tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24202877142751927762024-02-19T21:03:49.416+06:00MAN IN PAINTING SEES THE WORLDseeing is everythingman in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-89614063848008396442016-09-19T15:05:00.001+06:002016-09-19T15:05:26.511+06:00Sparrows of Mohenjodaro<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Past is a dead city and writing is often archaeology.Strange to be here.Silence is not so silent but sings like evening sparrows.I walked alone and will leave.let the sparrows remain<div>
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man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-87888694494718906202012-10-24T14:24:00.000+06:002012-10-24T23:47:55.947+06:00Wise behind me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Like a patch of baldness<br />
reality unveils in the hind side.<br />
To know real things about oneself<br />
ask the wise behind you<br />
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Now it is time to look back.(Though it is stylish to say otherwise-'there is no looking back').Every thought has its own history.Thus looking back is also another way of looking.Another way of seeing.<br />
How did I know about a thing called 'blog'.It is an article about some blog....I can remember the name 'river bent'.So there might have been a thought related to that.(like history, there is no linearity in thoughts.Truth is,'we' like linearity and order.I am not sure whether history is essentially a retrospective tale of linear events.Reality,for sure is not a conveyor belt full of clues leading to meaningful events....)<br />
I was alone.Only on weekends I could go to my in-law's house and see my baby and wife.Though I was living in the same house,nothing looked as it were.i mean..everything was the same.But every day after work,when i came back from work nothing was there in that house.She has taken everything and gone.The tables,chairs,books..everything looked same.But they were not there.They had followed her as if she was their nursery school teacher.She owned the soul of that house.For the rest of the three months,I had to to do something.Then blog came.<br />
I realised, when left alone,I was a confused soul.A package of questions.A questionnaire.<br />
I was new to English.Though I had spent some years outside this country,my language had its limitations.Thoughts when edited looked attractive,but lacked sincerity.So I decided to write without editing.<br />
I started to write about what I saw directly. When I looked out of my office room window,it was raining and I wrote about it.That was interesting.There was a 'Jiddu Krishnamurthy influence' in it.I have been reading him from 10th standard onward.Even before that I read a few articles about Henry David Thoroe.Then I read Walden which was another major influence.Jiddu's commentaries on living was a major source of influence.I used to write such notes mimicking him.It was my personal notes.I could see my every day thoughts at the end of the day.It was also a very good way of de-constructing oneself which i understood from my 'post-modernist' friends.<br />
The idea of a 'painting seeing the world' came to me when i saw a handicapped man sitting in front of his house.I was walking to the bus stop.For the rest of the day,I thought about him.Then it suddenly occurred to me, that we are all like him.So I wanted to do a story on it.<br />
As I already told,this was a test run.I tried many names.'me','smile' etc.Even the "keyboardsculpturer" was a mistake.One of my best friends in this blog world later corrected me.Then only I knew about it.Then i understood the value of errors.It corrects you a lot.Also they are the lost keys to unknown worlds.Somebody called the writer 'man in painting'.A new name was born.<br />
Nobody was reading my posts.Then I forced some of my colleagues to read it. As it was boring and was in contrast with the character that what I am in the practical world ,nobody really appreciated it.Then I started marketing myself.I went door to door.I read every blog.Gave good comments and invited them to read my blog. I posted in the social network groups.Every body returned their favours by giving good comments about the posts.So this is it.<br />
Still I kept on posting.The bad English in it created certain patterns which was interesting.Somebody liked it. Somebody doesn't.Somebody mocked it.Somebody said it was great.Somebody said it was pseudo-intellectual.Some body asked who i am.<br />
Now when I look back, these different comments are the most valuable asset this blog has generated .It is not said because it will yield any result.There is no future for this, nor is it going to end.Very few read it now, because it is not a result of hard labour or supreme quality.It is casual work.But for the writer it had yielded him like anything.It had taught him about fiction and reality.Like 'man in painting' I am also both.Real and fiction.Every moment I have to be aware of this balance.The balance that I have to maintain while walking over the 'tight rope'.<br />
these are simple things.to keep anything simple you have to leave it as it is.Because the writer is recording his thoughts it is not permenant.At that time itself I knew that things will change. and...<br />
Things have changed . a lot.I was a teacher while I started writing this.Now i am a student.I was a doctor who wasn't practicing.I may or may not practice in future .But I will share what I know about healing.<br />
What about me.The practical me is ordinary.Conservative.Funny.Useless.Contradictory.Penny less.It is always better to leave it as it is.<br />
At least for this time and space, who am I?<br />
I am Man In Painting.<br />
the most hopeless practical idea still wins.Most people who know me really often ask me this.Of all the activities you have done will this make a difference? <br />
How much did you earn ?<br />
The answer is obvious .Money is the most unreal real thing. People rate you based on how much you control because money means control.<br />
People tell me I might have made money out of this space.Some body might have.Who knows. who bothers.<br />
I have achieved what it was most important.<br />
ignoring the unimportant.<br />
Before leaving I want to tell you that these were the wise men behind me.I thank you all for being my teachers.<br />
people who invented and designed this possibility called blog<br />
Rakesh Vanamali<br />
Manorathan<br />
Devika Jyothi<br />
Tuna fish<br />
Aria<br />
Ushapisharody<br />
Ashenglow<br />
Mampi<br />
Manoranjini<br />
Karthika<br />
Rushabh<br />
Old monk<br />
Amateur writer<br />
A.J Johnson<br />
Roopa<br />
Salil<br />
The wandering Gypsy<br />
Paritosh<br />
Brocas area<br />
Swati<br />
Sashu<br />
Sheeza<br />
Survivor<br />
Ani<br />
Raaji<br />
Winnie the poohi<br />
Keshi<br />
Debashish<br />
Cindrella<br />
deepsat<br />
Joe<br />
Akshaya<br />
Sameera and many many more....<br />
Take Care<br />
bye<br />
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man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-66950396355262239612012-07-27T11:52:00.002+06:002012-07-27T11:52:38.159+06:00How to smile back at a beautiful tree?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday<br />
in the middle of the town<br />
I saw a tree.<br />
It was standing there,<br />
smiling to me.<br />
I didn't know<br />
how to give it back.<br />
Then I realised<br />
no great book can ever teach you<br />
how to smile back<br />
at a beautiful tree.<br />
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Never try to open a bud<br />
to know what is inside<br />
better wait till it bloom.<br />
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life is one such flower.<br />
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I talked about trees,birds and animals<br />
about mountains, rivers and clouds<br />
about everything I could know<br />
and lectured to the world about who they all are..<br />
then I fell asleep<br />
In my dreams, I heard them murmuring..<br />
"poor chap! he was so busy telling the world<br />
what he think about who we all are<br />
but he never allowed us to tell him<br />
who we really are!<br />
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man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-2693496918375645652012-03-12T00:59:00.001+06:002012-03-12T22:49:11.070+06:00Uncomplicated things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Though I often feel like a wish after its fullfilment<br />
or like a door which can never be opened otherwise<br />
certain things still inspires me to live.<br />
uncomplicated things.<br />
like those hugs my granpa used to give me .<br />
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<br /></div>man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-89807055827132436822012-01-27T22:47:00.004+06:002012-01-27T23:20:40.543+06:00Me watching Me.<p>Somebody asked 'who are you?</p><br /><br /><p>Speaking about oneself is boring.The very sentence I just completed is a lie. I am interested in me,that is why this writing happens.I mean,most writings happened.This language is new to me.Not that I haven't learned it in school.I just 'learned' it in school.But the real unlearning of this language was done through this space.As one of my dearest friend pointed out the word 'keyboardsculpturer'itself is not there.I may now claim that it was invented by meThat is how a spelling mistake is invented.Most of the time,except for those small posts,it was direct recording of my thoughts.Thoughts seldom follow grammar,atleast in my case.Spelling mistakes followed my grammar mistakes.My words survived just because they were born without much intention.(who said so?)Whenever they had intensions they looked intelligent and became cunning.(isn't it?)Writing here is just like writing on a wall.let me stop and just read backward.</p><br /><br /><p>Embarrassing!</p><br /><br /><p>In every sentence,every word...there is this 'me'.dictating everything..I may develop a language which may eliminate 'me'..but that is still the problem.that very big 'me'.Writing like this suddenly makes me feel like standing naked while being monitered constantly through some closed circuit camera.Me watching Me.</p>man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-36777082534472758592011-07-14T16:48:00.006+06:002012-01-29T00:14:00.721+06:00Me hunting MeMy eyes are hungry.They love to prey on anything.Like hyenas they shamelessly devour even carcasses.Sound waves like warplanes lose their track in the cunning curvatures of the twin tunnels of my inner ears . Nostrils with their invisible sticky tongues open their mouths and wait for regular preys . Skin spreads like a giant squid and sqeeze anything that comes into its reach. Tongue rolls out like a carpet laid with poisoned flowers.Then there are multiple hurricanes destructing one landscape and creating another one inside the inner terraine...I am that monster.I am my own body.Together we hunt that existing yet non existing nothingness called the self.Haven't you seen my self?Me hunting Meman in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-35517155469056755592011-07-12T23:44:00.005+06:002011-07-12T23:55:34.463+06:00Reason for a SoliloquyBecause I am not blessed enough like those morning birds, a reason is needed to continue my soliloquy. Is it a material reason like money or a psychological one like fame? Is it anything related to the desire to get connected with other minds? Is it connected to that age old pseudo-myth of creativity? Is it because of boredom? Is it just because of the desire for feel ‘separate ‘and unique? Is it natural? Is it because of a healthy mind or is it something generated from a pathological one? is it not an excuse to allow the mind to wander again? Is it because of the frustrations from the past? Is it because of one’s own modest material conditions? Is it because of fear of social death? Is it because of one’s own ego which even doesn’t allow me to enter in to the zone of ’selling ‘even though I have to ‘buy’ everything which have prize tags ?Is it because of shame when I think of my own price tag? Is it because of overvaluation of one’s ego or undervaluation of his spirit? Or is it because I question the very idea of valuation itself? Is it because of the innate nature of mind which is caught in the habit of endless chattering? Is it because I am rich enough that my poverty is no more a problem to me? Or is it otherwise? Isn’t it not my own mind the real reason behind? Or is it not my mind that talks now and then reasons for a reason?<br /><br />All questions contain its own answers. In another words, they are the answers. Now I can see light through that window. It is the beginning of another day. There are fewer thoughts now. Lesser that when I started .I just feel that there is no definite reason for a soliloquy. But a reason can definitely end it. Causes, talkative mind, and results - they all are one and the same. They seem to be different only after becoming the past.<br /><br />I hope a reason will not end this soliloquy. Also I don’t want to start this day with the planting of another tiny but potential seed which may grow into a thought tree by the end of this day. Instead of that I am going to listen to the sound of the Chinese flute.(www.youtube.com/i_B8H956_rg)<br />How did you start your day today?<br />Do tell me.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-15210362917116861492011-07-07T00:35:00.001+06:002011-07-07T00:36:50.167+06:00A black and white umbrella and the man who was shy to use it.He had an old umbrella. A black and white one. Not because of the colours, it was called so but because of a black and white picture on it. To be precise, pictures of some old motorbikes were printed on it- in black and white. To a lesser extend it can also be called so because it affirmed certain facts about him in black and white. This man seldom used that umbrella. Not because it was old, but because it always invited somebody’s attention. Always a smart umbrella raised expectations about the owner who hides behind it. This umbrella, irrespective of its owner had a unique charisma. The man, on the other hand, was too shy to use it as his regular one. In his youth, he thought that he had the capacity to become the centre of attraction. Wherever he went, people noticed his presence. It was only in the absence of that umbrella did he realise the ordinary nature of his existence.Slowly; he started to use other types of umbrellas. Most of the time it was the usual, regular black ones. But the desire to become the rightful owner of that charismatic umbrella always remained with him. Both rain and sun, taught him the need of a useful protective shade. Nowadays he uses that old black and white umbrella. He loves the crowd who loves his umbrella. He also enjoys the expressions they make when their expectations are wrecked as they see the owner behind that umbrella.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-58712274623611131072011-07-04T16:04:00.006+06:002011-07-06T09:53:07.712+06:00Waiting for tomorrowIt was early morning.He was alone but happy and calm.But it is only one way of looking at it.There was rain,there were trees surrounding that place,a few people chanting words which were supposed to be auspicious,a sleepy cow, a few birds and their early morning conversations,the garland vendors, streaks of morning light starting to appear in the sky like the fresh incisions in dark skin and the usual train of thoughts running along the track and often beyond it..Such few noticed things and millions of other unnoticed things were there.Yet the man in the later half of that same day,when started describing his day ended up in monotony.Why? May be because all those pleasant memories or the calmness in the morning cannot not be reproduced again by reporting it with this machine.To do that he has to wait for tomorrow and then he may watch what he missed.Life is never a tragedy,but trying to report it retrospectively makes it a tragedy.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-37367823647623483932011-07-01T00:18:00.003+06:002011-07-04T16:03:24.876+06:00Crows,stock market folks,man with a machine,the train and a retrospective non sense called lifeIt is the end of yet another busy day for those crows. They all look tired, but are still active. They are the ones who are really involved in the serious business of life. Busier and serious than many of those stock market folks who are in the middle of some heated conversation on the other side of this railway station..Both share the same space. One group stands on the platform and discusses the virtual aspects of living. The other group keeps themselves down, in between the rails, live that real ‘thing ‘or no ‘thing’ called life. They both meet here daily but fail to recognize each other. How strange this thing called life is! Another person who is bored, just because he has a machine with him tries to connect those scenes and create some sense but fails miserably. Neither those crows nor those men know about this man who tries to get rid of his boredom with a machine that can underline all the spelling errors he keeps on making with somewhat serrated redlines. It is a wonderful machine. But this man is stupid. He is trying to make sense by trying to convert the most sensible thing called life into some symbolic representation of the same. Suddenly the train in which the man sits starts moving. Everything is broken shaken and taken away. The scene vanishes into nothing. He tries to remember the scene and wants to complete the non sense. But it is already gone and will never come back again. The crows who were full of life, the stock market folks who believed they were fighting for a life, the lifeless railway platform, that man who was neither dead nor living but bored, the thoughts that lived only in his brain, that machine which converted living thoughts in to non living group of letters called words, the whole essence called life and the retrospective non sense it creates about itself, is gone. Now what remains is the movement of this train and memories inside a brain. Suddenly the train starts to run inside and through the rails to a railway station where it is yet another busy day for the crows. They are the ones……man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-19913524073663445712011-03-17T10:18:00.008+06:002011-03-18T12:09:10.620+06:00Tree Guru and meBy shedding off its leaves<br />a tree tried to teach me something.<br /><br />During that whole winter<br />I served my tree guru.<br /><br />When Spring came<br />I stole all the golden yellow flowers <br />and ran away.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-87937130123810654742010-11-22T16:40:00.004+06:002010-11-22T16:56:56.128+06:00Mind is a verb and never a noun'mind is a verb and never a noun<br />it keeps moving'<br />after typing philosophy ,I continue my race.<br />truth ,like a roadside mountain waits for the one who can climb it.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-55164530078851933722010-10-21T13:09:00.013+06:002010-10-21T14:06:20.872+06:00all are clones!me told I<br />"mind is a verb, noun is the clone"<br />I became angry and shouted<br />"Nouns rule,mind it!<br />me laughed<br />"just mind your mind"<br />no mind ever said"all are clones!man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-5896534176708118942009-12-01T17:19:00.004+06:002009-12-11T10:36:45.361+06:00Things beyond yes or noYes, not much to cheer<br />in this month,dear<br />but don’t you remember?<br />its our own December!<br /><br />You may reason<br />‘it was another season,<br />and love is pain<br />more loss than gain’<br /><br />It is true, many promises still remain<br />but believe that all are not in vain<br />though nowadays ,I may not<br />wake you and quote<br />‘In each drop of dew<br />I see you’<br />as love,like a single child<br />is wild<br />cannot be tamed<br />nor be named<br /><br />love,life and rain<br />joy,hope and pain<br />are they real?<br />or daydreams unreal?<br /><br />this season we will know<br />things beyond yes or noman in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-86408784569428702972009-11-11T09:41:00.000+06:002009-11-11T12:21:15.257+06:00EchoesBaby calls her father,<br />gets boomeranged by her own voice<br />and cries.<br />Let her cry now<br />because sometime later<br />she too will learn<br />that what we know about others<br />are our own echoes.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-23096865652356692762009-10-26T09:24:00.000+06:002009-10-26T12:37:00.560+06:00The nature of desireIn the house<br />where the 'bou bou' lives<br />there is a tree<br />with golden flowers.<br /><br />Baby doesn't like 'bou bou'<br />yet love flowers.<br />When bou bou went outside<br />we collected those flowers.<br /><br />Baby looked for 'bou bou'<br />and threw the flowers away <br /> <br />If there is no 'bou bou'<br />who needs those golden flowers?man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-61326272874973116762009-09-21T09:50:00.000+06:002009-09-21T09:51:29.786+06:00Between BlinksOn this blank screen<br />between two blinks<br />opens a rabbit hole.<br />I searched but missed<br />and got guillotined<br />by the cursor blade.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-51285427366010912982009-05-25T18:03:00.000+06:002009-05-25T18:48:33.413+06:00Memories beyond mineral water bottles.Some memories have taste of tear<br />that by filters we may clear<br />but can never be concealed<br />in bottles sterile and sealed<br /><br />They mushroom the seas and melt into rain<br />quenching the thirst of brooks in the brain..man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-33485549681892289302009-05-22T18:05:00.000+06:002009-05-22T19:10:02.891+06:00Man In Painting Fades away....Was it an 'april to april' thing?like flu,it appeared and vanished quickly.But the iatrogenic complications lasted for almost one full season.On the very first attempt the impossibility and futility of 'seeing' was revealed.The desire itself was an error,an abberation.It soon died down, but the ripples lasted for almost one year.Most of the time it was a dictionary of errors.(even though at times errors may act as lost keys of the rented mansions in which we all consciously or unconsciously live).It was supposed to be against 'thought'.but most of the 'ripples'it created, generated new ones.It was disheartening to see 'thoughts creating more thoughts'....<br /> Thus Man in Painting fades away,like that occasional flu....man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-33328759616151360662009-04-25T20:48:00.000+06:002009-04-28T11:25:39.359+06:00an igloo wish of a traveller lostwhen winter winds freeze my blood<br />i remember the colour red.<br />to search and reach my igloo lane<br />let red words rain in my sleepy brainman in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-42962913570778819222009-03-28T09:41:00.000+06:002009-03-30T10:09:53.207+06:00'Thou shall never Kill'during calm hours,<br />before a twister,<br />an exodus of ants<br />try to cross<br />a hissing proboscis..<br /><br />sad,real and tragic.<br />poetic possibilities.<br />surreal soup for souls...<br />but<br />i switched off the vaccum cleaner and waited till they cross.<br /><br />boring and non rhyming,<br />this poem is declared dead.<br /><br />family reach anthill<br />'thou shall never kill'.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-90071389867195475732009-03-23T21:34:00.001+06:002009-03-24T16:26:17.045+06:00Secret of Happiness.Baby see a butterfly<br />and is happy.<br />Baby see no butterfly<br />and is happy.<br />to be happy<br />no need of butterfly.man in paintinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00254963438882088535noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2420287714275192776.post-38805672712448404642009-03-04T09:42:00.000+06:002009-04-21T10:14:28.710+06:00Rear-view mirrorsObjects are closer than they appear<br />we never see the world before it disappear<br />world through words have errors<br />and words are rear-view mirrors.man in 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