first, draw a line

then claim it’s all mine

ogle at another one fine

with a lust that makes blind

and roar that is mine too

why? coz i’ve a mind to

so hand it to me, sign i do

make it mine, fake it true

this land is my land

this land is not your land

from faraway to your west

to anywhere my gaze may rest

all turns fair when to me it is left

for i am great, nay, i am best

wherever i may roam

shall be mine, mine alone

you and everything yours, i shall own

me to please, the child and the grown

by a very holey writ and grant

shall i lay these hands

that will build the great nation

where greed breeds with no hesitation

rid it of every memory strand

of those that stupidly stand

grind them to ground

or bleed them to drown

this land is my land

this land is not your land

from faraway to your west

to anywhere my gaze may rest

(the song to go with this would be the Dave Matthews Band’s “Don’t Drink The Water”)

Every guitarist that I’ve listened to has made me want to pick up that instrument and learn to play it. That I have got nowhere with it is entirely on me and no reflection on their ability to inspire. I say every guitarist but King is an exception. When I listen to her, I don’t feel the need to make music. Because when I listen to her, I’m completely cloaked in and infused with the music. Sated, how could I ask for more?

She recently released an EP of four songs, ‘Infinite Ache’. There’s something from growing up with Carnatic and Hindustani classical music that has stayed with me; that every musical instrument is created with the human voice as reference and the sound of the instrument is to approximate at least in some part human singing. This is perhaps more true of string and wind instruments. Kaki King cajoles a rare range of not only sound but of emotion from her guitar, not just emulating the human voice but extending it to a sublime level. I feel awed not by her humongous technical virtuosity alone but much more by her ability to move one deeply. Therein lies her particular genius; in making the music and all that it conveys paramount. That’s something that many other musicians of this level of prodigious talent and proficiency don’t do. With her, you are drawn in first and foremost by the music and then as you listen more, and only then, do you wonder how the bloody fuck is she doing that?!?

The brightness of the opener on this EP, “Collections”, evokes all that is cheery. But you gradually notice the low hum underlying the shimmering cascade of notes. A game face trying to cover up a quiet but deep grief. It is a theme that runs through all four songs albeit in different forms and tone. On “It Doesn’t Always Work Out” there’s a distinctive extended note of near-dissonance that appears at intervals to punctuate the solemn calmness to lend credence to the song title. “Nails” could have been a screamer but it chooses to be a subtle expression of discomfort and insecurity set up by that deep exhalation at the beginning. “The Pain Is Gone But The Scar Remains” is the song of a road warrior who has travelled long, seen and heard much, and felt even more. Where I find myself in my own life, this is the song for me. I could go out listening to this; then I could go in peace.

All of what I’ve felt about these songs is of course interpretive. You will likely feel differently and that feeling might shift subtly the more you listen. Great art does that. Kaki King has talked of the the songs on ‘Infinite Ache’ as sad songs for happy people almost as if she’s gently nudging such people to broaden their range of emotions. But the sadness she mentions is not overt and does not engulf you when you listen. It is, instead, subtle and slowly seeps into you. Subversive and beautifully so.

Listening to her music will make your life a little richer. If you really like it, please explore more of it and buy the music which you can find on Bandcamp. There’s much that goes into creating art and while one can never place a fixed value to the art itself, there is a cost involved in its physical creation. You can find this EP and her other releases on streaming platforms too if that’s your preference: Qobuz, Apple Music, and others.

I wrote a little verse as a poor companion to “The Pain Is Gone But The Scar Remains” which competes with Samwise Gamgee’s ode to Gandalf in The Lord Of The Rings for incompetence and well-meant sincerity.

on failed knees, bent and alone

whip-flick, flailed to the bone

cannot keep faith

nor sing amazing grace

anguished howl whimpers to a fade

years go on

time set to a dulling drone

the pain is gone

but the scar stays

to remind of passed days

for who you are and for that thing you do:

the love of my life, friends that are my family, acquaintances of shared thought and

experience)

when i’m done and gone finally

what behind me will i leave

not the fallacy of legacy

i came naked and free

and thus i will flee

oh perhaps clothed for eyes that see

and deem what is real and true to be ugly

when i’m done and gone finally

what behind me will i leave

maybe a day of grief

or perhaps three

once-fresh memory

misting soon in days or weeks

just as i’d have it be

but perhaps just this wish wee

i’d like granted me

of sorrow i’d have you free

of love i’d still have you feel

just as i’d have it be

I wouldn’t be what I am had I not let myself wander, all the while knowing that it’ll all circle back. In some ways, it represents the triviality and insignificance of individual life and a fatalist acceptance of futility or as Tolkien wrote, of the elves living while facing the long defeat. Even as a very young person I accepted it. That does not mean I gave up on life. Far from it, for that acceptance allowed me to live with a freedom that sadly most people don’t permit themselves. I’ve followed convention where it made sense to me and drunk deeply of a cocktail of my middling intelligence, rampant imagination, and fierce independence to fuel my trip.

Close friends - heck, even people who hardly know me - tell/warn me that I’m very hard on myself. While there’s much I love about myself, I’m way more aware of my flaws. I call myself out in an effort to be better. It works, mostly. So I’m not hard on myself.

This piece of writing might come through to you as the rambling of a pompous, self-obsessed ass. There’s undeniable heft to that opinion. Or you could pick things from it (as also from some of my other bits and bobs of writing), evaluate it, apply it, and use it to solve flaws at least in part if not in full in the most complex, beautiful, fragile creation in your life. I will not insult your intelligence in naming that.

P.S.: Added to my self-obsessed pomposity is my penchant - well ok, incurable, rabid insistence - on silly puns.

Me: “But was it as massive as me?”

The word massive is related (possibly parent) to the word massif (French I think) which is the term used to describe a group or range of mountains. I like the idea that in my massiveness I’m like a mountain. I like mountains; that and other things make me a mountain man even though I grew up and have lived in the plains. I’m one better, really. I’m a mountain that walks, like a Treebeard of mountains. There are real benefits to that. When we were in Iceland a few months back, there were times when the wind was blowing something fierce, I was my wife’s personal mountain behind which she found some shelter. So you want to move mountains and claim success, find me; that’s your only shot at it. However, this is about the only advantage to a little mountain that walks, for the lack of deep roots caused me too on occasion to be blown away. I was a massive existential question blowin’ in the wind.

We learnt in school the names of the tallest mountains in each continent. No school geography book told me about Antarctica. I found that outside of my school curriculum because I have always been curious. And I was also a quizzer; a massively successful one considering the number of competitions I won. Winning peddling utterly useless information, which is the point of quizzes; to be an expert in trivia. Well, not entirely useless; I won a lot of open quizzes which meant cash prizes. Always useful you know, cash. Helped me build a good part of my music cassette collection those days. Well, Antactica then. The tallest mountain peak in the white continent is Mount Vinson measured at 4,892 m. high. It’s part of the Vinson Massif. Not quite the Himalayas but still massif enough.

I stopped competing in quiz competitions years back. But I retain my penchant for the trivial. Hence my quite frequent writing of drivel such as this. Here’s an exercise for you, children: search and find if ‘trivial’ and ‘drivel’ are homophones or synonyms or offspring of a jolly alliance between the two. Or wholly unrelated. Oh! what a jolly, gay time shall be had!

As I got older, I abandoned trivial pursuits and started chasing the flow of music. Not in making but in nudging others to make music. At some point in time, I started organising live gigs and tours for purveyors of that nebulously termed art called ‘independent’ music. I had a few bands over from Europe tour India too. All the open quiz prize money I earned for my unhealthy obsession with trivia got blown away in my even unhealthier obsession with promoting music. Many, many, many times over. There was no personal mountain, walking or rooted, to offer me shelter from that storm. And always, always there was:

“Soundcheck sounding massive, bro!”

Life is not straight. It meanders. The more it meanders, the more interesting it has the chance to be. But in the end, nothing really matters as the song goes; or rather the rambunctious mash-up of two songs (even better). The path circles back to where it started.

P.S.: ever encountered the circular reference error in MS-Excel, especially when the formula you keyed in was really long?

More P.S.: I have a penchant for musical references too. Massively.

Even more P.S.: you may replace the P here (and the two above) with B.

Life doesn’t suck. You do. Don’t be a vacuum cleaner.

Take a good, long, hard, critical look at yourself. If that doesn’t scare/worry/please you, nothing really will.

Irony is the fuel of haemogoblins. Run to the Iron Hills, like the band sang…or should’ve sung.

The light at the end of the tunnel could be a white-washed dead-end. Avoid tunnels. Ever heard of carpal tunnel syndrome? Bad, very bad. Like I said, avoid.

Being kind and being nice are two different things although sometimes you can be both. Being kind helps. Being just nice most likely means you’re an insipid, fence-sitting berk.

Sitting on the fence only leaves you butthurt. Save your ass, get off that fence. Heck, some of you might even save the fence from breakage.

Being off the fence might help you being grounded, feet firmly on earth. Being earthed helps you absorb shock. While on that, learn physics. Or talk to an electrician.

People who tell you about perspective, the vision from 30,000 feet above the ground, they’re flying business or first. They're gurus of one kind or the other and they’re sitting on something comfortable, not a fence.

Don’t spew shit from your mouth like “the vision from 30,000 feet above the ground”. Just don’t. Is your mouth an asshole to do that? And are you?

Compost. Shit’s gold, I’m not kidding.

Go easy on your children; telling them what to do like you’ve got it all sorted. You know jackshit about much, you’re only likely to pass that on to them. Look at what millenia of parental/elder wisdom has wrought. Jackshit’s not gold.

Grow your own vegetables, at least some. Compost will come in very, very handy.

Keeping your head down is occasionally good advice but not when you’re flailing to reach the shore; even less so when you suck at swimming. Or when you're already neck-deep in shit.

If you must, drink in moderation. Don't get shitfaced.

Whine is the shittiest drink on earth.

Wake up every morning to The Pretenders’s “Stop Your Sobbing”. Should help you lay off that bottle of whine. (p.s.: I know the original is by The Kinks, but The Pretenders made it a hit. So stop your sobbing now oooh!)

No one knew why? Well, not quite - SHE knew but SHE was locked up in HER high tower. And SHE had given up on HER prince. HER prince, now king, had come to rescue HER once but he stayed only to love HER hair more than HER; hair that meant gold.

******************************************************************************************

The fair pretty girl was on the floor. The old, sour-faced woman stood looking down at her, armed - as it seemed - with a broom. The door burst open and the midgets trooped in with loud yells. They took in the scene and saw the desperate plea in the girl’s eyes. Furiously they tore into the old woman. No one saw the look of bewilderment in her eyes. The girl with the snow white skin got up. No one saw the cold gleam that lit her eyes and the chilling smile that slashed her face to open up the cruelty beneath the skin. She shrugged. Oh well! The old hag knew too much. And her sweeping had got too sloppy anyway.

******************************************************************************************

There she was, a beauty laid to sleep in an open casket of ebony and ivory. The light of the crescent moon lent her fair skin the colour of a paler shade of alabaster. The prince stood in rapture awhile. Then he bent low and kissed her on her blood-red lips. Mmm...wet. Wet?!?

She opened her eyes, beautiful large dark eyes.

She stepped out of the casket, all grace.

She smiled at him, more than a flash.

She then opened her mouth “Oh, love”, she sang.

She sank into his neck, one inch fangs.

******************************************************************************************

The smell of burn was fresh. Ah! there it was; the source, a largish pile of still smoking cinder. Something reflected the dim solitary street lamp. Bits of glass. Nearby were mice eating a pumpkin.

******************************************************************************************

The king was rich beyond measure, for he was married to a treasure trove that filled his coffers with coins golden as her hair. The king was miserable and lonely. The king knew not the reason. No, not even a block for him to stumble upon and discover why. He walked the long corridors of his castle, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back; a walking Atlas shouldering his vast gloom. One day, he found himself by the door of a musty old closet. He walked in. All he found was a mirror. A half-forgotten childhood story wafted into his conscious mind and stirred him to ask haltingly and not without some sheepishness:

“Mirror...er...mirror on the wall
Haha; who’s the fairest of them all?”

A voice cold as the far hills came rippling out of the glass:

“Who else but you, my Queen!”

The dazed king staggered out of the closet.

monday for the mundane

tuesday for a twist

wednesday for war

thursday, oh! die of thirst

friday for the jedi

saturday for red-eyed sith

sunday for the shunned

and these lines?

these lines for a load of shit

Arguments were rife at the table of this family of 6 – grandpa, ma, pa, two elder sisters and himself. Nothing violent, just normal differences of opinion that are likely when a group this size gets together. He was the only one who kept his counsel. As the youngest, his pronouncements were likely to be dismissed anyway. He turned his attention to the newspaper. What is this!?! “1 in 5 people likely to be mentally ill”.

He had reduced the odds, hadn’t he?

************************************************************

A few minutes after reaching home – 4162, Laburnum Lane – she cranked up her laptop to post about the MAN who stalked her on the quiet stretch of road from office to home that evening. “Creep”. She tapped out her righteous anger to her six hundred and seventy-two followers. She had met only thirty-seven of them ever.

************************************************************

And it hit him then.

He couldn’t hear himself.

The duty doctor on his rounds in the Neurology department raised a quizzical eyebrow at the nurse. She shook her head. “Still the same, doctor, just as in the last 15 months. Other than his left eyelid fluttering for a few seconds two hours back, there’s no response.”

************************************************************

She settled down at the table of that familiar dim-lit bar. And they came and sat with her, her girls. All make-up and cleavage. Her eyes started scouting customers.

Loner. No one to talk to. No friends, no family. It had not entirely deadened this orphan but it was killing him. He silently and fiercely envied those with families, even the ones that didn’t look too happy about it.

The lurid red broken signage drew the orphan in. The pimp smiled. A likely one, this. He’d do just fine.

************************************************************

The man was the very picture of politeness. He smiled and wished most people good whatever phase of the day it was. He was warm to the staff and guests alike at the 5-star hotel he was staying.

He checked out after a few days and went back home. Two days later he was arrested for picking up a stray street pup, smashing it against a wall, and stomping on it till it died.

************************************************************

She worked on the “Science” beat. She had found one of those random studies (who does these and why?) – you know the ones that tell you that a mole on your right elbow significantly increases your likelihood of suffering a paralytic stroke before the age of 80 – that predicted probability of insanity in any given population. The editor had okayed it for publishing the next day. Her day was done.

The planet moves and life goes on. In circles.

P.s.: I had given life (such as it is) to some of these a few years back. I’ve given them a home here now.

About two years back while sitting on a 3-hour flight heading to beloved wilderness for a few days, listening to Corvus Corone’s ‘Abandoned In Spring’ brought me unbidden tears, a grief unspoken I know not for what. What I write is personal; I don’t do it for a living. I may not express it well but my words carry something of me. Some of my posts do that more than the rest. This is one which does. Many are discomfited when confronted with what is personal to someone else. There is neither good nor bad in being impersonal or in opening up. If you belong to that category which gets uncomfortable, then perhaps abandon any further foray into this post. But I would still strongly recommend listening to the music and for that you could jump to the last parts of the post where the links are.

What is your guiding, perhaps overriding, emotion; one that you feel the most closely bound to? Mine is grief and my tie with it has grown stronger as I have aged. It might well have been anger instead and it was in my youth till the extreme expression of it one day shocked me to a stop. Mercifully. Better tears than blood, better gut-wrenching music than muscle torn and laid bare. Having said that, my bond with grief doesn’t make me a gloomy person; quite to the contrary. It helps me value the beauty around us, often in little or common things that most would ignore. The knowledge that it will not be forever, neither that object of my wonder nor I, fuels both grief and a deep appreciation of existence. “The Sun Shall Die With None To Mourn” as Corvus Corone laments on this album may not have this dual thought in mind in its creation (or maybe it did; I wouldn’t know) but the sorrow at what may come to pass is expressed in it to stunning effect. Every single song in the set - three epics bookended by what to my mind are a prologue and an epilogue - lends credence to my belief that pain and sorrow produce the greatest art. The music is created with strong feeling but it is also carefully crafted. It is precisely composed music that is essentially instrumental where the human voice too comes in as an instrument at the right time to add texture and gravitas and to release the deliberately built-up tension. Even without explicit words to cloud your mind, you feel the depth of emotion.

‘Abandoned In Spring’ is a deep, slow, long lament, a thing of excruciating beauty. It’s an album which is that increasingly rare thing, a deeply personal work of art that though created by someone else becomes fiercely your own in expression. Different from Hammock’s ‘Mysterium’ in sound but similar in effect. Not everyone will get that, of course. This is not music that you will likely feel for if sorrow hasn’t coloured your life. And I am genuinely happy for you if that is true. But for those that do, I hope you find catharsis, a relief and release in this.

The subsequently released ‘The Finality Of Winter’ the following year in 2024 followed recently in December 2025 by ‘Buried In The Autumn Shade’ as a thematic continuum are both beautiful albums. I wonder if there will be a summer for Corvus Corone. And if there is, will it scorch?

Please do listen to this outstanding piece of music! But be warned that it can affect you in ways that you may not want, as laments are wont to. You can stream or buy it (I hope the latter as well) on Bandcamp. If you like this, you might be interested in the other releases of Canadian independent label, Syrup Moose Records too.

You can stream the album here (there are other platforms too but these three pay artists better than most):

Qobuz: https://open.qobuz.com/album/pya1fg4y0ipwa

Tidal: https://tidal.com/browse/album/269859245

Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/in/album/abandoned-in-spring/1662999845

(and fuck Pottify)

Note: This is an edited/updated version of a piece which first appeared in my music blog dyingnote.com so don’t let your mind ping “plagiarism!!!” if you’ve already read that.

This! A little night frog of the genus Nyctibatrachus. That changed how I look at the world and how much more I see of it. It literally opened my eyes wide. I still don’t see enough; since then, every day has a new wonder in store for me. Not always pretty either; the world is full of horrors too aside from what we inflict. But always amazing!

In my experience, most people struggle with finding even one thing that they love doing which is solely personal, just theirs. I am blessed and grateful that I have at least three: music which makes me feel things with an intensity that is excruciating, writing which is a source of unmitigated, undiluted joy always, and photography which is my meditation that calms a perennially racing and leaping mind.

Photography was never about accolades and approbation for me. It created a happy space for me with the world’s turmoil existing only as a blur at the periphery. I’m tempted by ideas and I leap at them as they flutter in my vicinity. I’ve done many things professionally and personally which have made my life extremely rich with experience and interesting. But that very same exploratory and open-minded trait also created a lot of disturbance and made mine a troubled mind. Photography brought me focus, literally and figuratively. It taught me to savour the moment. It was a balm, the best kind.

The idea of wildlife photography for many is of tigers, leopards, orcas, humpback whales; what are called charismatic creatures. I have only one small set of photos of a tiger and that too from a great distance. That sight was magic but it was incidental, not sought. I went out to look for leopards specifically after well over a decade of photography. I have nothing against these creatures; I admire them as much as I do any. That little night frog showed me a world right in front of us yet unseen by most; a world that is so much more storied. I also learnt of the many people who against incredible odds work at preserving that world. I wanted to show that because it’s not seen and appreciated anywhere near enough. Photography brought me so much to love in a world riven by hate and it brought me hope.

Photography has its rules. I’m a breaker of rules. Not compulsively however. I recognise that much of what we erect as the prisons of rules are more guided paths and that you can wander off and explore territories, possibilities outside of those. So I explore. But oddly, I have been conventional, perhaps even diffident while using my camera most of the time. But when I have let go my uncharacteristic self-wrought shackles, photography has reiterated to me and reminded me how straying from the path can be exceptionally rewarding.

This photo above breaks ‘rules’ of exposure, vast negative (empty) spaces, noise. To me, and to many people who have seen it printed and framed at our home, it looks like a painting. Others might think differently certainly. I am known to be hard on myself; it’s the best way I know to be constantly better. But this is a photo that I’ve taken that I’m proud of, that I cherish. Photography brought me a kindness and gentleness towards myself.

The nature of wildlife photography is such that it is often reactive. With observation and information, one can plan a shot but only to an extent. At the end of it, you’re usually capturing a fleeting moment. I have on occasion been impatient and irritated while shooting but that happens infrequently. Even from the beginning I have spent more time watching and observing than clicking the button. I have ‘missed’ shots deliberately but I have rarely missed a gorgeous sight. My favourite instance of that is when a number of us were photographing in Tal Chhapar (Rajasthan, India), one of whose many joys is a huge presence of raptors that migrate there in winter. While the rest of the group was on the ground clicking photos of Spiny-tailed Lizards (read: gourmet raptor meal) and an Egyptian Vulture parked on the ground, I was watching an eagle (recognised later as a Tawny Eagle when it got closer) hovering above. Its circling turned from languid to something tighter and deliberate. I knew then it was ready to make a grab. And it dropped rapidly and snatched its meal from the ground with a precision and speed that had me slack-jawed. None of the others saw that. Hopefully they learnt from that. Photography brought me patience and taught me stillness; it showed me that the reward is the experience, the entire experience and not just a frozen moment.

There’s a lot of self-acclamation in the world of photographers, perhaps more so among purveyors of wildlife camera work. We’ll do well to have this perspective in mind at all times:

As photographers we do not create the monuments, the models, the landscapes, the animals, the trees that we shoot. We, at best, present them in ways that pique people’s interest and curiosity. We are presenters, recorders, archivists, educators, and custodians and in so doing help other people discover (or rediscover) the wonders that abound here. Our focus ought to always be the subject, not us. Our craft must be fed by a fount that is rich in, among other things, humility and gratitude and not muddied by rampaging ego.

Photography reinforced humility in me. It’s not us, it’s them; in a good way.

The music has many quirks and it gives you pause to think but it’s not on account of some experimental, progressive wankery. There’s no manifest desire to show off the band’s musical chops. While there are obscure references, there are also utterly relatable touches. Sardonic wit abounds but so does warmth and care. It wills you to move along with it on your own dance; perhaps a strange dance but even if you are the shy kind, you’re not self-conscious for once (I know all too well).

The many digs it takes at the ‘scene’ - music, politics, society - and at the many absurdities that we accept as normal are rarely over the top but that does not mean the punches land with any less impact; it’s just that the impact is felt a little different to a straight-up shattering sock to a glass jaw. Take for instance “Xox” which starts with the rousing audience cheer accorded to rock superstars (and with a gorgeously insistent bass line). Stuff of dreams, that adulation. The grim reality of independent music, especially in India, makes itself heard in the desultory, tired clapping of a few hands at the end.

Hoirong doesn’t lay things out on a platter nor does it stick to the done thing. Often the lyrics have nothing to do with the song title. The words frequently seem to serve only the purpose of driving the human voice around; capricious, short, strange. But they carry an impact which you only feel when you listen, listen well. It could be something as simple as “bless you” on the song “Namaste” which might as well equally be “fuck you” depending entirely on how you’re feeling when you listen to it. One of the most moving pieces that the band created is “Gaming With Your Hertz”, a monologue which seems equal parts elder advice and drunken banter. A poignant comedy, if you will. And just when you think it’s all quirk and wit, you hear the horror of what we do to each other with no remorse in “Dandi”. Far from being caprice, you realise that there’s a point to every Hoirong song which is informed by observation. In that, the band is one of music’s equivalents of Charles Dickens and by that I point to his writing which displays a keen understanding of the human condition (not the man himself and his rabid racism). Hoirong takes familiar, sometimes every day, situations and instead of making them internal and personal to itself, it presents them to you and leaves you to feel them in your own way. You relate to the music as something that is vicariously yours. And that is important in all art.

The only grouse I have with the band’s music is the production. I understand that the lo-fi gnarliness is deliberate but it could be done better without sacrificing its integrity. I wonder about the what if? of a Steve Albini or a Kurt Ballou or a Martin Bisi working on these albums.

Hoirong describes its music as “the fat and ugly step-sister of pop”.

It throws away the crutches of convention without sacrificing listenability. It’s been doing it consistently for years on its 6 albums and EPs, a few singles and a couple of cover/tribute albums. And by doing it really well, the band shows that being uncompromising doesn’t have to be elitist and obscure or mindlessly and crassly commercial. It’s neither the mother of invention nor is it only in it for the money. The intelligence in the music comes wrapped in casual cool. There’s a reason why Indian independent artists got together to cover an entire album by them. It’s something that happens rarely in the independent music community in India. That’s the amount of respect and influence that Hoirong has.

India’s music is not just Bollywood or sitar music. Hoirong’s music is one of the portals to a richness beyond that. When you want to escape the drudge and vapidity peddled by inane artists who represent those very same qualities that much of the world has sunk to, be Hoirong.

Hoirong in the North-East Indian state of Manipur means asshole. That might explain a lot of things including the opening paragraph of this piece.

All of Hoirong’s music is available on Bandcamp. You can pay what you want or nothing. If you really like something or all of it, I’d urge you to pay. You could listen on streaming too. Unfortunately, all their music is not on Qobuz but I think it’s available on Tidal and most of the music is definitely on Apple Music. These are the best-paying among the streaming platforms even though it’s not much.

And fuck Pottify!

Expressing is intrinsic and essential to us and the inability to do so is a major cause of frustration, anxiety, anger, insecurity. An outlet for expression is a lead into a healthier mind I think, more so if it can happen with regularity. People find it in music, in painting, in dance, in maths; there are many. Mine is in writing. I’m happy when people read what I write, more when they react to it even if with a criticism. I’m thankful to those of you who read; it’s something I do not take for granted. But my happiness is not guided by or dependent on that. I take joy in the act itself and satisfaction in putting it out there. Like potters with their craft and wares, I move on to building that next island. There’s a message in it for writers here who get frustrated with the shortage of attention for their publishings; writing is the must-have, readership and reaction are the nice-to-have. The first is entirely in your control and the second is something you can work at consciously and sensibly to increase if that’s what you want with the acceptance that there is no guarantee.

My writing is one thing that I’m not hard on myself. That is not to say I’m blind to its flaws and my inadequacies; I’m aware of those. Like other aspects of my life, I keep trying to find ways to be better but unlike everything else I’m not tough on me for those. Through this I’ve learned to love myself a little. That’s a good thing I think.

Last night I listened to music with intent and attention and love and care after years. I thought I had lost that. Maybe I have, in the long run. But last night I was lithe and light and bright-eyed. Last night I was alive.

“Pain is so close to pleasure” - from a song by Queen.

Pain is pain, so tattoo you, Freddie Mercury.

Getting a tattoo? Here’s a prep exercise for you. Peel your skin deliberately and slowly. Do it at least 10 times. You’ll still be only barely scratching the surface of pain.

I tend to get my tattoos in places where the pain sensitivity is among the highest on the body. Four on my ankles at a single sitting; those were my first. In comparison numbers 5 and 6 were mere tickles. This latest greatest now is right along my spine from the neck down to...well, right down. While this is going on, I’m thinking of the next two, oh now three, tattoos that I want. I’m sick, I am a creep. Maybe.

Beauty is skin deep. Cool. I’ll have some of that under my skin.

My wife is fascinated by tattoos but doesn’t want one. She doesn’t like the idea of her body being voluntarily marked. Doctors care a lot about the body, as they should. I’m not a doctor; I belong firmly on the other side of the table. I cannot say why people get tattoos. I’m not sure I can articulate entirely the reasons even for my own choice of being a marked man. It’s not exhibition. If it’s laying the body open as a canvas for art, then mine is for very, very private viewing. Most of my tattoos are not visible to others. Heck, this latest one is something even I can’t see without at least two mirrors! But eventually there will be those that will be easily seen; real estate is hard to come by.

Symbols, affirmative symbols; I think that’s what they are for me. The wings on my ankles are of upliftment and in the last few years, I’ve looked at and to them to haul myself up, to remind me of my self-belief when I’ve felt it shimmering away to oblivion. The two wild felines on the sides of my calf (calfs or calves? 🤔) have little reason to be there other than that they seemed like good ideas at the time. I think I’ll just add a couple of deer on the other sides just to make it interesting. I did say a sickness lies upon me.

This seventh is very symbolic for me. I’ve dealt with recurring back spasms and pain for over 22 years. The sword is meant to be a bolster to strengthen my back. Yes, yes, I know exercise and care are what will actually do that but this is for the mind. Symbol for healing. I also collect knives or daggers from many of the places I travel to (not from Iceland though; the place is too fucking expensive). Symbol for wanderlust and exploration. I’m immersed in the works of Tolkien (I’m both critical and appreciative of them). Symbol for a delusional mind. Bilbo and Frodo’s dagger, ‘Sting’ does not boast of the glory and fame of an Anduril or a Glamdring but it does the job quietly which for the most part reflects how I go about my business. Boring with the occasional explosion of flamboyance. Symbol for a vital aspect of me.

With the sword, I have symbolically acquired edginess now; well, double-edginess. And I just get this feeling that from now on every time I have to deal with our corrupt and incompetent government officials, I’ll reach for my back. Symbol for hopeless insipidity.

P.s.:

“But why do you need four wings, Ram?”

“To lift my considerable weight, stupid!”

There are people though; not too many of them, but the landscape is definitely splattered occasionally with human presence if you hang around long enough. About 4 people per square kilometre. The country’s resident people number just about 400,000. I suspect the Mumbai suburb of Andheri has more people than that. It’s a stark contrast; India’s teeming multitudes, weather (mostly searing summers with a choice of dry or humid, occasional temperate climes, often cold winters), assault of sound, overwhelming complexity that is in-your-face, rich colours, incredible variations of food and culture versus the sparseness, brutal cold and wind, minimal elegance, layered subtlety, quite a sparse menu even for non-vegetarians of this island of the North. I’m not saying one is better than the other; only an observation that it’s a cultural sauna going from one country to the other, rapidly moving from one extreme to the other.

There are are were no mosquitoes in Iceland. The increasing warmth of the place - well, of the world - invited some in recently.

From what I gathered, the country went about its life for a long while stationed well below the tourist radar. That misty cloak of obscurity has gradually been lifted but more rapidly in the recent few years. My wife and I witnessed the extent of tourist inflow first-hand even in the short 11-day stay that we had. The capital city of Reykjavik was bustling the first couple of days that we were there and then after our return to the city following our jaunt in other parts of the island, we were greeted by quietude and large gaps between one person and the next. A lot of tourists - a huge number were from one country which has apparently the entire first week of October declared a holiday - had exited. For now the citizens of Iceland are at worst mildly bemused by the attention they are getting but it may not be long before the annoyance and attendant calls for influx control kick in as has been happening in many countries in Europe. I wouldn’t blame them. As things stand though, the people there seem nice and helpful; that was our experience. For instance, when I casually enquired for a record store, the young woman at our hotel reception desk asked a couple of her friends/colleagues one of whom made a strong recommendation, looked up the place, showed me what it looks like, and how to get there. She could’ve just told me the name of the place and didn’t need to do all the rest. Nice people, like I said. Quite a long way from the brutal reputation that Vikings had, perhaps still have. There must have been a fair amount of truth to it in the past but I doubt if it was the only truth. That stark picture was painted by the populace of such places as the British isles and France who were prime targets of Viking raids. Ironic, considering that they themselves went on to inflict worse horrors on a much larger geography and for far longer, the effects of which are not wholly erased yet. Yesterday’s victim is so often today’s oppressor; we see that all the time, even right now. Anyway, this brown man has no complaints about experienced Viking behaviour in the present. BTW, I found an LP at that recommended record store that I have sought for a few years from different sources across countries because it has long ceased being pressed. It was in great condition and it came at a shockingly low price. Nope, definitely not complaining.

The Land of Fire and Ice. But let’s talk about what we have wrought first. The human-made structures in Iceland adopt a starkness that perhaps deliberately reflects the land and the environment. The famed church Hallgrimskirkja takes diverges slightly but even that is characterised by sharp straight lines, just that the lines are stacked up spectacularly. That is not to say that the other monuments are drab. Far from it. Harpa close to the Old Harbour in Reykjavik is one of the most stunning performance spaces that I’ve come across. The Black Church at Budir or this lone building stationed on the cliffs above the Arnarstapi coast are great examples of architecture that leaves one slack-jawed even if they are characterised by severe simplicity. The reason for the continuum of stunned reaction is the beautiful harmony between them and their surrounding; a harmony that is moving, that is uplifting.

The Land of Fire and Ice. Iceland is a high point in the longest mountain range on earth, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge which mostly runs submerged and effectively divides the Americas continental plates from the Eurasian and African ones. Its geographic peculiarities make it home to snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and active volcanoes. We saw glaciers for sure; in fact the largest one in Europe, the Vatnajokull ice-cap. No active volcanoes, no regrets. What was hot - and very, very cool to visit and see - was the place that gave rise to a familiar name. Geysir. I was witness to some quite heavy geyser activity as water heated up by sub-surgace lava spouted through vents! And at the end of the last one which I saw, I got quite drenched. The water wasn’t hot at all because by the time it hit me the cold in the air had injected a whole lotta chill in it.

The Land of Fire and Ice. Iceland is not just that. It’s a land of spectacular rainbows and stunning waterfalls too. I saw more rainbows in less than two weeks there than I have in the rest of my fifty-five years of living. And the first full rainbow, end-to-end; not arc to the tangent but the full bow. Now, don’t say that if only the earth weren’t there as an interruption, there would be circular rainbows 🙄 The country abounds in waterfalls; small one, big ones, all beautiful ones. My favourite by a very thin margin was Oxararfoss in the Thingvellir National Park. There’s something welcoming about it, perhaps because it’s not imposing. And it is located in a place of rare importance, culturally and geologically. Thingvellir is where of old the Icelandic parliament, the Althing, used to be held annually from AD 930 to 1798. And this is in the rift valley that forms the top of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge that I mentioned and marks the boundary between the North American and Eurasian continental plates.

The Land of Fire and Ice. This is a country blessed with heart-aching beauty with streams and waterfalls drawing curves and lines over mountains and basalt rock formations, windswept meadows of yellow and green vying with the rich blackness of volcanic soil. A place of strong contrasts without tripping into gaudiness. Elegance abounds. So unique these Icelandscapes!

One of the many peculiarities of Iceland is that people can and do own waterfalls and glaciers and even volcanoes!

With all that we saw and experienced, my wife and I (I can’t speak for the others in our group of travellers) weren’t downcast about not being able to see the Aurora Borealis or Northern Lights - the ‘star’ attraction of this trip - the first few nights. This is a phenomenon that happens many kilometres above the earth as the result of interaction of the magnetosphere above earth with solar flares or storms. A reasonably clear sky is essential - but not the only factor - to view auroras. For the first few days we had very cloudy skies even when aurora activity and intensity were high. But the weather changes up in the northern reaches of the world frequently and we had two glorious evenings of unhindered sighting of what one may term an epic cosmic dance. Unhindered but not entirely undisturbed; the night was rent occasionally by near-orgasmic exclamations of my group every time the lights did a jig. Thankfully I chose to station myself at a distance otherwise who knows what would’ve happened to a sexy thing like me! 😎

Such infrequent infringements to the sacredness of the night aside, to see the Lights dancing in the skies was to be witness to one of nature’s greatest and most spectacular magic shows. After some time, I stopped clicking pictures, lay down on a nearby bench and just watched. One can well imagine why people back in time must have thought these were the souls of their ancestors sending them signs, inscrutable but clear signs nevertheless.

Of Monsters And Men is a music band from Iceland. I wonder if their name was inspired by sheep.

Iceland’s landscape is dotted by, among other things, sheep which have been denizens of the island since the time humans settled here in AD 874. They are wool and meat to the citizens and tourists here. But to me they seemed a dark, brooding menace. I formed this idea in my head - I am ever-full of ideas - that these sheep are unique, that they are flesh-eating sheep. I just didn’t like the look in their eyes. The one time I made a friendly overture to them, two of these vicious barbarians raced, mad eyes and everything, towards me. I was saved only by a fence and an exit whose rapidity was astounding in a creature of my bulk. It may be just my fancy but I have sworn off eating lamb, sheep balls, or any meat that comes off the damn beasts.

Oh, well! I am vegetarian anyway.

The horses on the other hand are incredibly friendly. You get somewhere in the vicinity of half a kilometre to one of them, it’ll come to you and then the rest will too. Companionable silence and pleasing nuzzles will follow. I’ve never before seen horses this friendly. Unlike afore-mentioned sheep, these animals don’t seem to have any sense of self-preservation. I wanted to shed a few tears for such innocence but the cold and the wind dried up my eyes.

Pink Floyd on their album ‘Animals’ had three songs with pigs in their titles, one song called “Dogs”, and another “Sheep”. Nothing at all for horses. Pink Floyd should have visited Iceland.

Iceland blew our minds. And our wallets.

It wasn’t just on account of the at-times-100 kmph-winds. This is the most expensive country that I’ve visited. Norway seemed reasonable in comparison and that is saying a lot. This is a country where you must wear your let-it-go even if you’re starkers otherwise (you might still be stripped bare by the end of your trip). A German friend of mine, musician and founder of the band The Ocean, Robin Staps during the course of a chat before my travel told me that Iceland is terribly expensive. I replied saying I know, I’ve heard. But I informed him that we had sold a house. He said “Ah! then you should be okay.”

I can understand why it is expensive. It is remote and for all its exceptional natural beauty, it’s a hard place to live in. It is paradoxical that for a land with such fertile soil, it is difficult to grow much on it baulked as one is by nature’s storm, fire, and ice. In yet another paradox, electricity is free and because the water is so clean that you can drink it straight from the springs or from your room taps, that too is free (unless you insist on bottled water but you’ll lose that adamance soon enough) but a cup of coffee will set you back by INR 700-800 or 9-10 Euros.

A visit here can be a strange, long trip indeed but you will be grateful before you’re dead that you did. The most incredible thing about Iceland to me is that I didn’t see a single cop (if one discounts their presence in the two far-off police cars that I sighted the entire trip)! What could be better than that?

So stop seizing the day. It’ll make for a very crappy diem. How would you like it if your ass were seized? (there, that was totally gender neutral). You might get a frozen ass but generally you’d be startled and pissed off, and are likely to retaliate. That’s what the seized day would be. Do you now get why your days suck?

An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Please fuck off. My wife is a doctor. She and I live in different cities. And I rarely eat apples.

I do not want to use a stone on any bird let alone two of them. There’s a high likelihood these days that they’re the last of their kind coz too many jerks followed this dumbass adage literally.

When I was a kid, the locality would get together once an year and have a lot of fun as a community. Or intend to do so. Among the fun events would be the lemon race a.k.a. spoon race in which the enthusiastic participants would spoon a lemon while they ran (that was what I thought spooning was for many long years) without dropping either spoon or lemon, sack race which had people behaving like bunnies in a sack (no, really hopping furiously to the line with a sack up to their waist; not that other thing), and slow cycling where the winner was the slowest cyclist to get across the line without putting a foot on the ground. That is the only time the slow and steady wins the race. And the real winner did not even race! For the eagle and the human both hare and tortoise make a hearty meal.

Two heads are not better than one; they’re a terrible birth defect and are likely to be the death of you if you are born that way. One is just right; and even that on most of us is bad enough.

A picture often needs more than a thousand words especially if it’s out of focus or is outlandish art. And sometimes even that doesn’t suffice to clear its obscureness.

What’s the point of being late and missing your flight/train/bus? It might as well be never. There are exceptions but those are tragedies that I’d rather not bring up.

God helps those who help themselves? It sure explains how and why politicians and corporate crooks keep getting away with “helping themselves”. Divine comedy, of sorts, this one.

Bad idea more often than not to do it yourself if you want it done right. Bring in the experts please. You can at least take them apart if they screw up. It’s very satisfying.

Laughter is most definitely not the best medicine if you have a bad bout of cough or a screwed up back or have been freshly stitched up. As the song goes, bad medicine.

Ignorance is bliss, huh? Hmmm...not when you’re in the middle of a lonely road late night in the sole and uncomfortable company of a car, your car, with a burst tyre and you are ignorant of which is a nut (you) and which a bolt. Ignorance is not bliss but is possibly endless mirth for others who love nothing better than a dolt make a fool of self.

Try telling a chemistry buff there’s no smoke without a fire and they might prove the worth of knowledge and thereby the danger of your smug ignorance. Very painfully.

No man’s an island. We proved that wrong, hell yeah! living as we do now our insular lives.

For most people worms are not very appetising. That is no motivation to be an early anything, least of all a bird which anyway by sheer dint of being one is at high risk of extinction.

You don’t parry with a pen when the other party carries a gun. Swords are relics. Pens are relics too. Their might - absolute or relative - is light.

We should all retire right away. We’ll have plenty of time and therefore plenty of money...if that bit of conventional wisdom is wisdom indeed.

I should shut up now because...

you slide out words

like you’re oozing virtue

you snarl non-binary

yet you rant “us and them”, yeah you too

you claim righteous anger

don’t say it but you see the danger

what you are is scared and confused

i know, oh! i know what is true

see, of a kind we are two

or so it would seem

no, not very different from the rest of the team

like them we are full of hate too

our targets may be other

but we too tear down an other

lay to shreds pitiful dream

of the unkind, we are just another two

.

"Meet your Maker." You've heard or read this, right? A vengeful force mouthing off on a mission of dealing death. Meet Death, Meet Your Maker. Should make you wonder (but it doesn't, does it?) about the nature of your maker. Death. "The good Lord giveth, the good Lord taketh". Life and Death. Give and Take. Your Sweet Lord, do you realise, is the Death of you?

Most of us have an outsized fear of death and a grossly negligent value of life. Most of us. There are cultures, though, where the death ritual is one of wild joy. It is not directed at the dying of the person but comes as a celebration of the life led by that person. The rest of us could learn from that.

Death is not an indignity. It is relief, it is release, it is the lasting peace after a lifetime of strife. Or, in some cases, great tranquility after a happy life. Perhaps. What it most likely is just that; death, a terminus to life's journey. "This is where you get off the train at Station Oblivion". Conjecture. I am, however, very clear in my mind that every death that touches you in your life is a call to wake.

People who elicit respect and affection from me know what they mean to me because I tell them. It's quite a simple thing to do. So why don't most people? The tragedy of tributes and obituaries is that they all pour not when it matters to whom these are meant but after that person has gone past paying heed, when it has ceased to have any meaning except to those seeking closure, whatever that is. The greater tragedy is that people keep erring thus almost as if they would be lessened if the person for whom these words are meant hears or reads them. How fucking stupid are we?!?

Realise this too; most will perhaps mourn you for a day, some for a few more. If you've lived an exceptional life, for good or for bad, you might be remembered for a generation. After that you'll fade to some sort of legend or myth if you please but eventually to nothing or at best a barely detectable whiff, hardly recognisable. You can extend that persistence of memory by how you live and the lives you affect. For all our fear of death, we get on with our lives. It's just that those lives could be so much better.

I made peace with my mortality by the time I was 28 or 29. Not that I was ever at war with it; at that age I just consciously acknowledged and accepted it. That acceptance has not had any bearing on how I have lived my life since. I've done much of what I've wanted to while not regretting what I could have but haven't got around to doing. I have not obsessed over death although I admit I'm fascinated by its various legends. My life has been guided by a certain belief that I formed when I was around 15 and was starting to discover my self. Death is definite. Life on the other hand is infinite in its possibilities. Accept the inevitability of death; it will help you focus on the life that you have.

“You lived what anybody gets, Bernie. You got a lifetime. No more. No less.”

-Death, Sandman: Brief Lives

We do not know how much time of life we have left of our lives. But I know there's not much left of it for me by sheer dint of the years I have already lived. And I have lived an intense life. That takes a toll but it's a price I have willingly paid. It's cool. There are things that I have learnt and there are lessons that I continue to learn. For example, in the recent past I have learnt that I'm a fairly good hand with a pistol. Well, specifically 10 meter air pistol shooting. I wouldn't have learnt that without trying it. That comes from keeping a mind that heads not for strictured goals but for spots that appear interesting. The shooting and archery ranges are two of a myriad such stops for me. The range is a temple I like to visit, a place of peace and clarity. I do not obsess over scores or with competition preparation. I like the meditative process of loading the pellet into the pistol, taking aim, pausing, shooting, and doing it again. Breathe. I like the steadiness of breath that comes with it; meditation, while still in action. I am amused by the possibility that maybe when I go, I will go guns blazing almost literally. I'm wary of preaching but I'm always willing to share perspective. And if you find something meaningful or comforting in that, I'll be very happy for you. For me as well. (for more obvious life lessonlets, try going through this).

For now let’s go on a quiet note, shall we?

I hate it when people call me uncle. I AM UNKAL. Get?

I am 55. I have no idea what it means to be that age. I still grin like a kid and I sulk like a child. I happily try out new things. However, I often talk like I have considerable experience of being a geriatric. I have none. Not yet. But I do have vicarious experience and quite extensive at that.

Body has long ceased proudly singing 'Like A Rock'. Mind has wandered so far afield that there is little hope of it returning. And what of Soul? Soul's in Korea; South I think. What??? I don't hear you bitching about my spelling when I write Unkal, do I?

You get to that age when reality bites. With all the force of false teeth. And arrogant, bratty apples often steal yours for fun.

No, I don’t have false teeth. Not yet.

My father is 91. He doesn’t have false teeth. Reality bites him with real teeth. I see the hurt in his eyes. Every day.

42. If you know your Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer to life, the universe, and everything else. I’m 55. I’m the universal question to all sorts of answers; sort of like the anti Finagle Factor.

Body has long ceased proudly singing 'Like A Rock'. Mind has wandered so far afield that there is little hope of it returning. And what of Soul? Soul's in Korea; South I think. What’s that you shrilly point out? I don't hear you bitching about my spelling when I write Unkal, do I? Oh! I already wrote this, did I? Lapse of Reason (and Memory) is no longer Momentary.

People show you an uncharacteristic politeness when your head is lined with grey hair as if you’re fragile. I smile at the kindness of such strangers towards me. Inside I howl in mirth. Decades of living haven’t broken me; their behaviour as usual without this special consideration most definitely won’t. I am, however, grateful. I only wish people were polite to everyone by default.

I am 55. My body is a blunderland.

I was at a rock music festival in Oslo just a few years back and I watched Slayer play. This was part of their farewell tour. Digress with an aching leap to 2025. Slayer’s still around ironically paying tribute to Ozzy and Black Sabbath at their final gig. Apparently nothing can slay them and lay them to rest, not even themselves.

At that same gig there was me, an overweight, aging brown man of medium height going berserk headbanging surrounded by fine specimens of Viking youth and hulking presence who stood unmoving. Strange. And hilarious. I ended up skipping the next day of the festival. My back had got way more than a spinal tap.

Agatha Christie, that fine student of human nature, wrote that it is the old who will cling on fiercely to life however miserable it is while the young are more likely to give up easily.

As people age I often see them trying hard to be cool (or do I mean chill?) and so they throw phrases like “yo bro” at young people only to be told that it's “dawg” not “bro”. Then they feel like shit. Dawgshit. Frankly, I have no idea what counts for cool. I’ve never been bothered to be in with it. When someone says “let's hang”, my horrible mind queries “where's the noose?”. No chill from me. I am hot. I’ve always been. Don’t give me that look. I mean I sweat easily.

You reach an age when those three magic words are “I am tired”. And people let you be. Magic. Inertia turns into a dying duck with one missing wing; there’s only inertia of rest. Motion is fuelled, often erratically, by anti-constipation meds.

I am 55. Damn the light at the end of the tunnel, I can't even see the wretched tunnel. And I got my eyes checked very recently.

Aging is a crossing of a bridge, one that is crumbling. Maybe. And bridges break, you know; they do that. Often; and more so in our Indian states of Bihar and Gujarat apparently.

Now here’s a sobering thought to cure all hangovers and hangups. You live long enough when you see more deaths than births, more wreckages than marriages. That’s when it hits you. Age is not a number, man. It does not numb you. No, it does not.

you used to be my muse

we laughed through grime

we ran wild we lived loose

never claimed yours or mine

ever a smile or grin never ruse

we must've looked fine

coz some weren't amused

but we crested every climb

and paid our dues

your body marked by chalk lines

it's me they accuse

once was a time

you used to be my muse

now there's only bad news