speech or his silence ? What is it that defines one human, one man ? Is it your swagger, that collection of amazingly organized flesh moving on a road or is it that invisible, very dangerous dagger ..that you hold aside, within you, ready to pounce out on an intruder any moment your constitution, your idea of yourself is challenged ?

What do you think of yourself ? What do you find when you want to find yourself, when you close your eyes and stretch out a hand, in vain? What is your existence ?

Are you a negation ? Of what you were born as ?
Are you a collection ? Of what all poison you have gulped in till now ? All running through your blood and mind now and filling you up with pride.
Are you a resurrection ? Of your past ? Living it up all again ? In hope of that outstretched, outlived glory ?

Your eyes ? What do they tell you?
Can you see your breath ? Have you followed that invisible air going in and coming out of you ? The very thing which sustains you ? The very thing that IS you ?  No ?
What were you thinking ?
Are you a reference ? To an idea ? A supposition ? An altruism which you can never be ?
What do say when your lips are not moving ? What do you think when you are not thinking for someone else?
Who owns you ?
Does he trouble you ? That owner. Does he set standards for you ? Where does he brings them standards from ? Does he live inside you ? Do you even charge a rent ? You just let him in for free ? And he holds you for ransom ? And you say you are happy.

That black sky when you close your eyes just before sleep, when all world is yours, those few moments. What do you see? Loved ones ? You cared for them ? Why ? Can you accept that you were wrong ? Can you accept that you were weak ?
A Man.A Human.
Everyone has been been great some time. And Everyone lives to see his greatness flicker. In that wind of life. That flame. It will lessen its light just so much as to make you forget  yourself. The weight of the world will suddenly come down. The shine from the shoes will linger and then slowly turn bland. That invisible air, that breath will suddenly feel heavy. You will watch its path, incessantly. That skull will yield, to waves so intense, that your strong thoughts will mellow down to mere servants.

And you will only have that weak flame burning. And in that empty castle of your constitution, with not a thought around, and just enough light, with all your encumbrances, liens and accounterments gone, you will see yourself.
Its good to be weak once in a while. It good to meet yourself once in a while.

 

DRAVID

He has not retired, he will, someday, and again, in that process, remind us of the only truth, TIME. But, this piece is just about taking a pause, a break  and being honestly grateful to my favorite cricketer.
As I sit down to write about a cricket lover's admiration and gratefulness to this man, Rahul S Dravid, the first thought that comes to my mind is the symbolism of his first name : Rahul.
That simple,common, ubiquitous, Indian name is one of those things that probably  lends so much meaning and character to his presence in every Indian cricket fan's life.
But, then, there are many things. Thoughts, memories and moments, as also a glimpse at what it is to be such a great champion, man, cricketer and batsman, in that order.
We all have many hours of cricket watching, discussing, cursing, rejoicing and understanding behind us. But, when I think of 'great'ness in a man, especially Rahul Dravid, my thought wanders to a very simple question that my kid sister put to me years ago while getting increasingly irritated  by me being continuously glued to the TV for that 2001 test match.
" Bhaiya, Khelta koi aur hai.. maza unko aata hai khelne ka.. paise unko milte hain .. to tumlogon ko TV pe yeh dekh ke milta kya  hai ..Aisa to hai nahi ki tum field pe batting kar rahe ho" ?
I had no answer to that simple, honest, childish query. But, I knew that even if I could put it in words, she would never understand. Sport is like that. The 'feeling' behind a sublime shot or a forehand winner is above any adjective for a connoisseur. Sadly enough, even an art as honest, as close to human spirit of freedom, and as purely soul-lifting as SPORT has been forced to the measures and judgements of 'achievement' and 'contribution' rather than 'enjoyment'. Somewhere along time, the word 'professional' entered the lexicon of art. May the art be of  a Satyajit Ray, a John Lennon, or a WG Grace, in our age, in our times, as we grew up, you had to be a Professional. You had to be measured, compared, put to various tests. And you could not flinch even once. A sportsman could enjoy his game, his ART, he could live his art and his talent. But all along, for the people, for the connoisseurs, for their enjoyment, you would have to stand up to their tests, their scales of measurement.
In cricket, these tests were time, endurance, geographies and formats. Add Indian cricket to it, and it could also be expectations, fans, pressure, insane money as also sometimes, instant ridicule. And that is why, here I don't intend to discuss cricket and Rahul, it is only him, the man. For his stature, Cricket is only a mirror, a tool, which shows us, the fans, the lovers of art, his true gift, greatness and achievement.
1996 for me, sport wise, gave us two things, Rahul Dravid and the start of Ferrari and Schumacher. And again, their achievements indicate very clearly to us the fact that for such men, of such immense talent, their sport  and their methods are only tools and indicators. Both have been criticized, one for his slow adaptation to different formats, one for his seemingly brash, sometimes unfair means to victory in races. But, both had their own methods, their own roads and means to putting our mundane measures, scales and judgements to shame and acing them left, right and center.
There are memories of Dravid, his century at Lord's, his shot in the Adelaide test which gave India THAT elusive victory on Australian soil chasing 233, his batting in Pakistan. His epic 180 and many such treats. I have sidestepped comparisons with legends, SRT, Ganguly and such. They seem futile, almost insulting and honestly, sometimes, just a show off for prickly, half-learned, statistical, so called fans of the cricketers. In effect, they are slaves, to numbers and those measures. Ganguly will never show up, at least statistically, as a champion. But, was he not ? In his own way? In his own inimitable style and aura? Anyways, these questions are precisely the reasons I hate such comparisons. The 'value' of a champion is something else. The 'value' of the Athens 1996 Bronze medal by Leander Paes is indescribable, for I happened to watch it. The 'context' takes over. The DD1 era, the Black and White 14" television, the Olympics, the one hope, the one victory, the national anthem, the Indian flag wrapped around. As much as I hate phoney patriotism, I don't control my goosebumps, no one does, you don't control 'that' feeling.
Much as I wish that 'enjoyment' be the measure of art and an artist, one realizes that today's world demands
proofs of greatness. The 'value', the 'champion' today is a union of talent, achievement, longevity, doggedness, enjoyment, contribution and statistical supremacy.
And Dravid was that. He is that. He is much more. Long after he retires, he will remind you, people who have grown along Indian cricket, of his stance, his Britannia labelled bat, the dogged, steely stance, the always, clean shaven, gentlemanly face and the purposeful demeanor.
The mastery of his art, the 70's and the cover drives, the satisfaction and trust of his presence on the crease, the inevitable, invisible, silent voice inside you of 'Abey yaar .. Dravid bhi gaya ' when he walked back ..his 'Value'. His meaning and his genius.
Statistics will be useful, for the generations who will not watch such men, not live them, in their homes, dining rooms, not discuss them in those 20 minute lunch breaks in schools. A bookish aura, a historical awe will probably take over, as we today connect to Bradman and Dhyanchand and Ali. But, numbers and those pages will still be servants. To that in-situ feeling of having lived alongside and understood and cherished such champions. Count yourselves of immense fortune, for being a witness to Sachin, Steve Waugh, Federer, Woods, Lara and such men, deserves a pause, once in a while, to stand back, be thankful and just admire.
Rahul S Dravid will surely be one such life.

The Eucalyptus Tree

I will find it again
Hidden, In the poetry in leaves..
In the shining of my transparent veins;
Fearless, like a band of countryside thieves.

I will love it again
As in the songs in my ears..
Breathing in the flow of muted blood;
Fighting, Escaping through these glistening tears..

I will drink it again
Sipping it like the oldest bourbon..
Sauntering through its wildest depths and drowning;
Like an unruly, adorable, adopted son.

I will touch it again
And cherish the glow in your eyes upon me..
Hold your hands and in it, a part of my peace;
To reap in my voice, my life and my glee…

I will visit it again
Those skies of drifting desires..
Where nothing human sells in those shops;
And love is not for you, say those sires…

Auctions of My Ignorance

One of those days… Was another one born.

The last cord severed and the tears rolling down;

Sought a reprieve and wished for mighty long,

That he be un’earth’ed and that his soul not be torn.

Then came the human, the one he was to be

The one who claimed the wit and all the known soiree;

And the Baptists rode along for the omen was clear

‘ He shalt be professed till his soul’s doom be near’.

The fire was set and his name out loud

In the curse of knowledge, was he to do himself proud.

Springs and Winters passed by; he learnt them counting

And soon the civilization was upon him, unmasked and daunting.

Ignorance was sought for it could be moulded and cast

Wisdom was bought for Curiosity was an inglorious past

The currency was time and it dawned on him late

What was by design, a blatant Auction of his breath and fate.

One of those days… Was another one born..

                                 Then came the human, the one he was to be..