The Weaker Sex...?

When she was just a girl,

She found a pair of slippers

And went to a ball

Where she danced the whole night through

Then, when the revelry was over,

She walked out of the ball

Sans her left shoe

You must be thinking

“I have heard this before”,

But this is not about Cinderella’s prince

But about the princess in us all

For you see, we are deluded by illusions of majesty

And we hide behind masculinity

An essence so fragile,

That a simple puff could blow it away

Or knock it awry

Because let’s face it

There is no weaker sex

Only assholes of various sizes and shapes

With nothing better to do, than discriminate

So ask yourself, why?

Why would Aurora need a kiss from a stranger?

Why would Cinderella need rescuing from her situation?

And why is it that we have a constant need to be on top of everything?

And then answer me this

Who really belongs to the weaker sex?

The Bilge Master

Der Wilden Gedichte

My yesterdays are stuck

Amidst a flurry of inactivity

Born of lethargy and

Endless cups of hot coffee

In my particular brand of melancholia

You may find a subtle dystopia

As you journey through my phobia

The one about being left alone

And in my dreams

I see a falcon

Soaring in the sky

Unshackled

And I realize

I want to be one too

But in moments of sobriety

This falcon gets buried

In a tidal wave of mediocrity and differential equations

But it always comes back

Like Hamlet’s father

Prodding me on

Where I do not know

Maybe one day

This wild poem I have concocted

Will end up taming itself

But for now, I am comfortable

In its wildness

For inside me there is a bit of that

Begging to come out

The Bilge Master

The Piper

This is the story of a boy, who was not like other boys. This boy had a dream. He wanted to make people smile.  Unfortunately, the world this boy lived in was a dark one and he saw people around him, bogged down with the weight of their troubles. This boy saw their pain, he saw people grow sadder and sadder and he saw people’s backs break under the stress of their troubles.

The boy wished that people would put their troubles down.

The boy wished people could see the world as he saw it. For this boy saw a world where the sunshine made the rivers glitter and the rainbows come out after the storms. The boy saw all this and more. He saw animals frolicking and birds chirping above him in the sky.

However, the people in the world remained the same. They remained trapped in a vicious cycle of worry, and they kept carrying trouble with them wherever they went.

That’s when the boy found a flute. He learnt to play it by watching lessons on YouTube. (Yes, ridiculous as it sounds, the boy lived in the age of the Internet and that is where the story is set). He started by serenading mice, then he graduated to dogs. He made them dance to his tune and they thanked him for filling their lives with music.

Then, finally after he had practiced for years, the young man (he was no longer a boy you see) walked on stage. He saw the same people before him. He saw that some of them had grown older, and that some were bent even more under the weight of their burdens.

The young man played.

He played for hours. His music was his own composition. The tunes wafted out, like fragrance from flowers and reached the ears of the people, who were bent. Slowly, these people started to listen to the music. The music spoke to them, showing them the world as the boy saw it. The music showed them the birds, showed them the glittering fields of gold and the beautiful rainbows.

The people put their hands up, and the people danced. They put away their troubles. They smiled and embraced each other.

The piper played on into a new dawn. The people danced to his tune. Then they started to make music for themselves. Remember the young man, for he resides in your mp3 players and your SoundCloud profiles. Remember that without music, this world would be a lot less beautiful.

And most importantly, remember that your troubles are temporary and they can be put down.

The Bilge Master

Alone in a Crowded Room

As I have lived in this world,

I have seen many things,

I have seen darkness and light,

And Yin countered by Yang,

I have drunk Scotch Whiskey,

And gotten high on hooch,

I have read a handful,

And seen them adapted too,

I have found I like music,

And the company of a friend,

I have found well wishers in strangest places,

And strangers in familiar ones,

I have fought inner demons

And emerged wiser,

For while it’s true that

Relatives cannot be chosen,

You can choose friends

I have found that people are frequencies,

Oscillating about a mean point,

And that it’s important to find one,

Which can compliment mine,

I have found joy in silences between conversations,

And I have laughed loudest when they have resumed

I have found that acceptance can be difficult,

But not impossible to find,

Over time, I have carved a tiny niche for myself,

In which I stay,

I have friends, and a loving family

And mentors as well,

I have realized that I do not fit,

Into certain circles of life,

And that this does not affect,

The quality of my life,

Because as Kipling said,

It’s about facing impostors,

Lurking as Triumph and Disaster,

And treating them the same

No, I am not run of the mill,

But I am Someone 

Alone in a crowded room

The Bilge Master

Blocked

Hello,

I’ve been a tad under the weather, writing wise these past few days and haven’t been able to post stuff much due to college pressure. Today, I decided that I wouldn’t waste this opportunity to talk about writer’s block, which is what has happened to me.

Normally, when I have writer’s block, I ask some of my blogger friends to author a guest post for me. Over the years, I’ve been given posts by Laura Cook, ArnabChakraborty, my pen pal in the US, known to you only as K and my mother. My most recent guest posts are by Kiki and Arunima.

Well, this time I thought I’d break the pattern and have a conversation with you readers myself. As you can tell, this letter is not coming along too well; thereby proving that I am well and truly blocked.

Did someone ask what it’s like to be blocked? Yes, I think it was the guy in the tuxedo near the corner of the room. Well, there is no definitive answer to the question, actually. I can say however that being blocked is annoying. Ideas don’t come into your mind like they used to and neither do you find the concentration needed to compose something. The end result, more often than not, is you ending up staring at a blank sheet of paper or in my case a blank Word document page wondering what on earth you should say. It can be a tad taxing, seeing as you feel ideas vibrating in your head, but can’t triangulate the source of the vibrations in order to build from it. It’s like a lot of things are happening at once. One idea is a story. A story about what? A story set where? Why a story and not a poem? Why a poem and not a random bunch of words that happen to rhyme?

It goes on and on and on and on...

Infuriating is a word I would associate with it. It doesn’t help that the Facebook page I have for the blog keeps reminding me that I have not posted for at least “n” number of days.

Ah well. All blocks pass soon enough. I just have to be patient and maybe share a few of my old posts.

Until we meet again, readers!

The Bilge Master

Coming Home

All alone a night one day,

I turned out the light,

And placing my head on the pillow,

I tried to sleep

But I needed a lullaby

Because I was thinking of

That Ed Sheeran song you’d sung to me

On the last day of school

Stuck in traffic on the interstate

I played that same song

On my Lumia 540

It brought a smile to my face

Because although it was not you

There was someone

Waiting for me to come home

And I remembered

I was not alone

The Bilge Master

My Experiments with Metal- A Guest Post by Udayan Das

I am excited to introduce a friend of mine from school to all you wonderful readers today. Udayan is a comic artist. He has two comics up on comicfury, and is always working on more. He is currently interested in fantasy and surrealism in art, and listens to a lot of experimental music that fuses psychedelic, drone, symphonic and jazz elements. But, before all this, he was what is I believe referred to as a “metalhead” and it is through him that I was introduced to metal. The following piece is the result of a telephonic discussion with Udayan and he talks about a journey of self discovery here. Have a read!

The Bilge Master

Summer, 2012. The microwave heat of Delhi beat down on the city’s inhabitants, an unceasing presence in all the hustle and bustle of the national capital. There was no getting away from it. You either got your skin burnt to a fine crisp in the sun, or drowned in your own sweat in the metro.
While the brightest young minds of the country shuffled into class to check their Facebook, something incredible was happening. Unbeknownst to society, a revolution was taking birth.

I plugged in my Vox digital amp. Hands almost shaking with excitement, I put the cable into my guitar. Reaching for the volume knob, I turned it clockwise, further than I had turned in a long time. The guitar came to life, its distorted roar driving deep into my brain. I looked at the face behind the drum kit. The sticks clacked together. One. Two. Three. Four. On instinct, I grabbed a familiar power chord and hit it. The familiar jam of the sound was comforting. It was a simple pattern, and as the groove set in, my nervousness faded away and I could focus. Playing with others was still something very new to me, and I was quickly finding out that it was a whole different ballgame from practicing alone in my room. A few seconds in, I went for a solo. Tensed up, I ran through the notes as fast as I could make my muscles go. The jam soon came crashing to a halt. As satisfied as the ego was, a part of me knew that it sounded like shit. I had a long way to go.
“Dude, let’s go grab a smoke.”
A minute later we were near the local shop. I inhaled, feeling a burn in my throat. Breathing the grey wisps out, I said, “Well, how was that?”
“It was all right.” The tone said otherwise.

That was how it was, beginning to make music. I was nineteen years old, and it had been three years then since I had first heard it. Since I had first heard metal. For the past two years, I had dedicated myself to the old gods and the new. Maiden and Sevenfold. Priest and Lamb of God. Pantera and Children of Bodom. Metal was an essential part of my life. I had heard the solos. I had heard the riffs. I was obsessed with the speed, the heaviness. If I couldn’t play fast, what was the point of playing at all? Looking back, that state of mind represented a fracture, a gulf if you will, between music as I listened to it, and music as I played it. A compulsive habit was clouding my mind and heart. 

At that point, listening to metal was an experience that was worlds apart from playing it. It was intense. Cathartic. Every note, every word, every beat seemed to be saying all the things the naïve young boy couldn’t. So he gave in to the emotion, allowed himself to be swept away by the sound. It was a safe place, far from the dangers of the real world.

But I didn’t quit.

Breaking the ego’s hold on the self takes time. I had to learn to view life and reality from different perspectives. A lot of the change happened through practice. Constantly having external voices comment on my playing, and tell me what to do. That’s what happens in a band. And of course, playing in college means people hear you. And they have things to say too. It gave me at least some idea of what I sounded like from outside myself.

This was how I developed my aesthetic sense. Whether it was visual art or sonic, I needed something to guide me towards the right path. Things automatically sounded and looked better if I ignored the monster in my head that wanted to bathe in glory. Whenever I followed the monster, my work never left an impression on the people around me. So I needed another guide. There was a kinder voice inside me. It communicated more through feelings than words. And following its path was fun. The search for external approval had led me to the only voice that mattered. My own soul. This was where the real journey began.

I found myself drifting further and further away from the artists I once listened to. Pearl Jam, Tool, Alice in Chains. Certainly a far cry from Megadeth and Metallica. And yet, the word metal still meant something to me.

I paused. I had reached the edge of the desert. I took not a single look back at the dreary sands I had left behind me. Out ahead grey marble covered the ground, and beyond that, green. I thought I could see the likeness of the nebulae etched into the ground. The Eyeless Saint stood in front of me.
“You’ve made it through. But the person standing here is not the same person who began this journey.”
“No. He is the same person. I am more myself now than when I set out.”
“Hmm. The metal. You no longer worship the old gods or the new. Yet, you carry the metal.”
“The metal was never about the old gods or the new. The metal taught me one thing only.”
“And what is that?”
“To leave behind structures and idols, limitations and rigidities.”
“So what you’re saying is…”
“Metal allowed me to reach the point where I was not bound to its vessels.”
“So where will you go from here?”
“I don’t know.”

Winter. January 2015. I took off my jacket. It was impossible to move my hands with it on. I wasn’t thinking much about the people I was going to meet.  I didn’t have any expectations of a collaboration. But it would be interesting to talk to them. As I began warming up, all thoughts not related to the guitar slipped out of my mind. Shortly afterwards, I got a call telling me they were here.  This would be my first time meeting anyone purely for the purpose of jamming with them. They were complete strangers to me.

As we sat down to jam, I realized that this need not go in the same direction as my previous band. Three years of constant practice and taking the time to learn scales had given me a sense of melody and rhythm. No longer was I just hitting notes at random. I could control where this went.


That was a year ago. A few months after that jam session, I decided to stop playing guitar. From the guy who ignored reality and clung to a few bands, to someone who loves music, yet is able to stop playing it: I had come a long way. I had finally found my goal in life, and it was not being a musician in the generally accepted sense of that word. And I could not have made that realization without metal. Through listening to and learning to play music, metal had given me about something more than simply the ability to pick strings in time and key. It had given me a real, complete experience of life. It had given me a journey. A journey that had its successes, as well as it failures and lessons. Through the experience of loss, I found within me a strength I did not know I had. Music did not become my goal in life. Instead ,it helped me find the strength to pursue my goal. Metal did not remain a musical genre for me. It taught me to find my own set of values and principles in life, even if they were different from what metal preached. That was what metal and music gifted me.