History of Heavy Metal

There are many theories about the “origin” of this dark genre, being, Heavy Metal, but I believe this to be a fairly accurate version. During the sixties, Rock & Roll demonstrated a clear split from R&B and Swing. Though many of the aspects of Blues have been sustained in all its sons and daughters, many of the modal traits of its brother, Jazz were gone. Rock & Roll became the popular movement, catering to the teenager, and often borrowing tunes from R&B and making them its own (ie. Beatles and Rolling Stones).

Rock & Roll itself, however, suffered splits during the late sixties, with many bands re-incorporating folk ideas, and many others incorporating classical progressions and artistic near-jazz colorings. Rock & Roll continued on into the seventies as Pop Rock, with many fabulous acts such as Elton John and Billy Joel. The other versions, however, became powerful genres unto their own. The folk artists became an anti-war activist collection, providing us with CSNY, the Guess Who, Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix (who, himself, could be considered a member of many genres). Most importantly, the progressive movement developed into “Progressive Rock,” providing such class acts as Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, Deep Purple and Black Sabbath, and many, many more. It has even been argued that the Beatles attained a complete defection from Rock & Roll over to Progressive Rock.

Is it a wonder that all the well-known Progressive Rock bands were British? Just like the Who, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, these groups had a sincere influence on Rock, and competed with the American groups for fans. These Progressive artists introduced new concepts of powerful operatic vocals, condensed distortion, and progressions that were previously unheard of outside of classical music. But it would be Black Sabbath (in direct contention with both Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin), with its dark themes and very heavy, bluesy sound, which would become known much later as the “father of Heavy Metal.” Pink Floyd, meanwhile, drifted into the visual realm, and after its climactic “The Wall” album, drifted on into memory, having etched a permanent mark on all of modern music.

Very early in the seventies, another wave of this Progressive movement invaded America, bringing with it the likes of Judas Priest, the Scorpions (from Germany) and Iron Maiden. Listen to an early Judas Priest or Scorpions album and you might think you’re listening to a Floyd or Sabbath set. Iron Maiden and Judas Priest each carried forward the vocal torch as set by Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple (Ian Gillan). Other groups from this invasion introduced still darker themes in their lyrics, carrying on the trend started by Black Sabbath. This was known as the New Wave of British Heavy Metal (NWOBHM) and, though short lived, would finally seal Metal as a distinct version of music from Rock & Roll.

However, many Pop acts enjoyed the distortion, visual demonstrations and heaviness of the entire Progressive movement. Though they stuck with the Rock & Roll format, they further emphasized the “solo.” Musicians of this latent seventies Pop movement gradually improved the solo standards. Hard Rock was here to stay. Groups like Van Halen, Foreigner and Bad Company were born. KISS provided elaborate shows. And AC/DC has held strongly to the Hard Rock (blues based) flag for over two decades.

During the early eighties, these two genres of Heavy Metal and Hard Rock competed extensively. Iron Maiden, Judas Priest and OZZY (having left Black Sabbath) put out incredible albums. Hard Rock (now with British members) fought back with Def Leppard, Motley Crue, and AC/DC. The Scorpions changed format, and defected from NWOBHM to Hard Rock, releasing the ever-memorable “Blackout” album (arguably fitting comfortably within both genres). It became difficult to the average listener to tell the difference between the two styles, and soon, Hard Rock radio stations would even be calling Heavy Metal a “heavier version of Hard Rock” (which was a huge mistake in my opinion!). Hard Rock groups like Ratt, Queensryche, Twisted Sister, Accept and Krokus emulated their Heavy Metal cousins, confusing the audiences even further.

During the mid-eighties, however, a low rumble was being heard within the Metal genre—one which was distinctly different in tone and attitude, and one which absolutely could not be confused as Hard Rock. Some Metal groups had experimented with a more aggressive vocal approach, had incorporated a “punkier” style of instrumental attack, a quicker form of time transition, and an increase and speed. One group in particular, being heavily influenced by NWOBHM as well as the likes of Deep Purple, had difficulty finding gigs, being considered too “rock” for Punk yet too “punk” for Hard Rock—Metallica had arrived on the West coast, and upset the status quo! Anthrax did the same back East. Thrash was born. But this still wasn’t fast enough for some, and Slayer helped launch Speed Metal.

As Hard Rock weaved its way into glam rock in the mid and late eighties (same music, though a bit toned down with the likes of Bon Jovi and Poison), Heavy Metal introduced a still darker movement in Death Metal. But in the early nineties, both genres would suffer dearly, as Seattle spawned the contra-punk movement which would shake Pop music to its very core, “Grunge.” Nothing has been the same since, and even with valiant efforts on the part of Corrosion of Conformity, Pantera, Iced Earth, Anthrax, etc., and a couple of mediocre efforts from top-billing Metallica, Metal has once again returned to the underground. It is here, within this context of underground motivation and motifs, that Black Metal would be born under a dark sign.

And now? Grunge came and went, being framed as a movement by the coming and going of Nirvana. The remaining Seattle acts either died out quick, became more artistic and strange (Pearl Jam—who hasn’t provided a decent album, in my opinion, since its debut, “Ten”), or eventually just fizzled (ie Soundgarden). The Pop scene became known as the “Alternative Rock” scene, with some fine jewels presented in re-discovery of older acts, and an especially fresh and powerful representation on the part of female vocalists (Ani DiFranco, Sarah McGlauchlin, Holly McNarland, Tori Amos, Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morisette, Joan Osborne, Beth Orton, and many more—even Madonna, the queen of eightees bubble gum pop, has presented tremendous and mature material of late, having discovered that soft-techno can be good too).



Genre-specific Metal Traits:

Metal is a sub-genre of Rock, stemming (as noted above) not from Hard Rock, as is the common misperception, but rather from the progressive rock movement of the late 60’s and early 70’s. Metal’s own sub-genres (sub-sub genres of progressive rock):



Heavy Metal (ie Judas Priest, Iron Maiden): aggressive, driving beat



Speed Metal (ie Slayer): blindingly fast



Thrash (ie Metallica, Anthrax): punk influences, very quick meter changes



Black Metal (ie Iced Earth, Lacuna Coil): combination of Heavy Metal and Thrash



Death Metal (ie Obituary, Cannibal Corpse): that indescribable vocal quality



Progressive Metal (ie Therion and Opeth): very long tunes of near-Floyd standard in composition



Some Metal bands fall into more than one of the above category, and bands who evolve often switch categories completely (ie Metallica shifting from Thrash to a standard Heavy Metal format for their self-titled 5th album—“the black album”).



Metal songs follow their progressive roots, reaching back to Classical and Jazz forms in many instances, by maintaining 4-8 minute average tunes, as opposed to their Hard Rock cousins who average 3-5. Also, Hard Rock tunes, for the most part, follows the standard for all Rock & Roll: “stanza, stanza, solo, stanza.” This is definitely not the case for Metal, which has no strict format, will provide extensive intro and outros, cut-aways in the middle of songs, etc.



Whereas Hard Rock (simply a hard form of Pop Rock) follows Rock and Roll in concerning itself the standard interests of “Sex, Drugs and Itself,” the main themes of Metal tend to delve into more complex issues and often darker recesses of human emotion, and though the following examples are not all-encompassing of the Metal genre, they are common threads throughout :

politics & governmental abuses:

“One” – Metallica (anti-war song)

“Electric Eye” – Judas Priest (anti-abuse of power song)

“Two Minutes to Midnight” – Iron Maiden

“Freedom” – Rage Against the Machine


sociology:

“Potters Field” – Anthrax (societal observation)

“Prison Sex” – Tool

“Evidence” – Faith No More


deaths of loved ones:

“Cemetery Gates” – Pantera

“10,000 Days” – Tool


effects of drugs:

“Hollow” – Pantera (effects of drug overdose)

“Master of Puppets” – Metallica (cocaine addiction)

“Snowblind” – Black Sabbath (cocaine)

“Rosetta Stoned” – Tool


metaphysics / religious studies:

“Creeping Death” – Metallica

“The Real Thing” – Faith No More



As for the next stage for our beloved genre, well, if I am correct in stating that Metal incorporates a high level of integrity in lyrical structure, progression and theme, then it might follow that we have not heard the last of Metal…our numbers are again growing…we’re just waiting for that next great Metal act to follow in the footsteps of Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Metallica and Pantera, and show the way for Metal to come out from the underground. That’s why you’re here, taking in all this history, reviewing up-and-coming bands in your local dive bars, and listening intently for an indication of more than just “Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll”: you are devoted fans who know that Metal offers an outlet for musical and intellectual exploration of a higher nature than mere Hard or Alternative Rock -- thanks to you, Metal, Heavy or otherwise, is here to stay.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

The step he took

A man stands in rain, looking to the midnight sky and the crescent moo above. As he stands and stares to the sky he feels the water run down his face and mutters a few words to himself, not aloud but not in silence.

He looks about to see if the trees in the woods in which he stands should wave and hiss in the wind of the storm. And so he stands by himself, alone with himself, to whisper himself closer to insanity...and should he wonder with whom he should speak...he is his only option.

So alone he stands in the sun, as it burns his face to hell...as closer and closer the afternoon breeze should cool his cheeks...awaiting further the season in which he is to die alone as he should always be. And as he stands and feels the heat, he thinks of what should and shouldn't be. But yet with wisdom he knows its true as he looks down toward the ground and takes a single step.

A man stands in a field after days of walking, watching the brown veins of leaves as they blow in the wind past his face. How obvious it is to see the small changes that are made as seasons change and time takes its constant travel forward. The fact that time in itself moves forward never backward, on a straight line that never deviates its course...

And nor should he...

A man walks forward, staring in himself and out ahead as the winter wind stabs his cheeks like daggers being thrown at him by a silent assailant watching and plotting his death with every step. A torture he is not willing to bear but still he walks fighting it all...why did it take all this time for him to see that the only things he wished was that step...

Was that crescent moon in the winds of spring, that burning sun in the heat of summer, those browning leaves in the cool of fall, that last dying step of himself in winter!

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

Bloody Slumber and feeling good inside

Now. what is it that I'm feeling, when. it's mixed with my identity, am. i burning fags like a metaphor, in. the constant never was repetition, can. i mix in beautiful metaphors on hate, is it. a coil in a bulb about to burst, and me the blackened explosion, penting up the lions in my cage of indiscretion, does it. stab me in an alleyway of brick and mortar painted with grafiti. while colored men with bandanas gain courage in groups. to shove that shank inside my stomach, i'll be. given an epitath to call them in an outhouse. where fags go to fuck, or it. could be jokes i hate, the spoons. on bottom with lisps, while i'm necessary but rejected, like a nuclear plant after the sun dissapeared, and. they're circuits but I'm the juice, switched on and off, for need, it's not emotional this connection, it's necessity of thrusting.

Now what is it that I'm feeling, the whisper in my ear of ghosts who left by themselves. on a day no one thought would shock us into caring, but not alarming enough. my own departure. or . the qualities you say I have when i reach out for not salvation but common place dining, while the food we eat is bland or if it's not we spoil the meat, cause. the similarities stop with the size of my cock, the rest is just hollow. or demands that i stop doing what i never could myself, another you to tell me what to wear, and think, and put inside me, though i have myself i lose it when i stop the isolation. and everything feels like a premonition. I've been here before in yesterday reflected in the mirror, so now i fear the light for i am in the dark, some dykes have blocked my water in my mind of an opinnion, for simplicity sake I'm not gay, for I wear straight clothes and won't be woman.

Now what is it that I'm feeling, back home we're regressing into crime think of power, to top the tops with violence and respect our own destruction, trying too little to absorb into the blob we call ourselves though I've never been one for amorphous horror movies, just reaching into cyberspace for understanding not advice, i blame no one but myself, for it is repeated to me always, you can't love anyone if you don't love yourself, then love is non-existant, all you do is shield it and i can't let it hide,

Now what is it that I'm feeling, or is it what i thought this time. or yesteryears, affirming my joy in faked smiles, just so someone will talk to me and treat me like i'm real, but closeted in so many ways. i hibernate in caves, and is it isolation again or failed attempts to connect, the extremos call me chauvinist but professors mark me well in classes of the woman question, i've stradled this line between suicide, aquiescence, and a psychosis of progress, is the feeling that i want to change but can't trust my mind to know just what it is i want to be or if it's just a memory of what i wanted when I was sane. the feeling is remorse, regret, hatred, pain, defeat, fear, terror and in the heart of a man(can I call myself that or is it just my groin) i'm not good enough for them. in the eyes of woman i'm oppresion given form. in the eyes of homos i'm the necessary cock. in the eyes of loving i'm a hatred filled machine. in the eyes of society i just won't believe. in the eyes of god i know i'll be forgiven. cuse i try to be better than what i feel and fail. yet stand up and try again. knowing i'll fall down again. again again again again.

please try to see through yourself and feel the good inside.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com/

Ek raash kaalo megh

ek raash kaalo megh egiye aschhe. duur er gachhta periye samner fakaa maath-tar upor diye kromosho gotaa bikelta dheke fello. tobu bristi aschhe na. shudhu boro hoye jachhe. ekbar dekhe mone holo, bodh hoy, niche neme aschhe nijer ghono kalotto ta diye prithibike grash korbe bole.

rastar alo kota jole uthlo. megh er buukta chiire beriye aschhe ondhokaar. sajano ondhokaar aste aste rater shottey porinoto hote cholechhe. megh er kalo gorjon tobuo chechiye chechiye nijer shadhinota ghoshona korchhe. hawar neshay ure jachhe kono ochena dike.

beporoya neel, rater kachhe rong hariye shantir biday janachhe. tar ononto bhabonay shorto rekhe kichhu bhanga megh bicholon korte pare na.

odbhut isharay, obujher moto ami akaash pranter diye cheye royechhi.

-A

http://arnabpal.blogspot.com/

Full moon

As the now full moon rose from behind the now dark mountains the nymphs of the night started to emerge for their shelters slowly creeping looking for a dark place to folic and sing their night time rhymes full of pain an sorrow yet so beautifully sung. Yet these nymphs are the lesser of the night time creatures that prepare the night for the true sovereigns of the night to rule with the full moon overhead and havoc in their hearts. Their only comfort is the sweet blood of the frightened scurrying humans that rush all over the world yet show no appreciation for the world in which they live . So it is only right that their death serves a higher purpose which is to feed and entertain the true rulers of the world. For they appreciate the world and all it contains and sustains. Formed from the depths of the earth ,we were born from the darkness where we reign supreme.

For all those who hide in their houses from the coming night for those who quiver in fear, for those who try to remove their fears with this new artificial light . Be warned for it is you who we come for and not these who embrace the darkness and bask in it glory for they truly understand and appreciate the beauty the darkness contains.

For those who worship the encroaching darkness and the calming moon light you shall inherit the earth for it is yours . As it only waits for you to take it and turn it in to the true Eden. Filled with darkness within the forest with tall trees and soft grass . For the very nymphs that sing the nights praises for those who can see the beauty within the darkness will truly understand the world. For we the vampires are kind masters who only feed to maintain our never ending youth so that we may remain beautiful and pale like the moon in the many nights to come for we restore the balance in the earth riding it of all the harmful influences the humans create. As all should know not to mess with mother nature for she is a cruel parent that expects the best of her children and will wreak havoc unlike any woman scorned. The eternal destruction is near and we are ready to serve the mother’s purpose for the good of the earth. Now that he moon is high in the velvety dark sky the games shall begin for what is a hunt without a chase. For we seduce out victims with our dark eyes and our pale skin , youthful bodies and quick minds. We lead you in to the dark alleys so that we may quench the thirst, lust for blood that is never quenched no matter how much we drink. The insatiable thirst is always there…

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com/

60 Years of Independence

I am writing this article from a city called Bangalore. Bangalore is a city with endless shopping malls, high-rise apartment blocks and more than numerically countable people. It is also the laboratory for an experiment with software careers.

India would be 60 years old tomorrow. There remain significant discussions on whether India was born in 1947 or it was just another rebirth. But we can quite safely claim that the last earned independence has touched a ripe age of six-zero.

15th of August is a day if pride for any Indian. It somehow pushes a feeling of Initialization and patriotism in me. I don’t understand the cause or dynamics of being an Indian and neither did I choose to be, but somehow it happened to me and I, in my staunchest and strongest belief, think that that's the best that could have happened to me. It marks another year of India’s freedom and sovereignty and 60 years of being reigned by ourselves.

Through the strife of partition, financial out-crises, wars, revolutions, through a changing world India has been smelted has transformed, glorified, beautified, modernized from a shabbily-dressed youngster to developing (if not already) nation of confidence and experience. But India had to fight back so often through its steps, towards globalization and modernization, towards a new era of political, demographic and socio-economic corn fields. New reforms were churned, to ensure that liberty and equality. Now, India stands a nation of literacy, economic boom, entrepreneurs, visionaries and a blend of old and new, of traditions and urbanizations, of malls and temples.

But do I have something more; something more to listen, to understand...

Whatever Englishmen may think of India, the cultural lodestone Britain may once have lent us with their love of cricket and regard for English-style public schools, times have changed. A not so ridiculing fact would be India's series victory over England in England in a game learnt from them, on the eve of Independence Day. Today, we buy into the American Dream instead, mostly.

As I take a day in the city, I walk into The Forum Mall, away from the heat and the noise, and step into the superb air-conditioning. By all means one the grandest of the shopping emporiums on this chaotic, fume-filled zone known as Koramangala, it is already an established magnet to the cities newly wealthy middle class. There are fashion shops, department stores, jewelers, sports stores selling Nike, there is a cinema on the top level showing Bollywood and Hollywood hits. Most interesting is a fast-food restaurant that offers cleaned-up versions of Indian street food, with staff dressed in baseball caps and bowling shirts; an idealized Indian interpretation of an idealized American vision of itself.

On the top floor, Joy and a friend are sipping smoothies. Joy is 28 and works in IT. He is wearing a college-style T-shirt of brushed yellow cotton. Though his home is in another city, he lives in Bangalore. For all his Western looks and habits, Joy appears to resent the suggestion that India is becoming Americanized. Yet asked about what it represents for India, he says: "It's the culture changing. There is a change in the mindset. If people go to the US they will bring things back to India. Society cannot be stagnant".

No one should doubt that the gains made by India's economy, currently growing at around 9 per cent a year, are not genuine and that they will not have an impact that changes the world order. Already India's place in the list of world economies is shifting. Two years ago its economy joined the world's top 10 and earlier this year a report by the investment bank Goldman Sachs predicted that within a decade it will surpass that of Italy, France and the UK to become the fifth largest. The report said that if current trends continue, the Indian economy will by mid-century have overtaken that of the US as well, leaving it second only to China.

But alongside these achievements, India is facing considerable problems as it seeks to emulate the US or even eclipse its superpower status. From a purely logistical perspective, the most serious of these is a shortfall in the infrastructure required to support its vision for the future. This shortfall is apparent in many frustrating ways: in the water shortages and electrical power-cuts that befall even the biggest cities during the summer months, in the roads so clogged with traffic that it takes for ever to travel even a few miles and which become all but impassable during heavy rains.

The concern is among the scariest facts in India’s dependency today. I very consciously use the word 'dependency' to bring out a meaning of depending Independence that's throttling all the economics of the nation. Getting back to Joy; Joy's life had changed drastically over the last month for a reason which he alone cannot be blamed for. Joy was asked to cut-off which a part of his weekend and also add some more to everyday to his weekdays. And pretty understandably our jolly good Joy had to follow the commands. What he probably did realize deep down inside in his heart is the growing reasons and the growing needs of Indian economy has pronounced him to be more responsible.

But is this responsibility is just a concern for Joy (and anyone of us of the US client-serving corporate worker class)? Rupee appreciation, something which was ever wanted saw a trailer and Joy saw the consequences. Would he still want his rupee to grow or become a dollar worshiper like his employers? He is just another victim of changing policies in a "dollary" environment and he cannot do anything about it. And what might happen is the extra work may make dollar cheaper than now. What happens next in forth-coming Independence Days is the next story.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

footnote: Indian Software companies serving US companies had some serious policy changes post rupee-appreciation. Some have increased working hours on weekdays. Some have included Saturdays into weekdays. While others reduced/removed perks and positions from employees just to keep up with the rupee-gaining-strength crisis.

A gaze at a dark moving world

Starlit darkness shone pencil rays shining on the willow calling downwardly to plain grassy surface of the earth. A distant pine brushed mercilessly by lost winds finding its way home before its too bright for them. The wind flicks every wayward tall grass with a little more delicate humor. More like the caress of a young and slow lover spraying mild fragrances of enigmatic aura. They also unknowingly amplifies the breath of dead, yellow straw heaped up in scattered sense of the labors during the day, who had, or hardly cared, for showcasing their aesthetic sense to unknown rail-road travelers at night.

Putrid smell of carcass lay by the rail line as the breeze change its direction may be just to nurture the sense of obnoxia. The void of the night, of pure creative dark, was just the right time for me to wake up. Wake up from the humble somnia of ignorance, which until now seemed like a blissful dream. But probably my physical slumber seemed to dictate nothing but a narrow nap.

Is this a night to remember? A night to so treasure? No, it is but a night to forget with every ion bursting the brain to focus not! Is this a field in which dreams were lost and space ships were meant to be caught with the sky bleeding a trail to weightlessness? I don’t know, I hope not.

It is in the darkness where I speak soft words that ache the soul and hemorrhage the memories of the past that are like an hot iron burning the heart's defense. So may it be the tall grass of the trees the wind was blowing them and the rustling noise of the high speed iron rail compartments moving was just not enough to break any of the silence.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

footnote: The journey relates to one from Nagpur to Kolkata during summer 2006, post the completion of my 4 years in Nagpur

Garbled to Absurdity

There are things soothing like the sound water moving, moving at depth not perceivable, at dense dark hours of the night immeasurable. The base plucked by their gurgle stiffens the colorless roots of darkness. They only mark the beauty of night. This hour of sleep, when the wind has blown the light away, over meadows and hills, over land and sea, passes quicker than the split wake minutes of work-play. Conscience and concern just asserts their functionality to such alterations with a profound hum.

A few of the dissimilar consciences will find themselves amid dilapidated balconies staring at the falling stars, and breathe high with liquor or puff low with smoke. Their silence im-mortified by the gaze at the majesty of spinning stars, what deliver itself up to their perceptions, which remain vulnerable to the grab of anything that’s quizzical. If half stood, the iron railings touching below the feet would alter heat within.

Glass, which is as empty as thoughts, for now, tilted to a side would wait for the loose fingers to let it fall. This medium for mathematicians, poets and philosophers has ever stood by as hard as it could, trying to support a free flow of inventive inspiration, until it could. Even if man has spilt association with them.

The uneasy heavy eyes would trace lines between star points as vertex of infinitely concave polygons forgetting the first and subsequent vertex after finding the next one. Finally the entire horizon would curve into lost memory which would eventually melt into space.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

Splashes from my days in Nagpur University

Disclaimer:

• Most of the issues about Nagpur University, discussed in this essay, are from a perspective of an underperformer
• I do not intend to hurt any sentiments in this essay.
  

It was nearing morning. The warm gusts of night wind have desired to puff its rage and calmly accept the new rays of the sun. It was June, a month hardly desired, in Nagpur, for the killing heat waves.

For the two of us, Shibon (my roommate better known as Shibasis Chaulia) and me it was time to doze off. These wee hours of studies did the last dice-chance-game work before the day we had exams and gracefully it seemed to work out more often than not.

Summer exams of Nagpur University was, quite popularly, the worst known for its results as it used to precede suicides, students running away, hunger strikes, students being battered by commandos and what not. Our university reserved the last spot among universities in India in the scale of quality of results. Not going into inflammable discussions about the causes or consequences, it remained, then, a place where 70% marks seemed to be a luxury and fate always flourished in pockets of good muggers.

I flicked the last empty packet of Wills Flake out from the window and decided that 4 units out of 6 should be enough for me to be able to answer decently in the next day’s paper (guess it was Software Engineering). My friend sounded perfectly like an ethical insomniac when he proposed the idea of going to Lolo’s.

Lolo’s was (I think it still is there) a tea stall at Dharampet crossing well known among OMH (outside Maharashtra) students for being the most accessible one at 3AM. Lolo’s also served delicacies like jalebies, poha, pakora along with coffee and tea.

Quite presumably I got up straight with a thumbs-up smile, put on that old black T-shirt, picked up my bike keys and vruuum we went. I clutched a VBD on my way as I planned to flick through the appendix for a few of previous years questions.

VBD, the only well known cousin of G4, was the last moment and never-to-fail-you survival kit for us. I was among the last benchers of class, but I felt good that even the toppers couldn’t deny the fact that they haven’t touched these epics at some point of their education here.

The night Ring Road at Trimurti Nagar was densely illuminated with sodium lamps making my back seat book-looking acceptably comfortable. The only problem was when Shibon jumped over those big bumpers making an alarm that we’ve crossed another kilometer. The road towards our destination surpassed the Trimurti Nagar Girl’s Hostel. Even in this don’t-waste-a-second business I accounted a couple of seconds towards the illuminated windows which shouted immensely about their insominity also.

As Shibon rode us to Lolo’s, it was 3:30AM. The giant hoarding above the road-side, table-top tea stall was about to be darkened by the flickering gloss lamp. I have never seen Lolo personally but have heard him to be a skinny, dark skinned and stony bugger. That day there seemed to be no one of similar stature there. The bhaiyas at the shop-keeping end was giving final touches to the initiation of their day long business activities.

We grooved around two glasses of tea and a plate of poha for about half an hour. I even had that closed VBD in hand skimpily clutched to be read at some other date (hopefully never again).

Lolo’s was also a place of pilgrimage for all sorts of students from all parts of the city and all engineering colleges. At any point of time between 3 and 5 in the morning you would find at least 30 insomniacs hanging out in front of that little wall. During exams, of course the figure reached a hundred, populating all the footpath corners in and around Dharampeth Chowk. These fellow examinees, some of them who have given the same exam for over 3 times, were a good source of information; sometimes. They were also just fellow tea drinkers at other times. I have seen old friends reunite here at Lolo’s during exams. It’s such a warm place.

At an intensely cheap cost Lolo’s served these future engineers, Mtechs, MBAs their future in one sense, in terms of a cup of hot beverage to keep them sleepless. A transparent glass of tea costing just 2 rupees and a plate of poha for 5 rupees was a rupee less, as per Nagpur standards at that time.

As our watch seemed to look like 4AM, we decided to gulp down the last spoon of that yellowish substance and ride back to our beds. Sleep was by now a secondary issue and we could just hang around another unit for better chance of passing the exam.

Sounds pretty poorly confident but, yes, this was the benchmark of my level of expectation from the evaluators. I had personally been duped by some illiterate examiner who scratched a zero after every question. The C paper of my second year, which is still the best exam of my life, where I dared to answer a nifty 110 on a 80 mark paper, fetched me a degraded 30. I later could grasp from the Xerox of the answer script that all the perfectly correct programs were ill treated; because they were not as written in VBDs. Henceforth I less believed my knowledge than VBDs.

We came back through the same lighted streets singing “Another Brick in the Wall” and the VBD still clutched in my hand, by then had been coiled to look like a telescope.

It was 5 now and I went of to play NFS Underground when Shibon dozed off. This was going to be the first exam in my engineering life when I dared to remain sleepless the entire night. Life had become tough and easy at the same time. They say engineering is.

I played record-breaking-ly well amid all tensions and frustrations of examinations. In fact I remember playing 28 levels in three hours, the best so far...

It was 8 when I snoozed my mobile alarm to get ready for the paper. I planned to wake up then; if I slept. Things were perfect even after smoking, gaming and keeping awake for 48 hours straight. After a bath and more tea I was perfected to perfection. Absolutely ready for the day. Was I ready for the exam or not would be answer after 4/5 months.

This was another astonishingly acceptable practice of our university. They seemed to publish results in snailishly slow pace and equally poor accuracy. How they managed to persist with such degraded consistencies is still a secret to me, even after 2 years of leaving college.

I walked in the examination hall at 9:30AM with burning red eyes and seemingly less abilities to pass. I thought and felt miserable for Miss. Priya Dhabekar, someone who used to teach the subject in class, but couldn’t help it. She and her golden words seemed to be less important to me than sleeping. I was dead tired and was even planning to sleep a third of the 3 hour exam to deliver during the other part.

Somehow time stopped there. No, I did not sleep or faint. After the paper was distributed all I remember was, I was writing. In shrimpish scripts it was my intention to make my answer-script as heavy (in mass) as possible. Which meant some meaningless point-wise-writing, some far fetched diagrams and some beating around the bush. I taught myself such abilities in the past 2 years and by then was extremely efficient in such tasks. The only thing that defeated me was speed of writing (may be size, not sure) I came out after the 3 toughest hours of my life in a haze and a desire to be dead as soon as possible.

There was a class of student who would prefer to venture around with who-answered-what and who-will-pass-and-who-not. I would have somehow been a sport to them as well, but sorry, some other day. I was desperate to catch my bed in less than half an hour.

A 7km bike ride would take me home in theory but in practice I went of to sleep when I was riding. The rest of the essay is written in white ink ;)

-A

http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

footnote: Shibon and I were real life room-mates during my SE exam. The rest of the essay is also not very far from reality.

Of Wolf and Man

This essay is dedicated to a few random, ambiguous and seemingly musically incorrect chords played together… starts with Am-Asus2-Am-Asus2 ..…….. and so on……

The coldest day under darkness. It would have arrived one way or the other. The lonely, meek wolf woke up from his dark sleep. Sleep of ignorance. of self pity, of dreams. May be just tired, tired of blindfolded-ness, of sleeping, of desires. His heavy eyelids could bear no more rest.

His meekness was defined by the long sleepless whips by the better called humans. From the wee stages of his penalization process he was forced to like being locked up in a 4x4 cell. The iron bars blocking his independence and roars from the rest of the free world seemed to shout out their duties more than any other thing.

Mr. Wolf would stand up every morning and beat against the bars and the little opening he was served eatable substance from. Smell of rotten flesh filled the ambience of the cell. The beating would blood his head and he would stop.

Today was one of those days. And somehow he did not want to beat. The fleshy ambience, the semi-dark alley in front of him which looked at him always seemed to convince his senses to follow the rules and appear tamed in front of the tamers. The black rods would chuckle at its comfort of not being beaten a morning.

It then began with no good reason or purpose. Wolfy would hit his nose hard at the door and come back to hit again. His blood was no longer a reason to stop.

The chaos brought in the gun guarded humen (read as: more than one human) to the other end of the alley. They pushed rounds of fires to dissolve the rage of the beast. But he was not to stop till death.

Did rust do the trick or persistence was a question. The running wolf would prow and feed on blood red flesh of his tamers. Rounds of bullets kept screaming along with his joy.

Matter of minutes, as they say, and the tamers were lost or tamed.

At the end of the alley started another and was locked looking at another dark one. Towards infinity - towards freedom.

Wolf sat down to think of his 4x4 cell. The difference as it stood now was he had a bigger cell. A bigger place to be locked in.

Hush wolf, hush. Even the world is a cell.
Thither, better in this hell.
As cells grow bigger in size,
After every hard earned less learned fight.
So does your senses fool you;
Between damp dark walls new.
Spell soon for the next boon
When you have to fight again.
And there would lay the infinite loop
Of wait-war-wait.
Wait-War-Wait.

Let it be, Just let it be.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

Twilight Musings in the Mind of Jack

As Jack would think of before moving over...

The past 18 months had seen steely knives hanging over my dead skins. I had planed many unexecuted deaths, the most significant of which was of my own. The dreams as I called them seemed to bid farewell through the panes of a closed winter window of the room I always locked myself in. But after those days have gone, after a new autumn, I still feel I have to work on a bit of caustic sarcasm.

I bear scars over my heart. Behind me lies anger and spite. Anger, so sharp and tightly focused, that it could rend and destroy. Ahead of me lie a future of moderation and more measured and rational revenges. Behind me are two separate halves to the whole. One half, of kindness and benevolence would do anything for anyone. This half was willing to see the best in everyone. The other half, of hatred and righteous retribution would do anything to one who had flawed with me. This half saw no humanity in its opponent. This half saw no humanity, only opponents, only scales that needed to be evened. This half was emotionless, precise, and measured.

In my future I see a whole new being. My two halves of darkness and light fused into a single creature of grey. From the light I hope to take the kindness, the acceptance, the hope and some small remainder of innocence long lost. From the darkness I shall always have power. Power to resist, remain and deal with betrayers. But in the whole being, this power shall be tempered.

I have learned that I do not need to rend and harm and destroy a psyche or a body to attain just compensation. I have learned that sometimes a simple and benign comment such as "Yeah right" will suffice. I will not begrudge anyone who will take a more aggressive stance than me, I understand it, for long have I lived there myself. I have simply found it is not the best place for me to be right now. From the darkness, I know that no one will ever take advantage of me and get away with it completely unscathed. Towards the light, I knew that I had to take the chance that someone takes advantage of me as a risk of new relationships.

My future holds new insights and adventures. My road is not my own, but still I have walked alone. I do not ask anyone to follow me. But someone who has walked a little of it with me, makes it reasonably acceptable for allowance. In fact has become highly important.

PAIN and BLOOD
You see the theme here. I do not measure, I do not compare and I do not compete. I merely wish to be. So I can BECOME whatever is next in this world for me.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

Thoughts of a dying soldier

Looking skyward, as I layed on asphalt, when I started to believe that I am dead. I looked at the day-break ablaze. It has lit all leaves which wanted to be, lit all ground which showed its grass, lit everything, even my fallen soul. My eyelids grew heavier, wanting to close.

Shun it, for there was more way to go and sleep could not climb this light. But what has to occur, can occur any moment from now.

I tried to take in as much air as I could, but my humble lungs were giving up slowly. With breath my chest felt heavier, but soul felt lighter. Like some twisted, sadistic dominatrix dropping metal balls on my ribs things became harder and harder.

I thought of everything that I had done in my life, the good things and the bad. I wanted to do more good but felt no remorse for the bad ones except only bitter hatred.

And this is why I'm lying here all alone, in the lonely twilighted garden close to hell. This is why I was not given any reasons.

Anger pulled me through, but that’s all it did.

As I lay here path of air way is slowly being blocked off, not from blood, not from a sadistic bitch that wants me dead, it's my own body, and I think of everything that I have done, and still feel no remorse.

Death would mean the last of my actions, may mean the conclusion of my hatred, may mean the remnant of my thoughts or would simply mean ceasing to exist.

I accept death as well as I could hand it out.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com

A Strange Dream

Endless drumming continued as I fell thousands of feet below the ground. My sense would have told I was dreaming. But possibility would suggest death.

The thrust of the beats pumped deeper and deeper in my ear. I could still abide by it. I could sense the blow of the wings of the giant hummingbird (the Egyptian magician called Toth), the bird-headed and the curved-beaked sorcerer.

Toth grabbed me by the wrist and guided me through many doors of the underworld. He always stood to assure that I answer aright to the beasts who held the pathways; the entry to an unknown realm where I was forced. For some nameless rationality I was not numb. Perhaps the Sorcerer had engrafted such instincts.

I named the beasts as if I already knew them; with capers and science and could avert them. “You are culled-face-tongue” I say to a beast, “You love running” to another and they gave up. Every door opened differently with a fictive password or trick as I follow the underworld, the hummingbird through the black dark alley.

The last gate opened in the “Courtyard of Twin Verity”. I always knew that I would be here someday and stand before “the twin Maats”. As daughters of their Ostrich father they represented the truth, the dharma. Their very gaze would suck out accuracy from a prevaricator. I could still hear the drumbeats.

My shoulders ached in carrying the ancient Egyptian robe I was wearing. I realized that Ajoop sang with her sistrum behind me. Her loyalty carried in my dreams and probably would trace my steps deep in my death too.

A falcon headed god appeared and pulled me through the corridor to a narrow elbow room semi occupied by the gallows. The sisters followed. Ajoop continued her endless cascades of notes along with the distanced drum beats. The forty two animals were attending the assembledge. As Ajoop continued her tongue-less strains I began to absolve myself.

“I have not hurt anything in-essentially...
I lived life only for hunger and home...
I loved only to find sanctity...
I was never unkind or prodigal...
I did not foul air and water...
I put fallen birds to their nests...
I stoned moaning animals to death, so that they won’t suffer anymore”.

The brutes’ dumb gaze made my throat bone dry. Had to quiten.

Horus artfully pushed me deeper in the zone to the Billiorden where Helic stood with the measuring stone with the lion headed fox sit on the throne.

I pierced out my heart and put on the palm of Anubis, the foxen. With my heart he attached an ostrich feather and checked the stone. Helic, the monster, wanted to feed my heart. But Anubis agreed to my innocency and asaayed my confluence with Osiris, the king, the God.

The green faced Osiris wore a white Capitulum. His crooked and frail hands showed beneath that kingly attire. As I looked towards the lord, his wife Isis smiled like Mona Lisa. The dark brilliance of the underworld spurts from her perfect structure. Osiris remains a mummy though he could move at his own will.

The god advances with his extended green hands and whispers in my ear “You now became me”. Ajoop’s sistrum stops suddenly. He says “Blessed is your wife, so I take her, as Osiris looks after you”. He grabs Ajoops hands and aviated up from the underworld. Gleaming rays moistened the dark splendor. Isis disappeared in the rays.

I tried to hold on to one of the light and rise up. The drumming seemed louder now. Ajoop was now playing her sistrum no more. She slipped it to Osiris and wheezed her mockery. It hurt my ears, my senses. I slipped the ray as Osiris hit me with the sistrum and was again descending.

For some unwanted reason my dream broke as I hit the floor of the underground.

A child’s fantasy a crazy mind. No more drumming. No more falling.

-A
http://arnabpal.blogspot.com/

What is Green...

The Tuesday evening of this week, Sandy-da and me were sitting on the terrace of Mukhu-da’s flat, waiting for him to return from market…

Chill gusts of light winds were the only thing to feel and blinding yellow spotlights from the construction works were peeping on us, proving they were the only ones to work at late hours.

After a last, demo week full of shows, enjoyment, traveling, Pujas, food, photography, hanging around and of course music, this week started with unnecessary burden of work and tiring boredom. Suddenly feeling a very scheduled and normal life, awkward!

It was on one of those evenings, when its easy to hang around boggling thoughts.

* The late night construction workers worked more than we did, and still get paid less. Why?

* Somehow I looked at the skyscraper opposite the Outer Ring Road and saw he lights of it were 'ON' only in vertically linear flats and once every four columns and 'OFF' in the others. Looked pretty unusual!

The discussion leaped these questions and hung around the third for sometime. Sandy-da suddenly started, “How do we define color?”

May sound pretty obvious answer for some, as I answered in the beginning, “Color is a combination of three HEX values representing R, G and B” …

The real question lied a little beyond that. Reframing it, “How would you explain someone, the way you see green?”

Well! Well! Well!

The thought quivered through a more generalized phase. In fact we can’t explain any of our five primary senses. Do we?


* Just like we can’t explain the way we see green;
* It is impossible to explain how I perceive the E note (I may be hearing E as someone else hears C and some other hears F) But it’s E to me and I don’t bother. Till I live I’ll know that’s “my E”;
* How about taste? Sweet, sour, pungent, hot … defined?
* About feel; hot, cold …?
* And nose; same thing about the nose!

We couldn’t figure out a justifiable answer for these. May be our capability of expression is not completely defined as well. Let it be. Let it be.

Why are these things so ambiguously defined? I later pondered about the sixth sense. Does it apply to it?

Aj Mohaloya...

sokal er akash tar dike takiye ghum ta hothath bhenge gelo .. ghori bolchhilo.. poune atta... akashey kono pujo pujo bepar-i nei ... hoyto amar dekhar ichheo chhilo na.[4 ter shomoy uthar kotha chhilo .. ghorir alarm ta chitkaar kore kore .. bondho hoye gechhilo bodhai .. othoba ghumer ghore haat ta tar kaaj kore niyechhe ... ]

kono okaron oshhyojhhyo-tar songe ghum katiye, roj karer moto daat e majon diye, jol gorom kore fellam. porey kalo cofee khete boshlam. kichhui bhalo lagchhilo na. aj office asteo na ... bolai bahullyo nijer songe bojha porata khub taratari-i mite gelo ...

tobu kajer fakey fakey, mohaloyar shubhechha gulo outlook er pop-up e bheshe uthe uthe... kaaj er ichhe takey nishtobdhe mere fello... thik korlam .. na ajke ar kaaj noy... tai eta likhte shuru korlam ..

obossyo etota mon-mora howar kono karon nei... goto 5 bochhor-e ei din tar kono utsahoi chhilo na... goto du bochhor pujo-o dekhini ... [kothao dekhini... hothath bangalore e ebochhor dekhte paabo, mone hoy] ... tobu keno ekta dhakir shobdo kaane beje cholechhe ... keno sei chondi path er mp3 na shuneo mone hochhe jeno ei shunlam...

{some lines ommitted}

@
sobuj shiuli phul er gachh ta janlar baire theke hashi mukhe dekhchhilo amar dike, bolte chaichhilo dhup-dhunor gondho - kasor ghonta - ranga jobar mala - unmaad nach - bhog - onjoli eder kothao mone korte. nicher dubbyo ghash gulo kichhu bolchhilo na. ora bodhai bhabchhilo ami oder dekhte paini.

@
parar chheler dol chonga lagiye mohaloya bajay (amader parate).. jader surji maamr songe shotruta tader jonne .... rastay beriyei setar kotha mone porte laglo.. hat-te shuru korlam. pother protita jinish-i jeno amar dike takiye hashchhilo ... oh seki ottohashi ... nastik howar prochondo boro ekta puroshkaar money holo.

@
douriye paliye bachlam. bus dhore office er samne namlam. oh eki. office er ulto dike je pujo ta hochhe tar banner tao ajkei chokkhey porlo .. boro boro okkhyore lekha .. durga 'pooja' ... ufff .. keno? keno?


..... bekar bokchhi ... abar kaaj ..

Shuvo mohaloya ... :D

Nights are dark; Days are darker…

It all started that sudden morning when the boy was only eight. It was three in that cold morning. The sudden quake of two little hands has forsaken not only his sleep but also his senses. Was it perpetually? Well, time had to tell.

He couldn’t speak a word until he saw his mother in an unknown tremendous pain. The sleep flung to senses in less than a blink and never came back. He was only eight then. That cold, lonely morning, not knowing what to do, he held his brothers hands and ran out of the house, shouting, not knowing for fear or help.

The words of this mother, “Son, it's my time...” kept beating his veins. He and his brother did not find any help that morning when the world was in their deep, deadly sleep. Forced by unknown knowledge he led himself back to the little house. It was raining by then. The sky could no longer hold its tears any longer. But it did not matter.

His mother was still in pain. The light of dawn with unknown hope would take a lifetime to come. It was 1991. It was dark. The little boy was scared and kept crying till light came.

The dream ended after a long wait in dark, fear and uncertainty. But the effect of that cold, wet and helpless morning kept worsening every step he took from then.

His mother died in her brain. She woke but never to be called his mother. She lost her mind, became mad and no longer could be called a mother of two children. The finger, which he once held to walk, could no longer life enough rice by it. But how did that dream become so real is still a quest.

The graceful dreams of an eight year old got culled behind responsibilities, fear, school, books, cooking and cleaning. He never complained because he never found those ears and kept fighting. The child in him got lost in the pathway of life He never did grow up from then. He was already too big for an eight year old.

From that lonely night, sixteen years have passed, and he did grow up but only in size. But then, since he never could live a child’s dream, he could never play as other kids, the child in him keeps peeping out at un-right places and occasions. Obviously, he is/was never understood.

He had no charm. He has no charm. No, neither in looks nor in actions. His shabby appearance, which remained as crooked as the child in him, was repulsive enough to hated by everything he loved. Every word he spoke and everything he did shoved people away from him. His brother and he was growing (yes still growing) in different places now.

He dared, though very feebly, to love once. But the person he thought to be his soul mate soon found another one and left him. Again, the obvious point is, he was never created to be loved. But he, just for once, forgot this truth of his life, and thought he would submerge every tear of his in the twinkling eyes of Pooja. Even this, dream broke leaving the already fragile senses and growth rate close to brittleness, if not already broken.

The difference, that lies between what he wanted to and what he has become, kept widening, every year. No every day.

Gazing at the gap that lies behind he could see no more pain, no more suffering, but his present unwanted and unaccepted personality. The ugly mirror keeps abusing his young dreams every morning. But its too late. Too late to repent for what has happened or been done. What had to be lost was already. But that old line keeps twiddling his fear more and more – “At any point of time, you will have something more to loose”.

He soon forgets all that now. But now even that is useless. Because life in 2006 is no longer a dark, fearful, uncertain morning. Its worse than that. His old father could no longer carry himself. After working a very hard and lonely life he needs peace, but could find none at home. A brain dead wife at home threw him away in search of sanity of mind and money. Somewhere in life he wished a better daily-life.

Such perpetually being away from home pushed him away from the boy as well. And both of them seldom talk between themselves now.

[Some lines ommitted...]

And still he could not pretend well. He still keeps fighting with himself. I hate him for that. But he is still growing…