If this movie were to be remade in current day, I wonder if it would do as well as a Rang de Basanti.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Just a thought!
If this movie were to be remade in current day, I wonder if it would do as well as a Rang de Basanti.
Disawoval
This is a counterpoint to the earlier post. Copied, edited and pasted from an original with no disrespect to the same, but to context.Not entirely point-counterpoint, but appeals to the verse, rhyme, music searching intuitiveness.
“THOSE WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG"
No one can look without a touch of sorrow upon a work that death has intercepted. Stand in an orchard when the spring gales roughly fling the blossoms and the unformed fruit to shrivel on the grass. Or see that withered nosegay in the dusty road on which the evening vainly drops its quickening dew: why should a few wild roses, buttercups and poppies make one feel that being picked they would not have been thus left to die except for rue? Or read the half-told tale until you come to where the writer had to lay down the pen for ever. In a word, go when you will where death steps in to put an unexpected full stop in the sentence of a life. It seems indeed that, as Lord Tennyson said, our only teachers are time and God:
"The best is yet to be
The last of life, for which the first was made.
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, 'a whole I planned,
Youth shows but half, trust God, see all, nor be afraid."
And yet, how few who have not known days when they wished they had died in youth, died when the whole world was small compared with their boundless hope, died when the sun and stars, and the hills and the flowers, and wide, wide sea still shimmered in gleaming brightness through an unrent veil of mist, died when faith still taught that this wicked world is good, died when ambition glowed with such fervour that no effort seemed great enough, died before time had revealed that a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a friend may be unkind, before death had wrung the heart dry of all comfort except one promise that Someone is the life, died, as Stevenson says, "in the hot-fit of life, a tip-toe on the highest point of being," whence one could pass "at a bound to the other side, the noise of the mallet and chisel scarcely quenched and the trumpets hardly done blowing."
The value of life cannot be measured by its length; a few years may leave an indelible trace on the world; much joy and sorrow may be crowded into a short intense existence-such for instance as Pompilia's, Shelley's, Ganymede's. And readers of Goethe cannot hear this last name without thinking of the upward longing, up and upward thither where young minds so easily, so fondly dwell,--where hearts can be that wish for room to love, where artist souls may linger when they dream of beauty that eludes them, where music seems to come uncalled to give expression to the tenderest emotions.
And with the bereaved one may indeed ask "why before then?" Why should we hear a mourner by a child's death-bed sobbing, "Is it good that a child should die? Is it good that the light should turn dark, the dawn die in east? Is it good that the frail fair spring should shrivel in an April frost that the blossoms and blooms should wither before summer's coming? Is it right that lambs should languish, that the birds should find closed beaks when they fly to their nests with food? Is it good a child should die, die in its lovely innocence, in its joy, in its hope, in its love? Why should death steal a life full of promise, full of unknown possibilities? Is it good? Is it good? Yet they say that the children that
die are the ones whom the gods love most!"
Few utterances are sadder than Marcus Aurelius’ words, "As autumn leaves thy little ones!" But surely that beautiful thought "to the not yet realized" betrays the golden malleable heart hidden by that steely will. There is the whole secret of that confident assertion that those whom the gods love die young. It is because there is somewhere deep down in the innermost recesses of every human heart the conviction that it is not to nothingness but to the "not yet realized" that we go when we leave this world.
But after all there comes, like half-obliterated memories fetched back to mind in later years, the knowledge that no death is premature. How can it be? We ask not for the privilege of living. What if it comes during the first young years? God calls a loved child; can we wonder that the child we love so deeply is one of those whom God loves too, so that He cannot spare him any longer? And in our most despondent moments we may hear, like some old melody that takes the mind back to loved scenes long since lost, the sweet words:--
"I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care."
-----not my words--------------------------------------------------------------------
“THOSE WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG"
No one can look without a touch of sorrow upon a work that death has intercepted. Stand in an orchard when the spring gales roughly fling the blossoms and the unformed fruit to shrivel on the grass. Or see that withered nosegay in the dusty road on which the evening vainly drops its quickening dew: why should a few wild roses, buttercups and poppies make one feel that being picked they would not have been thus left to die except for rue? Or read the half-told tale until you come to where the writer had to lay down the pen for ever. In a word, go when you will where death steps in to put an unexpected full stop in the sentence of a life. It seems indeed that, as Lord Tennyson said, our only teachers are time and God:
"The best is yet to be
The last of life, for which the first was made.
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, 'a whole I planned,
Youth shows but half, trust God, see all, nor be afraid."
And yet, how few who have not known days when they wished they had died in youth, died when the whole world was small compared with their boundless hope, died when the sun and stars, and the hills and the flowers, and wide, wide sea still shimmered in gleaming brightness through an unrent veil of mist, died when faith still taught that this wicked world is good, died when ambition glowed with such fervour that no effort seemed great enough, died before time had revealed that a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a friend may be unkind, before death had wrung the heart dry of all comfort except one promise that Someone is the life, died, as Stevenson says, "in the hot-fit of life, a tip-toe on the highest point of being," whence one could pass "at a bound to the other side, the noise of the mallet and chisel scarcely quenched and the trumpets hardly done blowing."
The value of life cannot be measured by its length; a few years may leave an indelible trace on the world; much joy and sorrow may be crowded into a short intense existence-such for instance as Pompilia's, Shelley's, Ganymede's. And readers of Goethe cannot hear this last name without thinking of the upward longing, up and upward thither where young minds so easily, so fondly dwell,--where hearts can be that wish for room to love, where artist souls may linger when they dream of beauty that eludes them, where music seems to come uncalled to give expression to the tenderest emotions.
And with the bereaved one may indeed ask "why before then?" Why should we hear a mourner by a child's death-bed sobbing, "Is it good that a child should die? Is it good that the light should turn dark, the dawn die in east? Is it good that the frail fair spring should shrivel in an April frost that the blossoms and blooms should wither before summer's coming? Is it right that lambs should languish, that the birds should find closed beaks when they fly to their nests with food? Is it good a child should die, die in its lovely innocence, in its joy, in its hope, in its love? Why should death steal a life full of promise, full of unknown possibilities? Is it good? Is it good? Yet they say that the children that
die are the ones whom the gods love most!"
Few utterances are sadder than Marcus Aurelius’ words, "As autumn leaves thy little ones!" But surely that beautiful thought "to the not yet realized" betrays the golden malleable heart hidden by that steely will. There is the whole secret of that confident assertion that those whom the gods love die young. It is because there is somewhere deep down in the innermost recesses of every human heart the conviction that it is not to nothingness but to the "not yet realized" that we go when we leave this world.
But after all there comes, like half-obliterated memories fetched back to mind in later years, the knowledge that no death is premature. How can it be? We ask not for the privilege of living. What if it comes during the first young years? God calls a loved child; can we wonder that the child we love so deeply is one of those whom God loves too, so that He cannot spare him any longer? And in our most despondent moments we may hear, like some old melody that takes the mind back to loved scenes long since lost, the sweet words:--
"I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care."
-----not my words--------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Those whom God loves, die young
When I give up the helm
I know that the time has come for thee to take it.
What there is to do will be instantly done.
Vain is this struggle.
Then take away your hands
and silently put up with your defeat, my heart,
and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still
where you are placed.
These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind,
and trying to light them I forget all else again and again.
But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark,
spreading my mat on the floor;
and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord,
come silently and take thy seat here.
-Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali
I know that the time has come for thee to take it.
What there is to do will be instantly done.
Vain is this struggle.
Then take away your hands
and silently put up with your defeat, my heart,
and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still
where you are placed.
These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind,
and trying to light them I forget all else again and again.
But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark,
spreading my mat on the floor;
and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord,
come silently and take thy seat here.
-Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali
Monday, July 16, 2007
I am just your average Joe kind of guy who is probably good at test taking
The more I look at my CV, the more I seem to think so.
Have followed a more or less linear path- exam after exam after exam. 10/12/MBBS/MD.Was nearly heading into a DM reversal of role.That was aborted by something I still have two thoughts about.
But really cant escape the lack of laterality in what I have done/ achieved thus far.It seems someone has already done the spadework, thought and written the books we read, made the algorithms,defined the parameters, set the rates for 'cut', devised the techniques, attended the conferences, constructed the hospitals,established the contacts,conceptualized ethic and ethics.
And you just drift inertly from one to another. Go through the same motions in a quest to learn more and more about less and less.
DRK asked me " besides your score, what have you in your CV?"
I went openmouthedexpressionlesslimpideyes " blink, blink"
Probably I could commiserate thinking that ( as Dents says) "today is the first day of the rest of my life" and ( as Gaurav says) "age is just a state of mind"
So maybe I could pretend not to feel old or mediocre when students call me " Sir"
Thats a good start.
Have followed a more or less linear path- exam after exam after exam. 10/12/MBBS/MD.Was nearly heading into a DM reversal of role.That was aborted by something I still have two thoughts about.
But really cant escape the lack of laterality in what I have done/ achieved thus far.It seems someone has already done the spadework, thought and written the books we read, made the algorithms,defined the parameters, set the rates for 'cut', devised the techniques, attended the conferences, constructed the hospitals,established the contacts,conceptualized ethic and ethics.
And you just drift inertly from one to another. Go through the same motions in a quest to learn more and more about less and less.
DRK asked me " besides your score, what have you in your CV?"
I went openmouthedexpressionlesslimpideyes " blink, blink"
Probably I could commiserate thinking that ( as Dents says) "today is the first day of the rest of my life" and ( as Gaurav says) "age is just a state of mind"
So maybe I could pretend not to feel old or mediocre when students call me " Sir"
Thats a good start.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Night ICU!!
केव्हा तरी पहाटे, उलटून रात गेली
मिटले चुकून डोळे, हरवून रात गेली
सांगू तरी कसे मी, वय कोवळे उन्हाचे
उसवून श्वास माझा, फसवून रात गेली
कळले मला न केव्हा, सुटली मिठी जराशी
कळले मला न केव्हा, निसटून रात गेली
उरले उरात काही, आवाज चांदण्यांचे
आकाश तारकांचे, उचलून रात गेली
स्मरल्या मला न तेव्हा, माझ्याच गीत पंक्ती
मग ओळ शेवटाची, सुचवून रात गेली
मिटले चुकून डोळे, हरवून रात गेली
सांगू तरी कसे मी, वय कोवळे उन्हाचे
उसवून श्वास माझा, फसवून रात गेली
कळले मला न केव्हा, सुटली मिठी जराशी
कळले मला न केव्हा, निसटून रात गेली
उरले उरात काही, आवाज चांदण्यांचे
आकाश तारकांचे, उचलून रात गेली
स्मरल्या मला न तेव्हा, माझ्याच गीत पंक्ती
मग ओळ शेवटाची, सुचवून रात गेली
Sunday, July 8, 2007
So long...and thanks for all the Babel fish!
Peregrination again! Again the whole rigmarole of black suit, portfolio bags and smiling nothings played in front of an audience of conscience, pride,introspection and Program Directors.Of comforting existentialist questions into hush-hush-later decrepit corners, of wasted trash bags- what a paradox; cheap gas-huge cars; Italian Irish prissiness-kallu ghettoes,of looking away from poverty by looking into your huge American car; pan discontentment becoming a friend for fear of becoming banal, shooting career and cortisol into dizzy Megarathean heights; of neuroticism begetting loneliness and loneliness begetting neuroticism- the land abounds in Sertraline which can be picked by the alleyways of Yourphysician boroughs in big apples and boughs in sunshine cities; of reading newspapers on ...online,of toilet paper abrasions, ....of a perpetual yearning- for what one forgets, as newer sensory experiences continue to opiate your mind into an amnesic dysphasic state.Perhaps that yearning is what keeps you going when 5ht and love abandon you. You keep evolving( thats positive) into neo-citizens of a migrant hitchhiker clan with no where to go and yet the entire world in front of you .
Anyways - times for decisions are tough times. They are when all your refinement seems to abandon you and you think like a seventh grader being taught matrices; despite all the logical reasoning that seems so good in theory putting the variables into sides of an equation or forming a Null hypothesis seems abstruse.Especially when one-way roads lead to different points of no return.And these points cannot be imagined for we have never seen them...we have to create these points of reference.This is where a bad experience of past comes handy.This is where integrity of thought, faith( in God maybe,in self mostly)and other such kitschy sounding qualities might help us out.
The ultimate question in life is not exactly framed.It goes pretentiously something like( in Quasi Mode): "what is the meaning of life, universe and all such things" ....Notice the lack of a question mark after that question- for it is an infinite quantity...you have to draw a vector from point("wh..) to point (..gs") and accelerate it at 9.8 times the speed of light within limits zero to infinity using Leibnitzian integrity of thought....and hope to reach the bigQ.
The answer thought is 42.
The question was to be framed by a big supercomputer that computed at a rate that was a quadrillion times faster than the best computer ever built.Somebody called this computer the earth.Unfortunately, just hours before the 6 million or so years time limit it took for the earth to compute the ultimate question, it was destroyed by Vogons.
Thats-- so....frickin....improbable!
But so are many other things.Goedel's theorem, Bertie Russel's barber paradox...usw.
All completely logical problems.
Morals and logic are windows through which we see the vast infiniteness of the probably or improbably infinite universe.They are just the implasticity of some obstinate gyrus-sulcus in the finite billion neuron populated cerebral cortex.
The rest we have to figure out....with integrity of thought, faith( in God probably, but mostly self) and other such kitschy sounding albeit very useful qualities we have.
Point A --------( mostly a billion points in between)---------> Point B
Point A: ( variously) cause, gene, big bang, birth, stimulus, thought
Point B: ( variously, but inconsistently) effect, protein,universe, rebirth?,response/tolerance,string theory .
Anyways - times for decisions are tough times. They are when all your refinement seems to abandon you and you think like a seventh grader being taught matrices; despite all the logical reasoning that seems so good in theory putting the variables into sides of an equation or forming a Null hypothesis seems abstruse.Especially when one-way roads lead to different points of no return.And these points cannot be imagined for we have never seen them...we have to create these points of reference.This is where a bad experience of past comes handy.This is where integrity of thought, faith( in God maybe,in self mostly)and other such kitschy sounding qualities might help us out.
The ultimate question in life is not exactly framed.It goes pretentiously something like( in Quasi Mode): "what is the meaning of life, universe and all such things" ....Notice the lack of a question mark after that question- for it is an infinite quantity...you have to draw a vector from point("wh..) to point (..gs") and accelerate it at 9.8 times the speed of light within limits zero to infinity using Leibnitzian integrity of thought....and hope to reach the bigQ.
The answer thought is 42.
The question was to be framed by a big supercomputer that computed at a rate that was a quadrillion times faster than the best computer ever built.Somebody called this computer the earth.Unfortunately, just hours before the 6 million or so years time limit it took for the earth to compute the ultimate question, it was destroyed by Vogons.
Thats-- so....frickin....improbable!
But so are many other things.Goedel's theorem, Bertie Russel's barber paradox...usw.
All completely logical problems.
Morals and logic are windows through which we see the vast infiniteness of the probably or improbably infinite universe.They are just the implasticity of some obstinate gyrus-sulcus in the finite billion neuron populated cerebral cortex.
The rest we have to figure out....with integrity of thought, faith( in God probably, but mostly self) and other such kitschy sounding albeit very useful qualities we have.
Point A --------( mostly a billion points in between)---------> Point B
Point A: ( variously) cause, gene, big bang, birth, stimulus, thought
Point B: ( variously, but inconsistently) effect, protein,universe, rebirth?,response/tolerance,string theory .
Friday, July 6, 2007
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