That Was It

As a kid, I remember listening to Beat It as my first Michael Jackson song. I recall sitting on the passenger side with my dad and singing whatever I could manage at the top of my voice, windows down. To date, I have not met one person who didn't like a Michael Jackson song. And I have a feeling I never will.

I do not know if legends are born, or made. What I do know, That good ol' Jacko would have most certainly managed it both ways. He had.. An aura to him. Of dreams, ambition, dedication, and most of all, humanity. I've rarely seen a star on camera who spoke of love and togetherness and brotherhood with such urgency and passion and came across as genuine at the same time. He probably mentioned the word 'love' more than our bollywood movies. And that's a lot. But we, heartless animals as we are, killed him.

On 25th June, 2009, Michael Jackson collapsed in his living room as his son watched, under the impression that his dad was just clowning around. At the age of 50, The Thriller succumbed to a heart failure. Somehow, his death at 50 seemed more shocking than Kurt Cobain's murder at 27. Because inside, Michael was still a child. A child who always wanted to go higher, dance tirelessly and please the ones giving him attention. It seemed just unbelievable and completely preposterous that those shiny black shoed feet won't glide over the dance floor ever again. Michael was too lively to be dead to the world.

Personally (and trust me, this IS a very personal post) I hold us as the cause for Michael's obviously early demise. Mj was known as the greatest performer of all times. He holds a world record for it. The youngest of the Jackson5, he loved the camera, his fans and the attention and euphoria he got from stardom. He was a crowd pleaser and was therefore ready to do anything to keep the throne as The King Of Pop. And he started falling to this pressure. Slowly, he started turning up in news for the most shocking, and somewhat outlandish, reasons. Because people had slowly started getting bored of him. Sure, the fans remained crazy as ever, but the general public wanted more. Michael kept giving away pieces of himself, and we kept lunging at them like hungry, rabid dogs. And before he knew it, before we knew it and before anyone else in the world could possibly imagine it, Michael was dead. As dead as one could ever be.

The London Concerts he was going to throw will always be an unfinished dream of his, and an unfinished memory of ours. I wish he rests in peace and I wish more of his kind are born. Although, yes, no one can be Michael Jackson. He was the only one. That Was It.

The King of Pop.
August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009

In fond memory of Michael Joseph Jackson. You are sorely missed.

Love,
Dead Poet.

P.S. : From one memory to another,

Why It Rains

It rains to keep the heat away,
It rains to keep the sun away.
It rains when people die,
It rains when babies cry.
It rains when legends are born,
It rains when leaders are sworn.
It rains for the little kids without a roof,
It rains because happiness is a spoof.
It rains because smiles are induced,
It rains because friends are never used.
It rains when lovers meet,
It rains to give them peace at the back seat.
It rains when the joy is true,
It rains when sorrow engulfs you.
It rains because You are beautiful,
It rains for the pixie dust I save for You.
It rains to give the flowers life,
It rains to clean the murderer's knife.
It rains to keep the coffee warm,
It rains to make friends rocks in a storm.
But mostly, it rains to hide the tears away,
That you could see anyway.

Love,
Dead Poet.

Being Alive

Hinduism says, depending on how you live your life (the theory of karma), you are repeatedly reborn until finally you go to heaven, the real abode of soul.

Buddhism preaches that you move a level up or down in every rebirth, the supreme being human, yet again depending on your attitude to life.

Egyptians, on the other hand, whose preachings are the most a materialistic atheist like myself can relate to, say that there is no rebirth. Each soul is given one life to live, one life to love and at the end of its tunnel, old man god (I take it to be a voice activated computer) asks you two questions.

*Boomy voice* Have you found joy in life?

*Same level of boomy, but a bit smug now* And have you brought joy to others?

As I said before, I am an atheist. I promise to write about that someday, but the point to my handing out of pamphlets on three distinct religious preachings is the common point emphasized in every single one of them, particularly Egyptian. Living (and trust me, I mean living) your life.

David Blaine will possibly hit Egyptian heaven. His coffee money trick is my
favorite to date.

I recently saw The Bucket List (yes this late. So?) and I can tell you this; I probably had an enlightenment equivalent, if not more, to Buddha’s. There is this element to the movie that really makes you sit up and go, “Do I want to end up like them and have just 6 months of my *respectable random number* years to fulfill the real desires in my life?” And the answer (at the risk of sounding like a politician) is no my friends. It most certainly is no.

In a recent interview, Shah Rukh Khan said that at then end of life, everyone is interviewed by god himself (Secret Egyptian! :O) and when he is asked what he really did in his lifetime, he wants to reply with a cheeky “everything”. And mean it.

Okay. For once, just this once, try letting go of all that you’ve been told. It doesn’t matter if you’re a religious person, an atheist, an agnost. Just think. Do you really know that there is another life waiting for you? That you will be reborn once again, given another chance to live life? No. What I know is, that I have this life. You have your life. We all have our lives. And you can’t fight afterwards if you get to know there is no rebirth, ‘cause hey, there’s no bringing back the dead.

We need to start making a change. Slowly, if you want. But, really start living your life. Don’t think about the next moment. Blink, and do it. Don’t think about what “they” would say. Because “they” have only one job. To sit back, and bark. Microsoft word is telling me that the previous sentence isn’t a proper one. Am I going to change it? No. Because I like the way it sounds. I’m in 12^th. Should I be wasting my time on a blog? No. But I will. Because I LOVE doing this.

Do what you love. Go against the flow. Break out of your own cage, and do what you really want to do. Heck, photography isn’t a big career in India. Not all break through. But you like photography, right? Do it. Because all said and done, all advice given and all councilors consulted, at the end of the day it is you who has to live your life. Read the sentence again. YOU. YOUR LIFE.

So, for the first time peeps, Homework. Make a list of 3-5 things you really want/wanted to do in life and post them here on the comments. See how many you can check off. And note down right next to those things, how great you really felt when you checked them off. The emotion that will run through you, will be called feeling alive. One life to live, one life to love. Till then, if you have the woes, write down in that list “I will never be sad, and follow Dead Poet’s advice to wear a toothy smile.” Trust me, it will work.

Love,

Dead Poet.

P.S. :

1. Sky dive

2. Drive a Lamborghini Gallardo

3. Feel really goddamn happy for having done a good deed. X

4. Become a chef and have my own restaurant.

I have one checked off. Let’s see about you. Post the list. :)

And obviously, no note on living a life is complete without Jon Bon Jovi. Enjoy. And Learn.

Stoned Swami Feature : The Tuition Tribulation

First an introduction. Yo peeps. I am the one known as the Stoned Swami. I wanted to make an attempt at making a blog entry, so I thought, " let's put it on the Dead Poet's blog, so that if the piece bombs, it will be obscured by his comparatively more experienced and fairly frequent entries." Hope you guess like it enough for me to be encouraged enough to maybe start my own blog. So here's my piece on a pretty common topic.


The Tuition Tribulation

Ah yes. Tuition. The scourge of my social life. The barrier between the Dead Poet and his downloaded Glee episodes. The reason why most people's (usually redundant) beauty sleep time is trespassed upon.

Tuition to me is like a vast expense of quicksand through which I must trudge through, just so that I can come home, get yelled at (by an assortment of maids, concerned elders and the occasional neglected dog), and then crash onto my extremely lumpy (but by then blissful) heavily abused mattress.

You know, today, whilst desperately fighting (in vain) against several extremely "healthy" people (who look like Florida residents to me) for both air and space to write, I noticed how, many members of our exasperated generation sat there, like worn out war veterans, suffering under fans that were nothing more than miserable excuses as cooling equipments, cramped in little plastic chairs (that were highly un-ergonomic, if there is such a word), huddled over books (quite like homeless tramps in the winter around a fire), under the stern eye of a very well paid teacher-cum-Hitler impersonator with bewildered expressions that seemed almost comical had it not been for the apsphyxiating circumstances.(Damn,long sentence) And I wondered how of them actually learned something? Sure, there are always the exceptions, the brainy ones who often resemble grumpy librarians with granny glasses (Okay, so I am being stereotypical. Depp down, aren't we all?) and who secretly take pride in the fact that their copies are vigourously copied from. But by and large, most of us don't really manage much, right? I mean, you may differ, but still, think about it. As we traverse through class after class, like stationery-oriented Indiana Jones'es, how much do those gray cells manage to absorb? We never get time for homework, or
time to study for exams, or time to fulfill our social cravings. Most tuition places disapprove of any interaction between students during class in a manner similar to a Nazi disapproving of films produced by Jewish chaps. School's the only time we get to have any sort of contact with our peeps, apart from any phone conversations. Of course the phone itself is a tantalizing object whose gloriously unused keypad, these days, is seen less frequently than the passing unicorn.

So, food for thought, and I want comments, what can be done to actually make sure that we learn something at these wretched places? Let's face it, tuition is a fact of life, so might as well as get some use out of it. After all, the more we learn from tuition, the more extra sheets at an exam we will require, the more we will be able to bet on our report cards not having a red mark, and the more we will be able to avail the greater necessities in life- phones, movies, dates, and malls.

So see you when I see you,

Dah Stoned Swami

PS- I hope you chaps get the Awesama Ocean's 13 reference I just put in.

Mr. Butter Chicken Singh?

If you are a Delhiite, or have lived here for even a figment of your not-so-vast-life, you’re sure to have had the butter chicken and you’re in love with it. If you’re not, don’t tell anyone you’ve lived in Delhi and just say you’re here for the common wealth games. People would still laugh at you, but at least they won’t beat you to death.

So yes, The Butter Chicken. (Okay, I’m drooling a bit here. *Wipes the keyboard.* *Squeaky*) It is by far one of the greatest contribution to the ever growing Indian food scene, and don’t just people love it. Statistics show (and yeah, I did ask three of my local home delivery outlets) that butter chicken is the most asked for. And what’s amazing is that it’s everyone’s food. Ranging from Rs 150 (Tandoor-e-shahi) to about Rs. 5000 (The Bokhara chef special) a plate, it fits everyone’s pocket and certainly tummys! It’s amazing how the Mughals don’t pride over themselves for giving the Sardars their most loved main course.

Hang on. Mughals? Yeah, you heard (read) it right. The Mughals. They are the real daddy of Mr. Butter Chicken Singh.

We all associate butter chicken to big beefy Punjabis, having a good time sitting in their cars and having swigs of whisky in the hush-hush plastic cups, but really, Mr. Butter Chicken Singh is Mr. Butter Chicken Mohammed.

So how really did this Mughal invention become a Punjabi delicacy? The story goes that a group of Mughal servants were captured by a Punjab community, and one of them decided to pass himself off as a Punjabi as he loved his life. And so he was appointed as a cook in the king’s kitchen and one fine day when the king desired something new and special, he came up with The Butter Chicken.

The biggest clue to Butter Chicken being of Mughlai origin is in it’s marination. No Punjabi meat is marinated. It is instead enriched in flavor by repeated indirect roasting ( bhun-na ). Butter Chicken on the other hand is marinated for 12 hours, before it can be cooked (and I’m not talking about the insta-Butter Chicken that we find in the markets today).

The King was happy and the people rejoiced and the Butter Chicken became an instant hit among the Punjabi community, while the humble servant kept his silence.

So, then next time somebody tells you that Butter Chicken is Punjabi, mail them a link to my blog. Or give them my number. Also, if you see Butter Chicken listed as Punjabi in any menu, be a true Delhiite (unless of course, there’s more of a Punjabi pride) and have the manager informed of the mistake.

Till then folks, Chak De Phatte.. Er, scratch that.. *Something in Farsi*

Love and Khuda Hafiz,

Dead Poet.

P.S. – See how food knows no boundaries? Bet you didn’t even know this one existed. Food for thought, eh?

Wash Me Away

Who all are going through a bad time? I think everyone is. I am for one. Everything is so goddamn wrong at the moment! My phone isn't working, my SIM is blocked, my social life is getting crappier by the second and some of my closest friends are in a tough spot too.

I'm spent. Like totally. And I badly need a break. The kind of break where my phone won't have no coverage and the area I'm in hasn't even heard of the internet. I just want a beach at my doorstep, some good food, a great book to read and NO TRAFFIC! I don't need a Tv, I'll just take my laptop and my hard disk, thank you very much. And I desire the solitude where there are people around me, but they just won't bother me with anything.

But le sigh, I'm in 12th and this is so not possible. Not with my parents anyway. And academic pressure isn't doing me any good either.

I'm just blogging today, to rant. People say it helps to write stuff down, but I don't think it really works for me. :(

And just when I think I've collected enough Notting-Hill Brownie points to win myself that last bit of brownie, I look around and see me friends in deeper trouble and amidst taller hedges of woes. So there guys, have the brownie. You could do with the sugar rush.. :) But oh yeah I want at least a hug and a Hang-in-there-smile in return. I could do with some of those. And they're better than a brownie anyway.. ;)

I just wish.. That I could fly away like a bird and let the wind sweep my face. Cleanse my soul. Free my mind. And wipe away every woe leaving behind only this Dead Poet's Toothy Smile.

Love,
Dead Poet.

P.S - Hang in there. :)

Dribbling Blabber.

Yes, I haven't blogged for long.
Yes, because I'm in twelfth.
And Yes, That wasn't the only reason.

I've been lazy. Very lazy. Heck, I haven't even studied like I used to back in 9th. So yeah, I should've blogged. But anyway, I am now. So..

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ARGENTINA IS OUT OF THE WORLD CUP! DAMN IT PEOPLE.



The world's second best team, with the world's best player is out of the world cup. Man this is bad. And what's worse is they got defeated by my second preference, Germany.

This time around, everyone was ready to bet their ass off on Argentina. Tevez and Messi had never been better and what's more, they had El Diego on the side lines. But alas, they lost. Got crushed rather. *Sob*

But it wasn't Messi's looks (the MAIN reason for Argentina's female support), or his signature series F50's that had me screaming and shouting and yearning for a Vuvuzela (love those things) the blue and white stripes stepped out onto the field. No.

It was El Diego. The man famous for his ingenious Hand of God. Back from rehab, struggling through poverty and insulted, the man was out on a mission, and I sure as hell hoped he succeeded.

People scoffed when He volunteered to be coach.
People scoffed when He was appointed.
People scoffed when He bought back His diamond studs with His first paycheck.
And people scoffed when He included 6 strikers in His team.

And He scoffed when Argentina steam rolled one team after the another, while the football world crashed around them. England. Spain. Brazil. (The French just lived up to their expectations of being numb nuts and just revolted against the Administration).

Personally, I've never seen Maradona play. (I wasn't even born man.) But yes, I've certainly heard of him a lot. In the news, at football hubs and in nasty jokes. And although I've always hated druggies, there was something about Diego, that had me supporting him when he declared that he wanted to coach the Argentinean boys.

The bouncing, screaming and jeering-at-the-ref guy, the unruly hair with a salt-pepper beard and the gold rosary in hands (of course, and the diamond studs). All of this. All of this just explained how much Diego missed being on the field, the center of attention. And how sorry he was to have earlier disgraced his nation, determined to never do it again.

But it was not to be. Argentina got served by Germany. And the dejected look on El Diego's face was heart wrenching. I just hope he doesn't do an OD.

But a game's a game peeps. Some win, and some obviously lose. Argentina will return. Stronger than ever, And the Hand of God shall embrace the Football World Cup yet again. Till then, I'm gonna be learning the German anthem, try to find a Vuvuzela, save money for a peperoni pizza and walk around telling people that the Octopus rules.

Love,
Dead Poet.

P.S -
Waka Waka El Diego, Waka Waka.

Ta(l)king Point

Conversation.
Dictionary Definition: A means of communication between two or more people (informal). (There are other meanings too. But they really aren't required here!)
My Definition: If the other person's a book, Conversations are the eyes.

You can strike up a conversation on any topic. Obviously, there's an array of topics you certainly must avoid if it's you're talking to a person for the person for the first time. I mean, imagine you're on your first date. You obviously don't want to tell her about how you have a nasty habit of scratching yourself in public.

And you know, that really is the key to having a good, quality conversation! You just have to take note of the interests of the person you're talking to. Of course, sparking an interest in the person about your passion is one thing. But imposing yourself and continuously ranting? No way!

But then, interests really aren't stamped across a persons forehead! So you can't make conversation when you're meeting them for the first time, can you? Wrong. You can. There's this little game i invented and predictably gave it a predictable name. Questions! All you have to do is ask around polite questions (duh!) and therefore, you can get to know the person better. Then, something will just spark right up, and there you go! You're talking!

If you're a war veteran, talking to a supermodel at a party, she really won't be interested in how bombs back in the world war II used to function. And certainly, neither would you be interested in which is the best brand for lip gloss. But what both of you might be interested in, is how Jeffrey Archer writes the best of books and rom-coms are possible the best genre of movies that ever was. All you have to do, is just a little bit of poking around, and you would find something to talk about.

Conversation is extremely similar to poetry. It just flows, and can't have a break to it. :) And if you have the woes, share them! Conversation helps! But remember the toothy smile! Cuz I can assure you, nobody has the interests of talking to someone with a frown! So keep it plastered over there! :D

Love,
Dead Poet.

P.S - I said everything about you taking note of the interests of the people you're talking to. What about them taking note of your interests? Well, that's what compatibility is darling!

A Coffee Cup in Hand..

Hey there!

Just watched Made of Honor.. Sigh, beautiful movie.. Got mush on my mind. But anyway I’m not going to write about mush today! Or emotional intellect anyhow! (I guess it does have to do with the fact that I desperately don’t want you guys to think I’m gay.)

I am, however, going to write about me first love. Coffee. Sigh sigh sigh! Isn’t it just the most wonderful thing in the world?! It’s a legal drug for one.(No, i do not mean to say drugs are cool. Legal, or otherwise! And not exactly the kind that would make your stomach hurt if you’ve been off it for a long while! (Let’s ignore the fact that your head throbs instead)

[ Just look at those heavenly beans.. Sigh! :) ]

Actually, I kinda believe that my, ahem, addiction is hereditary. See, my mom would be in jail today, imprisoned for life for drug use, had coffee consumption been illegal! Thankfully it isn’t, so I still have mommy to cook me the yummiest chocolate puddings ever!

Ah, anyway, not drifting from the topic. A beautiful movie, an engrossing book or simply a great friend is the perfect topping for a coffee! And heck, you can just have some alone, to sit back and relate! A coffee cup in hand always boosts my brain activity. It gets my creative side out, let’s loose some hormones it really shouldn’t *winks* or just helps me through math! Genuinely speaking, coffee has the opposite effect on me.. Usually, coffee is consumed to get our sorry asses out of bed, and not in! Yeah okay, if I don’t get coffee in the morning, my day SUCKS! But no seriously, if I grab a cup at the end of a looo(..)oong and tiring day, it just helps me relax and let loose all the tension and the worry and the emotions and the woes I’ve held on to all day long, and helps me get a deep, satisfying good nights sleep!

Coffee is an amazing thing, and yet, there are some countries as dumb as the US, where coffee is only grown commercially by one state, and that’s Hawaii. I mean, how big is Hawaii anyway?! It

fits under my goddamn thumb! (on the map anyway) Pah, Americans. Why should they care. They get everything imported anyway. That’s right, feed off the worlds resources, and leave the largest carbon footprint EVER!

Ooh, drifting again. Sorry. I’m kinda over joyed and a tad bit high on caffeine right now!

So, how many of you out there like coffee? Hot or cold? Arabica or is it going to be Caribbean for you? 5% chicory or higher?! Leave back your views! I’ll be waiting! Write a poem if you love the fine brown texture! :D

And as always, if you have any woes, keep ‘em tucked away under the constantly yellowing teeth of a caffeine laden toothy smile.

Love,

Dead Poet.

P.S.

Coffee’s so cool,

It makes me drool.

A Texture so fine,

It makes me rhyme.

That heavenly brown,

Just about fixes my frown,

And so now you know it,

Coffee or nothing for the Dead Poet.

Insecure Bastard

Ever had that feeling that.. I dunno.. say your friends are just suddenly gonna be struck by lightening, and start hanging out with this new guy/girl instead? Or maybe, the girl/guy you’re going strong with just might lose every feeling they have for you, and go out with someone else? If you haven’t, thank your lucky stars. ‘Cuz it sucks.

And it’s not only the numerous pangs of pain that you get in your chest, or the countless sleepless nights that sucks. The repercussions do too. And the guilt is amazing. Cuz 90% of the times, turns out, you’re just hallucinating and nothing’s wrong. At all. And then all you’re left with is that single thought in you’re head, that eats you up on the inside; You blew it.

Insecurity is one of the most common traits in humans. And it really isn’t always bad. Sometimes, it’s just an expression of love, a means to show that you care so much about that one person, and they hold so much value in your life, that you just can’t bear losing them to someone else. And this is something that only the person who’s insecure can feel.

But (and as I always say, there always is a but!) contrary to something I (also) always say (that being too much is never enough), excess of some things is bad. And Insecurity is most certainly included in that elite list. It can ruin relationships and severe ties, rip apart friends and leave exceedingly deep wounds.

So in the end, I’d like to say, keep the insecurity to a bare minimum. They love you, mostly because you love them. And love’s one hell of a strong emotion. And it’s not something that new chump can take away. Stop obsessing over the “What if it happens/ When if it happens”. Loose your sleep, pull your hair your and shed those priceless drops of sparkling water only when you actually notice the situation slipping right out of your hands. Talk it out. They’re you’re mateys for god’s sake. But don’t fight with them. ‘Cuz you can only realize ones worth once you loose them.

And if it’s really a way of expressing your love or the importance they hold you’re looking for, do it through poetry. Words are a powerful weapon. Not through insecurity.
And if you really have the woes, keep ‘em tucked under a toothy smile. ;)

Love,
Dead Poet.

P.S. – Dead poet WAS an Insecure Bastard. This post is dedicated to him.

Opening Verse

Well, Hello!

So this is it, my first ever blog, that has been created by a mix of a spontaneous decision and and over-loaded emotion dam(n) !! As every other thing that I start, I'll try to keep up with it, and NOT give it up somewhere in between..

You're going to follow the blog, then you have to know what it's all about! Well, it's about anything and everything.. From petty matters such as a dead street dog or something as big as a fight with my best friend. From advice and views on chivalry to politically driven allegations..

It may be a while before I get a hang of this thing, but what the heck! Nobody cares, do they?!

Oh yeah, also, an explanation of the title..
"Dead Poet" refers to me.. (Don't ask what the "Dead" is for. It just sounds cool) and woes are the everyday stuff I'll write about.
Some of the things you Guys ( and Girls) really must get used to is my use of two dots ".." instead of three. Blame it on the texting! :D

So I'll be off now, and will be back soon with something to write about. Till then, Keep the poetry flowing and the woes nicely tucked away under a toothy smile, because, Heck, no point taking life seriously, because we do know the end anyway! No matter how much we try, we just have to exit the world alone, and so its better to leave behind happy memories among the people you love the most and have gratitude on your deathbed because in the hardest of times, you bit back the tears, and instead made them smile!!

Love,
Dead Poet.

P.S : Leave back some nice comments. With a smile. :)