White noise is a random signal (or process) with a flat power spectral density. In other words, the signal's power spectral density has equal power in any band, at any center frequency, having a given bandwidth. White noise is considered analogous to white light which contains all frequencies.

Who am I?

Neo-hippie cinephile. Follower of the great Jim Morrison who once said "If the doors of perception are cleansed, everything would appear to man as it truly is, infinite."

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Hello

Hello Raindrop. Can you hear me crying inside

As you give in to gravity and fulfill your destiny

Along with your countless brothers

Lost in your pitter-patter among theirs

Which echoes through the silent corridors of my heart,

And yet makes it quieter?


Unlike Simon, I do not have my poetry to protect me.

If anything, it is like the hostile cousin

Who has joined hands with the enemy

And only makes me realize that I am lost

In my very own corridors of misery

Like a man searching for his own ghost.


It seems like the keys to this room are missing

While pairs of lamps pass by the window teasing

And the window is too tiny to let any light in,

Just big enough to let my eyes wander

In search of that sole beacon of companionship

That can clear my corridors of this eon of an eclipse.


They say light finds a way to darkness

And yet, my eyes grow in the absence of luminance

They say that doors without keys are one day broken

But these seem to have withstood the momentum of time.

They say air fills your lungs till you have to exhale

And yet, mine are as empty as the corridors I mentioned.


Sleep is my only friend, visiting me during this prolonged night

Showing me flashes of that ray which threatens my poetry.

The next time I'll hold on to my only friend

As much as my eyes will let me grope in the darkness.

And ride that ray till the very end

Giving up hope for my beacon's caress.


12/14/2006

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Ramblings of an Intoxicated Mind

There's ice on the floor.
Looks like that's pizza.
Could you answer the door?
There's beer in the freezer.

As you read this poem,
You realize weed > alcohol.
I feel like doing an IREM
And Raj says “F@#$ y'all”.

Ash is too hot for words.
Salman got her b4 Vivek.
Way too good for us nerds
And for her we are all wrecks.

Raj is my man.
As B says, he knows how to party.
He expands the horizons of what I can.
Yaar woh to bandiyon ki le li.

I spoke of hope just now
But at the end of the day
I don't care about things that are pakao.
Mujhe karna hai things jinme dam hai.

Vancouver
11/3/2006

Sunday, October 08, 2006

The Ride

Looking down the long, winding road
I clasp your hand stronger than ever.
The hand that guides me when mine itches
To take the shortcut to the highway.
The strong grip of those slender fingers of your petite hand
Keeps me off the ramp, down alleys leading to blind lanes.
That fixed, calm and peaceful gaze
Holds me when my mind and heart want to race each other.
Your words contain me when I am stuck in a single lane.
You take away the pain with a single touch
When my senses are reeling during a road rage.
There are countless mountains to climb,
Deserts to cross and rivers to wade.
In my mind there is no more room for fear
As you stay beside me and navigate.
But then why can't the other travelers see you?
Through the tinted glass over their eyes.
Maybe 'cause you are really me, or at least a part of me
And I am really you, or at least a part of you.
Maybe we are like those single moms
Who raise future world leaders
Or that one-armed rock drummer
That everyone keeps talking about.
How can you tell me your exit has come?
That we have to go our separate ways
Henceforth, on this road to obscurity.
I pretend the wind in my hair is impairing my hearing,
But damn that firm grip that holds my hand
And reminds me that I was just a ride,
A passage to the highway,
The highway that leads to nowhere,
Unlike what the map and the passersby say.
So I drop you off and you act out a ritual
As if we were lovers,
One that would have made Byron blush.
I put up a front as strong as the wind
But then, when alone, my hand falters
Without the support of yours.
I skid and flip on the asphalt
Laid out like roadkill
With no sense, no purpose, no direction no more
Realizing that my destination was right next to me
During the ride of my life.
And now I have a highway to get to
But no destination to go to.
10/7/06

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Inertia of Ignorance

I am a warrior, a warrior for peace

A warrior for a better life

A warrior for a little food and a little shelter

A warrior for social justice

For utter dignity

For the man on the street,

Battling with my pen

On my white coarse canvass

Against war, poverty

And the powers that be.

But there’s much more war and poverty

Than warriors dishing out poetry

To counter the oppression

To create much of an impression.

The canvass doesn’t reach its audience.

And we need more canvasses

And many more warriors brandishing pens.

So shake off this inertia of ignorance

My fellow warriors, and hand each other those pens

So that we can march against the enemy

And force its eyes on the harsh reality of our canvasses

So that our children don’t need to fight

Tomorrow for everybody’s rights,

So that the overall darkness is less than the light.

And the sounds of laughter drown the silence

That haunts us today.

4/24/06

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Son of a FOB

This poem was written in jest and is not to be taken seriously.

Hey, you, Son of a FOB

This song’s for you while we steal your job.

This country’s adopted son

Outwardly your culture you may shun,

But secretly you like Tikka Masala

And movies of Rani and Aishwarya


You grew up twirling your Dad’s chest hair

And now you leave him in Old Age Care,

Shaving your own chest

With Silicon in your breast.

You might as well wear bangles

And cut off the peanut that dangles

Between your shaved silky legs

And start laying eggs.


Goras call you “Washer”

Desis call you “Wiper”

Even in the bathroom you are confused

Coz when you asked for a brain, even God refused.

You suck at cricket and baseball too

About business you don’t have a clue.


You are a shame to Genetic Code

As your parent’s tricks, you couldn’t download.

Oh what a waste of the Desi mind

Coz of all of you ABCD kind.

Confused you will always be

And never can draw your Family Tree.

How Do You Sleep?

As you rev the engine of your convertible

Have you ever thought of the blisters on the feet

Of the kids who tried to clean its windshield at a traffic light?

As you waltz under magnificent chandeliers

Do you think of the fraction of a generation

Being raised in support of lampposts all over the nation?

When you throw away half your food

Do you think of the urchins that lurk around the garbage neighborhood?

While you take measured sips of your herbal tea,

Do you think of little Raju who supports his family

Shuttling from kiosk sized shops, wearing almost nothing

Serving tea on early winter mornings?

When you show off the latest fashion

Do you think of the sweatshops and the way they are run?

When you tie the laces of your pair of black leather CK’s,

Have you ever thought of the boys who begged you to let him shine them?

As you lie down on your soft feather bed,

Have you ever thought of the youngest practitioners

Forced into the world’s oldest trade?

How do you sleep at night

When you think of all in the world that’s not right?

4/20/06

The Guest

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

Had been one for a long long time, or so it felt

His only friends being the various instances in his memory

Of a previous life in a different century.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.


His hosts had entertained him well.

Lots of gifts – the bodily scars and the limp

Had been products of their kindness

So that he had never had a dull moment.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.


His hair was long and had turned grey

His ribs were visible through his scarred skin

He walked with a limp –

An ironic shadow of his former uniformed self.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.


He had lost count of time

And Time had lost count of him.

Did they even know he was still breathing?

His son must be grown-up by now.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.


He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

A guest who wanted to go home,

A guest who wanted to walk on the soil of his motherland.

A guest known to us simply as a POW.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

7/25/05

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