The Clean Slate...

Best of Animation Movies

2011-11-09T16:22:00.000+05:30

I love animated movies and I think in the recent past, we’ve had quite a few lovely ones. Pixar, Dreamworks animation and Fox animation share the credits for the ones I liked. There have been toys, monsters, animals of every kind, superheroes, villains and the occasional ordinary folk too. I suppose one reason why I love these movies is that these characters are built from imagination – various actors give them voice of course, but the face is completely new and the best characters have very realistic personalities and a story behind them.

My favorites?

• How to train your dragon – Hiccup was a lovely character and the slight sarcastic tone in his narration just gave it a perfect touch. Toothless was almost like a pet puppy – only, he was a dragon :-D
• Monsters Inc – I loved the monsters at work and Boo was adorable! I could almost see Billy Crystal playing Mike instead of just lending voice!
• Ratatouille – A traditional story of dreams and hardwork. But, I could love this movie just for that dialogue on the critic and the creator.
• Toy story – Can anyone resist this one? I just found myself replacing characters with my own toys. The only movie where I enjoyed all the sequels.
• Finding Nemo – There was a story at both ends – in the ocean and in the tank. Besides, clownfish are so cute :-P

The ones that almost made it?

• Up – I loved the initial part of the movie, but the second half wasn’t as good.
• Ice Age – The setting is great, but I think the multiple sequels are an overkill.
• Megamind – A super-villian story, but apart from Megamind, the other characters were not as well developed.
• The Incredibles – A good superhero story, but not much difference from the many flesh and blood versions.
• Wall-E – I think they had a great character, but not that memorable a story.
• Shrek – Yet another where the first movie was good, but the sequels totally killed my liking.

Settings have ranged from ice age to space age. The stories have got more imaginative – A monster city powered by children’s screams? A robot that falls in love with another? A rat that cooks up a storm? Sometimes, there are deep messages tucked into this seemingly childish medium – a villain who realizes he has no meaning without a hero to fight? A panda who understands how some things can become special because people believe them to be so?

I do hope the industry will stop banking on sequels so much and concentrate on original creations. But, I already see plans are on for 'How to train your dragon 2', 'Monsters University' and 'Despicable Me 2'. Sigh!

So, who's watching Tintin this weekend? :-D

Ponniyin Selvan

2011-09-01T23:26:00.000+05:30

I have been reading the english translation of Volume 1 of Kalki Krishnamoorthy's Ponniyin Selvan - 'The First Floods'. The book is translated by C V Karthik Narayanan and looks to be a literal translation rather than a work of paraphrasing. To someone very ignorant about various parts of Tamil Nadu, this book was a very informative and thoroughly enjoyable read. It has certainly increased my curiosity about my state and its history (a lot of googling to follow :))

The book is a historical fiction set in the Chola dynasty in the 900's AD. I am not sure where the history part ends and the fiction begins - however, the characters of the royal dynasty atleast are as per history. I could easily compare this book to others written by authors like Alexandre Dumas - there is a basis in historical facts, a swashbuckling hero and a rollicking adventure follows.

It isn't an easy book to read - the characters do get carried away with the similies and metaphors they use, the translation of the poetry quoted throughout probably does not convey the same feeling as the original tamil versions and for a few chapters, I did struggle to keep track of the various names and titles of the royal family members. However, the book holds you rivetted with beautiful descriptions of the historical setting and the characters develop over the chapters rather than being described at one spot. Kalki is a very considerate narrator to provide enough background to every situation and he shifts scenes fast enough to keep the reader interested.

The translation is no doubt a wonderful effort - I specially enjoyed the detailed introduction that helps us understand the life and times of Kalki. One flaw would be that the tamil names and words did not use any stress marks leading me to pronouce things wrong.

Though the title of the book is in reference to Arulmozhi Varman (aka Rajaraja cholan), atleast in the first book, Vallavarayan Vandhiyathevan is the hero we follow - a brave warrior on a mission entrusted by the crown prince who wants to deliver a message to his father and sister. Vandhiyathevan encounters multiple dangers along the way and meets many interesting characters - scheming politicians, unlikely spies and various members of royalty to say the least. However, his valour and wit help him escape each situation while providing us an entertaining account to read.

A little googling led me to find out that the tamil text is available online in wikisource here and audio recordings of the first book is available here. I can't wait to read the other four books now!

The Consequences

2011-08-30T17:40:00.001+05:30

This story is my entry to the Short Story Contest being held by 'The Banyan Trees'. Details here. The theme is 'Light and Dark'. What do you think? :)

The Consequences

He sat on a stack of thin cardboard sheets at the entrance of his hut and watched the river flowing below him. Last year had been particularly dry, so they had not worried about the river. This year, the rains had come early. He wondered how long it would be before they'd wake to find the river inside the house.

His hut would be among the last to be flooded, he thought. It stood amongst others which were even closer to the river. Poor constructions - materials ranging from brick and cement to wood, tin, asbestos, mud, straw and woven coconut leaves. It was what people called a slum. But it was, somehow, more wretched than most slums and had grown in the slope that led to the river, just below a bridge.

It had been a very long day at the construction site where he worked alongside his wife. Now, he heard her rattling the almost empty vessels inside as she cooked dinner.

When they came, she heard the conversation as well. They spoke about the temple they were going to build - on the roadside space just after the bridge. Every house was expected to put in as much as they could spare. 'I'll let you know' he muttered and saw them off before going in to eat.

As they ate, she wondered aloud – ‘Why are those boys doing this? They are a bad lot, you know. Drunk all the time! Hardly ever work - living off their old parents and relatives. Why are they suddenly enthusiastic about building a temple?’ 'Maybe they have changed?' He volunteered after sometime. Some answer seemed to be expected of him. She shook her head, looking very worried. 'They are up to something.'

A few days later she rushed home in excitement after a chat with a neighbor. 'I told you, didn’t I?' she said triumphantly. He looked at her inquiringly and she went on – 'Those boys, they are getting everyone to pay for the temple. Then they'll just place the money collection box there and guess who'll have the key? Oh! They are clever. Not a penny from them and they'll earn out of it.'

He smiled at her excitement - 'Calm down. We can't do anything about it.' Her face fell. He was right. She couldn't go around telling people what she thought was the real reason. Everyone would pay. No one wanted to offend the gods.

Over the next few months, the temple slowly took shape. It was made from bricks and cement. It had a proper roof and a much decorated entrance. Threatening figures were molded all over, painted in heavy colors. A statue of a many armed and frightening goddess was installed. There was a money box too and one of them put the key in his pocket.

At the opening ceremony, people prayed fervently. She stood in the crowd and watched as the hired priest recited prayers and waved a camphor flame. People parted willingly with their coins. Devotional songs blared from loudspeakers set up outside.

When she returned, she sat in silence beside him at their hut’s entrance for awhile. 'I don't understand,' she said finally.

‘What happened?’ he asked, turning to look at her.

'That is how every temple is built, isn't it? Someone decides a place and brings bricks and cement and makes a building. Then they paint it in the right colors, add an idol and a temple is made.'

The song from the loudspeakers was audible still. The light of the decorative lamps looked beautiful from the distance.

'Yes. But, why is it bothering you?' he asked.

She turned back to him after gazing at the temple for a few minutes. 'Doesn't it seem wrong to you? See how temples are made - a bunch of drunks want to make some easy money and they make a building in the right shape. That’s all. It’s just a building. Nothing more. I used to think I was in the presence of God when I went to a temple. This can't be right. This isn’t about God.'

He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Those boys worked on something and kept out of trouble these few months. However selfish or crude their intentions may be – we have a temple nearby. Now you need not go to the other temple 3 miles away. They will pocket some money while they arrange for festivals. But for the first time, we will see the festival being celebrated here. Some good will come out of this as well.’

Two weeks later, they woke up to rising flood waters in their hut. Their shelter for the next three weeks was the temple. It was the only structure nearby with a proper roof, brick walls, open doors and of course, the money box.

Resemblance

2011-08-14T10:57:00.000+05:30

You remind me of a poem
That I worked to memorize.
I liked the idea of it first.
It spoke of things I had always felt,
but never found the words to express.
So, I read it again and again,
exploring its meaning and
enjoying its rhyme and rhythm.
I knew the words by heart soon
Could recite them in my sleep
But it took a while to get
my voice and poise right
to fit those lovely words.

Yes, you remind me of that poem.

The fork in the road

2011-08-06T06:38:00.001+05:30

It had been one of those days. Yet another. The night bought no rest or peace. How could it, when the day had been as unproductive as it had been for the past many months? He tossed and turned and agonized over it every night. He knew he had to wait. The gift came with a curse. He had to be patient. But it was so hard. So hard to see the bundle of blank paper undiminished day after day. So hard to make himself eat each day so that he would live another and hope. So hard to walk through the library dreaming of the day his name would smile down at him from one of the shelves.

He went for walks. Long ones, where he watched and listened. Somewhere in all the chaos around him, was a story. A story that he would write. He only had to keep looking till he found it. So he looked and looked - wandering around the market, loitering on the railway station platform, waiting on the park benches, riding random buses around the city. He would hear snatches of conversations, note the environment, study people's features and mannerisms, capture their emotions and then imagine their circumstances. To the masses rushing past, he was some kind of still life he supposed. They presented a slice of their life to him and he tried to create a past and future to the moment.

When he went back to his room, he made notes in a large worn out notebook. It was like a diary that he spoke to - telling it all that he saw and thought and felt. His imagination took him far, but just not far enough and not often enough. And so he waited. You do understand, don't you? He was close to his breaking point. Maybe one more day would do it?

He dragged himself out of bed again. When he stepped out, you could see he was different. He carried a bag. His eyes were mostly fixed on the ground and he walked with no direction or end in mind. He walked till his legs ached and then found a place to rest, settling down leaning against a large tree. The notebook rested on his lap. Maybe he ought to burn it up, he thought, caressing the dog earned edges. He had tried enough and it was foolish to waste more time on this.

All the same, he couldn't resist opening the notebook. One last time, he told himself as he began reading. He was soon lost in the tiny splashes of life that his notebook was full of. Time passed and the sun climbed the sky and began dipping towards the west. When he was done, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply - so many story lines, so many characters, so many beginnings...it was endings that he didn't get. Ending - well, that was life's job anyway. She chose when and how and where things ended. All one could do was begin.

He had almost applied the match to notebook when he paused. His hand shook, the match fell harmlessly to the ground and his mind exploded in chaotic thoughts. Beginnings. That was the answer. All the people he watched, all the pain he had seen and all the possibilities there were but which only he could imagine. He would show them the fork in their road.

'New Beginnings for Sale' reads the little board outside the room. It is a clean, empty space with a desk and a few chairs. He sits there and waits. He doesn't mind doing that, you know. He has had enough practice.

The Last Ingredient

2011-07-24T19:59:00.000+05:30

He woke up again in the dark. Sleep visited only in tiny spurts now that dreams constantly interrupted it. Dreams that started elsewhere, yet somehow they twisted around in his mind till they found her buried in his consciousness. Every time her smiling face filled his mind, he woke up - just as he did now. He wondered how long he would last this way. His mind did not seem to fade things out. His memories were razor sharp - not like faded sepia photos that brought on nostalgia.

He sat staring into the darkness for awhile before turning on the lamp. He opened the drawer on the bedside table and took out a small bottle. The bottle was three quarters empty - a honey coloured liquid danced around at the bottom as he idly swirled it. He had lasted almost a week without it, but now he needed to sleep. He opened the bottle and tipped a drop of the precious liquid on her pillow. Lights off and he let her perfume lull him to sleep.

When he woke again, the room was full of sunlight. He could still smell the mild fragrance of the perfume drop. It would linger for awhile. It was the only thing that helped – that made her presence real, fought away the nightmares and brought blissful sleep. He picked up the bottle and read the name – ‘Bliss’. He remembered where she had bought it – it was almost two years ago – in a quaint old market place in a city that had stood still in time. He had to go back there and find the shop again. Something wasn’t right about the scent today – something was missing. He needed a new bottle. He wondered if he could find the place again – they had found it when they lost the way on one of their rambles.

He made the long journey to that place forgotten by time. It took him some time, but he found the shop. The perfume maker was an old man. His face was serene though wrinkled; his thin body was topped by a thatch of grey hair. Years of bending over his fragile instruments and ingredients had left him with a slight stoop. Tiny bottles lined the numerous shelves around the shop. Boxes and jars of every kind held ingredients. Glass cases enclosed the bottles of perfume that were for sale.

He laid the precious little bottle on the counter. ‘I want to buy a few bottles of this perfume’, he said. His voice sounded hoarse and unused. He felt like he hadn’t spoken in a long time and maybe he hadn’t. ‘I remember you’, said the old man staring at him keenly. ‘You came with a young lady then. You were both so happy to have discovered my shop by accident.’

He winced at the last word and simply said ‘I’ve lost her’. ‘I know,’ said the perfume maker gesturing him to sit down. ‘No woman would want to buy the same perfume again. She would want something new and so would you if she were still here. You lost her to death and you are not willing to let go.’

‘This is the only thing that helps me. If I close my eyes, her presence seems real. Please sell me a few more bottles of it’ he pleaded. The old man sank down in his seat and looked sadly at the troubled young man. ‘I don’t make it anymore’, he said finally, ‘I make one batch of every perfume I create and I never make it again. You can look around if you like.’

He looked devastated – clearly the thought had never occurred to him. ‘Why?’, he asked softly. ‘Can’t you make it again? You surely kept the recipe?’ The old man shook his head ‘Perfume is not sold for the sake of the one wearing it. It's sold for the others who will learn to recognize their loved one's approach by a whiff of that scent. Every story does not have a forever. When there is a forever, it will adapt the new flavor of the season. When there is none, I spare some pain to the hearts that ache. Believe me, I am trying to help you.’

‘Besides, there is something more, isn’t it? Why did you come here so soon? There is still enough left in that bottle for another 6 months’ the perfume maker questioned gently. He looked up into the old face and tears stung his eyes as he murmured ‘It seems different these days. Maybe the perfume is too old. Not by much, but something is still different. I thought maybe a new bottle would help.’

The young man looked up at him after a lengthy period of silence. ‘There is something missing in that scent you inhale these days’ the perfume maker said finally, ‘Every individual affects the liquid differently, creating something new that I can’t ever hope to replicate. She is missing. The last ingredient for a perfume is the person wearing it.’

The young man closed his eyes for a moment and let the meaning sink into his mind. He opened his eyes again and slowly stood up to go. ‘Thank you. You know exactly how much you have helped me.’ On the glass counter, the bottle of 'Bliss' cast a long shadow in the evening sun's rays.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2

2011-07-16T19:28:00.000+05:30

I watched the last Harry Potter movie today and came away with such a satisfied feeling. This one is definitely the best movie of the lot – especially, the first half. I watched the movie in 3D, but there wasn’t much impressive about that. I could have watched it in 2D and come away with the exact same opinion.

The story begins where the last movie left off – at Shell Cottage. With Griphook’s help, the trio break in to Gringotts to look for a horcrux in Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault. Then they make their escape on a dragon and reach Hogwarts to look for the next Horcrux. From now on, the battle of Hogwarts begins and what a battle it is! Sparks fly when jinxes and curses clash as the two sides fight it out on the grounds of Hogwarts. All the magic in the air seems to trigger atleast two love stories Meanwhile, Snape’s true colours come to light and Harry’s accepts his fate as the last Horcrux. It is a war that claims many lives and there is no triumphant roar at the end – only a sense of things being ordinary again.

The screenplay is terse and cuts out the unnecessary side stories – the focus is clearly on the hunt for the horcruxes and the battle of hogwarts. We have seen child actors\actresses grow up through the different movies and with age, some of them have become better actors. Daniel Radcliffe looks much more comfortable in his role in this movie, Emma Watson has always played a rather tense character – she loosens up a bit in this, Rupert Grint is faintly better somehow, Neville’s character is stronger. Alan Rickman seems a lot older in this movie and having him act the scenes from the past didn’t work out well. Somehow, the makeup on Ralph Fiennes has always made me feel they got Voldemort wrong. I wish they spent more effort on the villians.

Looking back, I have a feeling JKR wrote the last book knowing how awesome it would be on film. While part 1 of the Deathly Hallows was not this exciting, part 2 is a fitting finale. Do watch.

Catalyst

2011-03-03T14:17:00.000+05:30

These things that come up
When you and I talk
Where were those thoughts
Before we spoke?

Were they buried in me
Or somewhere in you?
Perhaps we just plucked
Them out of thin air?

I make the most out of life
In the moments we talk
And I just can't do without
This little bit of you

The games in the sky

2010-10-28T08:36:00.000+05:30

At some point, I became fascinated by a the sight of a fluttering kite against Chennai's cloudless blue skies. All the kite flying around our apartment was done by the boys in the slum nearby. It was very entertaining to watch them at it and I must have watched them a lot - I do have so many memories.

They didn't require much to make a kite - a couple of long twigs from a broomstick, a light polythene cover and some string. While the first two ingredients were available in plenty to them, the last one needed much more care. That was the first time I heard the word 'Maanja'.

A bunch of boys would be huddled around an old paint can containing an evil mixture. This strange concoction was said to contain everything from glue to ground glass pieces. At least three people were needed for the work - at least five more stood around watching and providing advice. One boy would deal out plain string from a spool, the second would help it pass through and get coated with the mixture in the paint can, the third would wrap the coated string back on to another spool. Once dried, the string would be a deadly weapon attached to the kites. It wasn't a matter of flying the kites - it was a matter of pulling down others' kites while not losing your own and the string greatly helped there.

Making the kite itself was a much quicker process - A square piece of light polythene bag would be cut out, a couple of coconut leaf twigs would be make the frame around which the polythene was held taut and the much-fussed-over string would be attached. It was all done in a jiffy and such a joy to watch!

The kite fliers chose their location with care and the games started in the sky. One person would come out to fly his kite and his lone kite would be joined by three or four others pretty soon. The ones who wanted to save their kites quickly left and the rest fought to cut the others' string - the power of each 'Maanja' coated string would become apparent here. Most of the trees and the TV antennas in the area had broken kites tangled up in them. Some people managed to rescue their kites and sometimes a random stranger would be lucky to have a kite drop out of the sky into his hands.

Since I never had such luck, I decided to make my own kite. Perhaps, I hadn't studied the process much then and I had no idea how to make one. So, what does a girl do when she wants to make a kite - she goes running to Dad, of course. Soon enough, Dad and I sat on the floor with newspapers, twigs, string and gum strewn all over the place. We didn't just make a kite - we engineered it. :D The shape was perfect, the frame was solid and we were pretty pleased with ourselves by the time we were done. The kite was left to dry overnight and the next day we set out triumphantly to the terrace to fly our masterpiece.

I held the kite and stood some distance away from dad, who held the string. There was a strong gust of wind and I let go of the kite, pushing it up as much as I could. Strangely, it refused to stay up in the breeze and fell back. We tried again. And again. And again. It was quite puzzling. Finally we gave up and went home, defeated. The kite stayed on my table for a few months, gathering dust till Mum probably threw it away. Much later, I realized that we had made 'too solid' a kite and used too much gum, string and paper in our enthusiastic efforts. It was just too heavy to fly!

Outside, the boys continued to fly their polythene bag kites. 'Manja' ruled the skies, I watched them with interest but I never tried making a kite again.

Walking down Marina beach...

2010-10-17T22:06:00.000+05:30

Chennai. The word invokes an image of a tamil speaking population who won't bother to learn the national language. The 'Autokaran' from hell. Weather that will melt you. Temples and traditions. On the positive side, we are also a hard working and professional bunch. A city with manageable traffic. Nothing beats shopping in T-Nagar. Our film industry is second only to Bollywood's magic. And I suspect we contribute to a large percent of the engineers joining the workforce in our country.

Chennai is still growing and changing all over - the tell tale signs are the number of new buildings under construction everywhere. However, as much we change, we also hold on to certain things. Despite the number of new malls that come up, we still love the good old Spencers on mount road. The beaches - the Marina and Besant Nagar beaches are nothing great to look at. They are dirty, but the sands are open and the water is cool. It is the sandy stretch that does it - a rocky beach would just not be the same.

Today morning, Dad and I took a walk down Marina beach, armed with a camera. We got off the bus at the DGP office on Radha Krishnan Salai and walked across the road to the Gandhi statue. It never fails to amaze me how that particular office always looks so pristine while most other government offices look run down and patched up. This particular junction of RK Salai and Kamarajar Salai is crowded with markers - across the road is the famous Gandhi statue, in the middle of the road is a golden statue of the actor 'Sivaji Ganesan' - an icon of Tamil Cinema, a clock tower and a statue of the official indian emblem depicting the four lions from the Sarnath pillar. Look down the beach, towards Santhome and you can see the red and white lighthouse.

A lot of effort has gone into beautification of the Marina beach. I notice that the stretch next to the road now has a nice lawn - a bit under maintained- but hey, its a start. There is a fountain, skating rink and some weird roofless structures whose purpose I can't understand. Today, apart from the usual quota of crows, there are hundreds of dragon flies zooming all over the place - they come close, but never hit me. Little kids run around trying to catch a dragonfly that settles down on the grass for a rest.

Right across the road from the Gandhi statue stands the Queen Mary's college. I seem to remember a controversy a few years back when the new Secretariat was planned at that spot. A lot of protests later, the location was shifted to a spot on Mount Road and the college remained. A new structure seems to have been added in the college though - 'Kalaignar Arangam'. There are other educational institutes on this road - the University of Madras campus, Presidency College, Govt. Model Hr Sec School, Lady Wellington College of education and the Bharat Scouts and Guides.

As we walked further down the road, we come across a statue of Avvaiyaar - I am no history expert and Wikipedia tells me that the name Avvaiyar refers to different tamil poetesses who lived in different ages - Sangam period and Chola Period. Next up was the status of the Freedom poet Bharathidasan whose mentor, Subramaniya Bharathi's statue is further down the line. G U Pope, a christian missionary who contributed to translation of Tamil works also has a place amongst the illustrious who stand guard on Chennai's shores. Of course, who can forget the Kannagi statue and the controversy that surrounded the lady who burnt down Madurai in revenge for a wrongful death penalty imposed on her husband? The statue which mysteriously disappeared overnight was reinstated later when the political rule changed in the state. Tiruvalluvar - the poet who gave us the Thirukural - has a statue here that is much less impresive than the 133 ft giant likeness that stands on a rock at Kanyakumari. Oddly enough, amongst all the statues, one of Subhash Chandra Bose felt oddly out of place - considering there were none for Nehru, Patel and other leaders. Oh well...maybe they had to pick.

A number of government offices and some buildings of historic significance also line the road. The Vivekananda house - beautiful pink building that has been maintained meticulously - is easily the best amongst the lot. Other buildings like the Public Works Department are in a dilapidated condition. The central institute of classical tamil (its name also written in an unfamiliar script - see pic), the slum clearance board and the water supply and drainage board also have offices along the beach.

Our walk ended at the Napier Bridge - a landmark (along with the Central Railway Station) made famous by its use in countless Tamil movies when the hero\heroine come to 'big city' from their villages with dreams in their minds and empty pockets. Just before the bridge are the monuments of two former chief ministers 'Arignar Anna' and Dr MG Ramachandran. These are popular tourist destinations, and a few bus loads of tourists stood there clicking pictures and listening to tour guides before they could rush for a dip in the sea that lies a few hundred feet away.

The walk ended at my favorite statue, depicting labourers moving a rock - Somehow, 'Triumph of Labour' seems to represent Chennai in a way no other piece of art does.

The days of our lives

2010-10-03T13:03:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, I wish I lived in different times. In the past or in the future - any time but today. There are things about the past that I love so much - there is so much more beauty in black and white than there is in colour. I sense more meaning in the songs of yesterday. There was more left to chance and to nature back then. There have been many interesting people with beautiful thoughts that they stayed true to. I don't want to meet these master craftsmen - I just want to share the same air that they breathed. This is not nostalgia for the past days of my life - I was not even born in the times I am talking about.

Today's world is comfortable but it feels like a thoughtless existence. There is so much noise that it drowns every thought and distracts easily. Beautiful things are made so rarely or perhaps, they are getting lost in the deluge. I am tired of catching up with the creativity of the past centuries and not finding anything to match that today. That is when I am filled with curiosity about the future. I don't want to see the world a few years down - not any time that I will anyway reach as time passes by. I'm more impatient and wishful than that. I want to see the world a few hundred years from now. I want to see what is remembered of yesterdays and today. How much more rare true creativity becomes. How far has past imagination shaped the future world and how much science has caught up with art.

The world takes time to recognize its heroes. To meet the greatest minds recognized today, I need to go to the past. To see who the great minds of today are - I need to go to the future. What use is today anyway?

We were just kids...

2010-09-15T22:20:00.001+05:30

I still remember the first time I met them. We were just moving into the flats. The apartment door was open, unopened boxes lay all around, mum was busy with the house warming milk on the stove. I didn’t understand much of what was going on – I must have been in 5th standard. There were no guests. Just our family and a few cousins. There was a box of sweets though and I remember walking out of the Kitchen munching a piece. There they were – peering in cautiously at the front door, with all the curiosity of a bunch of primary school boys. I suppose I was told to and I remember holding out the box of sweets to them. The boy from F2 below, broke off a small piece politely and ate. The one from next door – F5 took a whole sweet with an impish grin lighting up his face.

Of course, we became the playtime gang. The boy from F5 had a younger sister too, whom he took care of and tormented with equal enthusiasm. They’d call out to me from their verandah and I’d go to ours to talk to them. We made our plans that way, talking through the metal grillwork that kept us from tumbling out. We all went to different schools, but on evenings and weekends, we’d gather the rest of the kids in the apartment complex and go to the terrace to play. Bugging the watchman was a favorite game. We also made up a lot of conspiracies and had fun pretending we knew a lot more than we did. Our games were odd – it mostly involved running around like crazy. Occasionally, we played sane games like running and catching or hide and seek. We climbed up the water tank and tried to pluck tiny mangoes. We went to the most unreachable places for an adult (like the narrow spot between the motor shed and the house) and carried on with our make believe world. Sometimes, we had picnics on the terrace. Most of all, we united to hate the kids in the apartment building opposite ours. No reason. We hated them because they were there, I think. And they did tend to put up silly plays and stage fashion shows with dupattas draped around themselves. We stood at our terrace and jeered at them. Unkind, but we were kids.

Apartments are a rich source of politics. They have association meetings where they argue over whose kid broke what and who should pay for what repair and complain about the watchman’s negligence and hold lengthy conversations about the upcoming water scarcity. Then there were tussles amongst people staying on rent and those who owned their apartments. We kids knew somehow if any of our parents didn’t get along with each other. Those kids would stay away from each other too or maybe we were made to. We had a tough time when our friends had relatives with kids visiting. Suddenly they would want to hang out with their cousins and quite forgot us. It was hard – but we were kids with short memory spans. That helped. Our little gang went through all of that as well.

A few years later, both families moved away. It was weird – not having any more play mates. But, after a while others moved in – kids who went to the same school as I did. We became the new terrace gang. There were more girls now and we were older. We mostly sat around the terrace chatting about this and that. The boys were younger kids who devised their own games now. We still made fun of the kids in the opposite apartment, though. We were still kids, after all.

There was a weekend when we were on the terrace as usual - wandering around, looking at the world from our perch three floors above the road. A new boy walked in and like kids all over the world, we stared at him unabashed. Was he moving in? We hadn’t seen any trucks laden with furniture all day. But we made no move to talk to him or even smile at him. We just stared and continued wandering around. To our surprise, he followed us to the other side as well and stood there leaning against the water tank, watching us. There was something intense about the way he looked at us – not the trying-to-be casual look of a new kid who wants to join the game. For about half an hour, he hung around – a little distance away from us and we ignored him. He met my glance a few times and held his gaze steadily. I looked away, puzzled. When I looked back up, I heard a voice calling out from below – I couldn’t hear what was said, but someone was calling him. He left the terrace and I heard him run down the flights of stairs. Something clicked – maybe it was the voice, or his gait or that familiar rhythmic rush down the stairs. And I was running too, leaving four very puzzled people behind.

‘Hari’, I called out as I ran down the stairs. I could never match his pace even two years back. I kept calling out his name till I reached the ground floor and realized he had already left. It wasn’t my fault. He looked different. He could have spoken to me. It had been so long. But even back then I knew, it was cruel of me. To forget.

The Toll

2010-08-14T12:20:00.000+05:30

If only things we make could break into
What has been given up to make them...
If only you could see the toll someone paid
To smoothen your ride on the highway...
Gather that stranger's soft defeated sighs
Just hold them, for that is all you can do

The Frozen

2010-08-12T20:22:00.000+05:30

Thoughts do not stand still,
Even when silence is all there is.

Torn fragments of memories
Feed the frozen loner’s soul,
Till violent undercurrents roam
Unseen on the stoic surface.

Then, those who left, come back
Claiming and expecting no change.
And a smile hovers, just beneath;
In bitter delight at a hunch proved.

For, feelings do not freeze,
Unless their target is forgotten.
And, thoughts do not stand still,
Just because silence is all there is.

Now Reading...

2010-07-14T09:26:00.000+05:30

When inspiration refused to strike for me to write anything, I went into a crazed book reading mode instead. It feels like a long time since I did that too. Piggy backing on those writers in the guise of reviews :P

It started with Samanth Subramanian's 'Following Fish - Travels around the Indian Coast'. This is Samanth's first book and I hope he will write more. The book merely follows everything to do with fish. The nine pieces stand alone in no particular order. The enthusiastic descriptions of the various fish he samples will definitely bring a smile to your face. However, what makes this book good to read is the way such descriptions are woven into a larger picture. The fish and its eating are the end. Stories of the fishing communities, their history, the beaches, boat building, the sport of fishing and some odd quirks form a larger portion of the book. The narration is engaging and sprinkled with humour. I love the fact that the book is no expert speak. It is just a description of various journeys, bound by the common theme. While Goa, Kolkata and Kerala would be expected stops on such a journey, other spots like Mangalore, Hyderabad, Gujarat etc were a surprise for me. At 160 odd pages, the book stops at the right point. There is a sense of an abrupt end to the book, but how do you really stop when you talk of journeys undertaken?

***

I picked up Santhosh Desai's 'Mother Pious Lady - Making Sense of everyday India' next. I found this gem of a book quite by chance when I had an extra hour to kill at the airport. The cover caught my attention first and then the title. A quick flip through the pages convinced me that I would enjoy the book and I paid up Rs 399 (I hate the Bata pricing model!) This is a collection of short pieces on everyday India - more specifically every day 'middle class' India. The general tone of the book is humorous and fondly nostalgic. The language is almost poetic at times and I loved just reading it for the pleasure of reading something well-written. There is a good mix of larger beliefs and those little mannerisms that make the middle class of this country.

A sample of the topics - our obsession with cricket, larger than life nature of Bollywood, the way we travel, the 'native' place, the almost-worship of the mother, the way we adjust to everything, the arranged marriage funda, the autorickshaw, the political and filmi dynasties, traffic, fanatic games of anthakshari, family, officialdom, our food, language and much more.

A few quotes from the book

"India understands time. It understands the transience of all things, including solutions. It understands that there are no final solutions to problems; at best there is a temporary equilibrium that must eventually get destabilized and give way to a new equilibrium."

"In more than a few ways, Indian Society conspired to make the woman most comfortable in her role as mother. In every other role, she was frequently evaluated, circumscribed and diminished. But as a mother, she faced no censure and no limits..." "The Indian man in particular owes much to the mother. Brought up in an environment where he could do no wrong and where every whim of his was somehow catered to, at least in part, he finds the sticky bonds of maternal love very difficult to extricate himself from." "The mother's role was to turn her little girl into a knowing woman as soon as possible and to keep her son a little boy for the rest of his life."

"The scooter carries with it an aura of safety....It had space to squeeze in a full family, a place to carry vegetables, a dickey to store sundry needs of the family - in short, it seemed safe because it catered to all those stable, worldly things that made a man a 'responsible' person." "The auto is the urban rat: a wily, crafty creature that wriggles its way through the urban sewer."

"At some point in their lives, everyone has heard a Mukesh song in self pity.....when suffering from a imagined heartbreak caused by the imagined infidelity of one's imagined lover..... They were the baubles of expressiveness that adorned us briefly before the business of living our more mundane lives exerted its authority."

"To the Indian mind, the world of knowledge is divided into three broad categories - Science, Commerce and Arts... Science is the undisputed leader, towering above the nondescript commerce and cowering Arts."

The book is huge at 380 pages. My only complaint is that somewhere after the half way point, the book seems to echo the same sentiments again and again. It would have been perfect if it were a lot shorter.

***

Having read the first two Percy Jackson books by Rick Riordan, there has been no change in my favorites in the fantasy section. Harry Potter rules, followed very closely by LOTR and the Chronicles of Narnia. Percy Jackson disappoints in the fact that there is not much that has been imagined. The Greek myths are there to pick on and they have been picked on completely, with no attempt at creating any deep real characters. Displacing the old world to the present period has been the author's only task apart from creating the younger hero characters. Even the narration seems faulty - as if the author just created a character and plunked himself in those shoes and began talking. There is not much effort spent in building the background and painting the scenery for the readers. Fantasy is about building a world for the reader to lose himself in - and I found that lacking in these books.

The Pause

2010-05-16T21:28:00.000+05:30

I met a goal after a long journey
Finally ticking it off my worn out list

Strangely, I exhale a deep soft sigh
As if I were at some kind of an end

I realise why, as I feel myself change
And a different person takes my place

The unchecked items on the list in hand
Make no sense to her and she pauses

Clearly, she has to begin all over again
And for some time then, I merely exist

With no new dreams or fresh thoughts
Only memories of the past keeping company

She'll take over from me as soon as
She finds the reason for her existence

Till then, I exist, caught in the pause

Your Story

2010-04-09T23:27:00.000+05:30

I want to write your story. A book, in fact, much like you. A quiet color for the cover, a few simple words as the title and a few brush strokes bringing out your profile. A book that wouldn’t be noticed too easily – just like you. Yet, someone will pick it up too and skim through the first page. He must feel indifference at first. He must see you as just another person on the crowded street that he just stepped out of. He must not even realize that you are going to be the main character in future pages. I have to be careful how I pen those initial pages.

At first, my words will only describe you. Just what he would see had he glanced at you for a moment or two more than at others. Time enough for a quick hello. Then, I’ll show him around your world for a while and let him get used to where you belong and to others around you. You are not a story to be read in a hurry, you see. You have so much going on in your head – strange thoughts and those eyes that betray nothing of the depths you've reached. I will tell him all about you, but slowly. I'll single you out in the crowd and lead him along the paths you take. He will see what you do on any ordinary or extraordinary day and develop his own reasoning, trying to understand your actions. After he has seen enough of what you do, I'll draw him into your mind, to make him understand your thoughts rather than your actions. To make him see how you reason and feel and think.

It may be a lot for him to take - but, I hope to do justice to my subject. My words will be the gentle wave that sweeps him away, tangles him in your story, pulls him along in curiosity and forges an intimate connection with you. I want people to keep discovering you that way, through my words. At the last page, I want him to stop with a heavy sigh, sad there isn't any more.

Others may write of strange lands, fantastic wars, of spies and thieves and the past and future. I am meant to only write your story - as you lived it. The way I will write it, there will not be too many eyes on you at any point of time. The ones who get to your thoughts will be people who deserve to know you - who had to make the effort to cross the many barriers I will weave out of my words, in order to reach you. But, those who read of you will hold you in their hearts and wish they had known you.

I want to write that way - your story, as life scripted it.

When did you last think?

2010-03-07T01:46:00.000+05:30

I feel like a fraud at times. As if I’m picking up another’s opinion and passing it off as my own. Thoughts from people all around me drive my own. I know what they say about the wisdom of crowds, but that makes for a second hand experience. It’s just not right. I want to stop reading reviews. Stop counting stars. Stop looking at awards. Stop asking. I want to wander around and find something that interests me. Then pick it up and find a quiet place. I don’t want big names to bias me. I want to experience it without the influence of others. I want the thing to speak to me for itself. I imagine the end – a moment’s pause when I have to decide my opinion. Untouched by others. My own thought. I want that.

The trigger? This quote from the movie 'Ratatouille' that a friend had recently shared on buzz

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talents, new creations. The new needs friends.

The Rajasthan Trip!

2010-02-21T18:34:00.002+05:30

Mum, Dad and I took a trip to Rajasthan this week, visiting Jaipur and Udaipur. Mid-February is a lovely time to visit – the weather was pleasant with rather cool nights. (You’ll need sweaters and shawls) We reached Jaipur by train from Delhi at around 1 AM and took an auto to our hotel – ‘Chirmi Palace’, located on a quiet side street. (All hotels seem to be called ‘palace’ or ‘haveli’, btw). Our room was on the ground floor and was one of several set around a small courtyard garden. The room was nothing fancy but was clean and neat.

In the morning, we arranged for a cab to go around the city. Since we had only one day here, we visited only very few landmarks. We covered Birla Mandir (lovely place – temple and small park. Moti Dungri fort stands right above but it is open to public only once a year on shivrathri), Albert hall museum (I loved the metal work section – such intricate work! The shields with scenes of Ramayana (see pic) and Mahabharata were amazing) and Amber fort (we took the cab to the top but I am told it is best to trek up. The fort seems to extend for miles along the hills!)

You can’t go to Rajasthan and not shop! Jaipur is famous for its textiles, handicrafts, jewellery, carpets and leather goods. However, a word of warning – don’t let the auto \ cab drivers direct your shopping. We had a tough time in Jaipur as the cab driver took us to a few shops (we assumed that he got a commission there) and just refused to go anywhere else leaving us very annoyed. While those shops may have something nice, you do want to look around others as well. The salesmen at those shops were also very pushy, and quickly showed their annoyance if you didn’t buy anything at their place. I guess we were shopping at the wrong places.

We took the night train to Udaipur and reached early morning at around 7 AM. An auto took us to our hotel ‘Karohi Haveli’. Udaipur felt like a very hilly city, with narrow twisty roads in many places. I kept having a feeling that our auto was going to crash into someone soon, but we didn’t. The hotel was right on the banks of Lake Pichola (rather dried up at our end, but still!) and very close to the City Palace. Our room was on the first floor and overlooked the lake (lovely room, with a large window seat – as large as a single bed!). Lying on this seat each night, I had a lovely view of the lakeside. This also seemed to be wedding season and I had the best seat to watch awesome fireworks from each night.

Thanks to Veetrag, I had a detailed list of places to see in Udaipur and felt more comfortable here than at Jaipur. We walked around the first day, visiting the City Palace (which was in the process of getting decked up for some lavish wedding) first. The whole palace is converted into a kind of museum with lots of paintings, handicrafts, armory and loads of history. It took us about 2 hours and we then took an auto to see the Vintage Car Collection near Sajjan Niwas Park.

We just fell in love with the beautifully restored cars of all makes – Rolls Royce, Chevrolet, Austin, Mercedes Benz, Cadillac, Buick, Ford and even horse drawn carriages! There is a restaurant in the same compound and a thali meal + a walk through the cars will cost you Rs 150 each. Money well spent, I assure you - the food was very good. We shopped a lot – Hatipol is the place to go if you want to purchase Bandhini Sarees and Mum had a good time going through shop after shop before she finally bought a saree.

The next day, we visited Moti Magri – a memorial for Rana Pratap and some of his courtiers. It is a short walk uphill inside, but vehicles are allowed in. A sound and light show happens every night, but we had to miss that. Next, we visited ‘Lok Kala Mandal’ which is a small museum of cultural artifacts. The highlight was the 10 minute puppet show that is performed throughout the day. We stopped briefly at Sukhadia Circle – this is a park at a junction with a small pond in the middle and fast food shops all around. Paddle boats are available for use in the pond.

Now, I’m guessing that if you are at Udaipur and express a preference for the ‘Thali’ style lunch to your auto \ cab driver, I think they’d take you only to ‘Adarsh Dining Hall and Restaurant’. I don’t know what the deal is though. Both days, we were taken here by the respective auto and cab drivers! The food isn’t bad but I found it a bit too oily. But, we did get to eat ‘Dal Baati’, which Dad thoroughly enjoyed.

After lunch, we headed for Saheliyon ki bari – a beautiful park with fountains and gardens. This did not take long and we visited ‘Shilpgram’ next – an artists’ village. It was a quiet place with only about 10 other visitors there. There were about 10 to 15 shops for clothes, pottery, jewellery, footwear etc. Laden with our purchases, we made our way to ‘Dudh Talai’ where a ropeway takes passengers to the top of a nearby hill. The view is nice and there is a small temple there (White mice are kept here and they keep peeping out from their hideaways). You can also walk to the top if you wish. On the way back, we shopped again ( poor dad looked quite worried at our enthusiastic shopping :) ) but ‘Man Singh’ with his harmonium joined us anyway.

At 7 PM, we were at Bagore Ki Haveli – close to the City Palace to catch a show of Rajasthani folk dances like and a short puppet show. Don’t miss this show– it was totally awesome. The last morning, we visited Jagdish Mandir (the carvings on the temple are amazing! see pic.) and shopped in the shops around the temple before leaving to catch our flight. Overall, I loved the stay at Udaipur. The hotel staff were very helpful and friendly, making it a good experience (and they made great aloo parathas)

Sigh…trips really need to be longer than four days!

Save our tigers?

2010-02-06T23:44:00.002+05:30

You must have seen this video on TV or someone must have forwarded it to you. Either way, most of the TV watching population in the country now know that there are only 1411 tigers left in Indian sanctuaries. The video urges us to spread the word on this. What are we looking for? Someone with a solution?

A bit of googling led me to this page dated February 2008 – that’s when the tiger census results showed that only 1411 tigers were left. It has taken two years for a common person like me to hear this fact. Two years. Massive #fail. So, yes. The campaign and the video is going to help people aware of this one number. But, what next? What am I to do with this fact? The campaign website gives us some options but I still don’t know if blogging and donations are the best options. Public memory is weak. And the ad campaign can't run forever to keep it fresh in people's minds.

What exactly is the problem, anyway? Poaching? Habitat loss? Is that going to stop through awareness? Why do people poach and why are the habitats shrinking? Because they are evil villains right out of old hindi movies? I’m guessing because they have no other choice! So, what do we do with such a campaign? Have we really addressed the problem? Do we even recognize the right problem? And how on earth is blogging about it going to help? Ok. Let’s look at the demand side of the story. How about those who buy the products made from parts of the tiger’s body – do you think they don’t know that a tiger had to die to create that product? Yeah…that guy in China is going to stop using those products JUST because India’s tiger population is dwindling.

Just in case you want to know more – learn about the existence of Tiger farms in China , about the efforts of this organization in stopping poaching and rehabilitating poachers , follow this blog by a lodge owner in Ranthambhore (one of India’s tiger reserves).

I know that this topic is moving closer towards any animal being bred in captivity. About the lives of others who we share the planet with. About nature’s and man’s motives. I just wish I knew what to do to really help. I know I’m not likely to jump on the next train to help stop poaching or encroaching upon forest reserves. But, I don’t want this number to become a mere fact that I’m aware of either.

The Last Time?

2010-02-04T11:44:00.000+05:30

Ever notice how beginnings are well defined, but the end never is? You know when to say hello, but you can never tell when it’s time for a goodbye.

Maybe that’s why I like beginnings more – not just because of the novelty; but because I actually know that it is the beginning and can say so.

You can’t define any other stage that way. How do you know? Is it the middle? The end? Somewhere in between? You think? But, what is?

You never know when it really is the last time. And you can never treat every goodbye as the last one – because there is no such thing as the last goodbye.

Meet Annie

2010-01-15T02:04:00.001+05:30

I found a butterfly today. She didn’t catch my attention by fluttering around as butterflies do. She lay on the grass, dragging herself over to a dry leaf. I’ve never seen a butterfly do that. They aren’t meant to be that way, you know. She willingly climbed on to my finger, which was even more odd. A butterfly sitting on my finger? I don’t know what kind she is – she’s black and yellow and white with red shapes like hearts along the edges. One of her wings is bent. I took her home.

She has been here the whole day now. I put her in a shoe box lid and threw in some leaves for her to climb around. A friend suggested sugar water and I filled a small bottle cap for her. I left the window open and put her nearby so that she could see the plants outside. She mostly just sits there. She’s hurt. She must be screaming in pain now, right? But, if she has made any noise, it isn’t of the kind I can hear.

She dragged herself around the box lid for some time before finally heading out to explore some more. She has to try very hard to get out of the shallow box. She used to fly, I remember. She painstakingly climbs up a taller vessel now and hangs on there. Her wings flutter fast as she attempts to fly sometimes. That is the only sound I can hear from her – the desperate attempts. I hope she knows what to do to heal herself – that nature has somehow told her everything she needs to know, to live. I have no clue. I’m not even sure if I’m helping her.

It is late night now and I desperately want to sleep. It has been a long day. But, I’m afraid to turn off the light. I’m afraid to go to sleep. What if she thrashes around in the night and goes missing somewhere in my room? She is so tiny. What if she gets caught in something and can’t free herself? I wonder now if it was a good idea to bring her home. She could die here too. I can see danger to her all around in everyday items.

Oh..what is the point! I named her Annie.

EDIT: Annie flew away the next day evening. :)

Sights and Scents...

2010-01-05T02:06:00.000+05:30

I notice it every time I step inside and take a deep breath. It smells like no other place I have been to. Its home. I wish I could separate out the individual scents. Then I could make any place smell the same. It would be nice to pretend I’m home sometimes. Maybe I can if I try - Is it the smell of the detergent from the clothes that hang outside drying? The aroma from the kitchen’s spice jars? The steam rising from the hot idlis that await as my breakfast? The fragrance from Dad’s hair cream? Maybe it is the smell of the floor’s disinfectant. The whiff of flowers from the puja room. The fragrance of agarbathis from yesterday's evening prayers. The scent of the newspaper that lies unopened yet. The coffee from the cup mum holds? The scent of Yardley that she likes so much? The dust in the curtains that need to be washed? The mosquito repellent that stayed on all night? The scent of wet earth as the plants outside are watered? The smell of diesel fumes as Dad leaves for work? The dampness in the towel that I forgot to dry? The smell of old pages of books collected lovingly over the years? The mustiness of my room that has stayed locked for so long?

What is it really made up of?

The lives of flowers...

2009-12-17T20:47:00.000+05:30

No hands reach out to caress
The blood red flower that blooms
Upon the cactus in the desert;
Though it has struggled much to be.

Elsewhere, loving hands tend to
And eager eyes await the rose;
A spoilt beauty that stays awhile
And droops at the first rainstorm.

Desert flower – it patiently waits.
But even a lost soul, in the desert,
Shuns it fearing the cactus thorns,
As if his roses did not bear any.

Leap of faith

2009-12-16T22:50:00.000+05:30

I took a leap of faith
Trying to close the chasm
That lies between us

Trusted you with facts
To see if I could trust you
With things like feelings

If anything was to be
It would have been, then
In that split second

Blankly, I see, you watch
And fade away to a dot
As the abyss swallows me

I’ll meet the ground soon
It won’t kill me, but I fear
Becoming addicted to the fall

But, there was no choice
You doubted the vague outlines
You made out through the mist
And the chasm was in the way

Midnight walks

2009-12-15T23:44:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, this place will drive you crazy. There will be too many things due the next day. Too many meetings being scheduled and rescheduled. Too much you’ve bitten off and can’t chew. Your room will be a mess with bundles of papers stuffed into random files and piles of unfolded laundry all around. There will be things bothering you, making you restless despite the work that remains to be done. After you catch your attention wandering for the tenth time, this is what you need to do.

Put on something warm and walk out of your room. Step out of the door and feel the cold immediately creep up. It is December, after all. Never mind. Just walk. Let your feet decide which direction they want to go. A lone wanderer in the midnight. There will be guards around but they will know that tonight you are chasing something within yourself. You’ll see them quietly blend into the darkness, leaving you to your quest. The trees will whisper in the still night as a cool breeze ruffles your hair. At some point, you’ll be walking into a light cold mist playing between the roadside trees. Just pull your jacket closer and walk on.

As you walk, you’ll notice the shiny flecks on the dark tar roads, reflecting the light from the sodium lamps. Like stars at your feet. With that, you’ll remember there is a sky and look up – the faint twinkles of fire greet you as an old friend. You’ve met them all in another place and age and time. You pause a while and try to remember their names and the stories behind them. Only a few come to mind. It was a long time ago; just walk on for now. Your footsteps will be the only thing you hear apart from the insects of the night. Sometimes, a moth will keep you company a part of the way.

When you’ve seen all there is to see; when you’ve breathed in enough cold air; when your cheeks grow icy and your hands begin to tingle – you’ll grow aware of your movement, each steady step set to a brisk pace; you’ll feel a faint ache set in somewhere; you see how far you’ve come from the discomfort of your room and you’ll feel a warmth that’ll spread from within. Allow yourself to think now – one by one, your mind will dig out the problems. With every step you take, reasoning begins and decisions will be made. Emotions seem to have been left behind somewhere along the way. One by one, the pile of troubles reduces. These decisions you make in the solemn night, with no witnesses to attest – you’ll oddly find them easy to stick to and somehow just right deep within. Tomorrow will not bring about a change of mind. Trust me.

Finally, you’ll turn your feet homeward. You’ll step back into your room - not exhausted, but just tired. Drop on to the bed and lie there, eyes closed. Feel the cold slip away from your body, looking for the night outside and another soul to comfort. Sleep will be along in a moment. Just wait.

Rites of Passage

2009-12-10T22:28:00.000+05:30

Walk out into the world,
Find a little space to rest on;

Don’t follow anyone’s rules,
Push the limits, define your own;

Discover the inner rhythm,
Hear the whispers of your soul;

Listen for it in the silence,
When in crowds you feel alone;

Open to all there is,
This is the truest you’ll ever be.

And the rite of passage ends,
When you surrender this freedom.

Harry Potter Quotes

2009-12-09T00:45:00.000+05:30

It seems odd that this blog doesn’t yet contain any quotes from the Harry Potter books. So here goes..

Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.
It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.
If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.
Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery.
Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike.
It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.
This is how it is -……….. - there are things worth dying for!
What's comin' will come and we'll meet it when it does.
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
It was like having friends.

I love you, Maggi

2009-11-10T02:22:00.000+05:30

Dear Maggi 2-minute noodles,

I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I come home at odd times, tired of running around and sick of work. The nights are cold these days and I am glad to be indoors where it is warmer. As I drop the keys back in my bag, I see that there is no one around. Empty houses don’t feel like home, you know, and right now, I desperately want to feel at home. I am hungry too and simply want something steaming hot.

I drop my bag and stare dolefully around wondering if I'd have to go back outside for a cup of hot chocolate. Thankfully, I decide to raid the fridge and cupboards first. And there you are…the sight of your yellow wrapper brings a relieved sigh. A cup of water with that heavenly masala goes into the pan and boils away merrily while I break the noodles up. I drop the noodles in the water and wait for the magic.

As I wait, I think back on the countless nights before this when I have stood waiting for you. You are a part of many memories with friends, studies, late nights, books, rain and a growling tummy. I love this smell - who invented that masala anyway? That little pouch is what makes you tick, you know. That, and the fact that no one can go wrong with you.

A few minutes and stirs later, you are ready. I tip you carefully on to a plate and leave the pan to soak in the sink. It is a break for a few minutes as I sit down with a story book that I enjoyed years ago. You are too hot to eat yet. I set you down and try to find an interesting chapter to read.

Right there – Perfection. A book in hand, a warm house smelling of cooking and you nearby.

SIGH….

With love,

Inspired by nature

2009-10-20T00:04:00.001+05:30

Just to prove that my posts aren't all gloomy: A couple of poems inspired by nature. :)

Welcome, Distraction

Dragonflies in the afternoon light,
Gliding over fresh cut lawns;
Willing feet sink into sharp blades,
As I follow one and give up;
When wings shimmering, it darts away;
Escaping my playful fingers.
But another passes enticingly close,
Gleeful, I begin another dash;
Chasing dragonflies in the sun.

The Last Few

The sun is hidden
Behind light grey clouds
And the air is wet
After the rain
The last few drops fall
All the way down
Splashing into the puddle
A circle waves out
The next drop falls nearby
A smaller circle forms
And they clash
The old and the new
And it all looks so beautiful

An Absurd Quest

2009-10-03T11:25:00.003+05:30

There was a dream I was in,
Where I lost something of value.

I searched, but my dream ended,
Before I recovered my treasure.

Since then, every dream I’ve had,
Memory drives an irrational search.

The scene shifts, twists out of shape,
And it always ends as an endless quest.

All I know is, I lost it in a dream,
And now, my only hope lies in another.

Dear Visitor

2009-09-21T21:56:00.008+05:30

Walk down my gallery,
And see all you want to;

Don’t ask me to explain,
My motive or meaning.

My art, though is true,
Isn’t meant for 'em all.

Knowledge only burdens,
The unprepared mind.

So, stop struggling to see,
What is just out of sight.

The meaning is such,
That it heeds no effort.

Daydreams...

2009-09-19T22:33:00.002+05:30

I just finished a huge daydream spanning a few future years. It took me an hour to imagine it.

It was mainly about friendship. About dark, cold nights. Phone calls. Closure. Goodbyes and Hellos. Help. Clasped hands. A frantic chase. Hugs and tears. There was a letter too. And a confession. Cozy chats. Weak links. Sign language. Gatherings. And a face. Silence. Family and strangers. Happiness. Questions and answers. Cheerful voices. Apprehension. Many plans. All the right answers. Pleasant surprises. Perfection. Happiness.

Feelings have an odd way of spilling over from the imagination to reality. I don’t think they notice the difference. I don't think I do either.

Breaking Silent Nights...

2009-09-18T00:02:00.004+05:30

I went to wash my face, tired of falling asleep over my notes. The tap was running and the lights felt harsh on the eyes. That was when it started. Someone was walking across the quadrangle outside, whistling. The notes were sharp and firm. He was excellent at it and I recognized the song ‘Teri adaaon pe marta hoon’ – from Barsaat. I remember watching Bobby Deol and Twinkle Khanna dance in that song - I think it was their debut film. Now, I just stood there smiling to myself and hummed along. Somehow I didn’t feel like finding out who it was. It felt like a moment to be enjoyed, uninterrupted by any questions. The night was silent except for him. He stopped after awhile. Somehow, sleep had vanished.

Some moments always tend to trigger memories. The last trip comes to mind - it was a CD straight out of college days. One after another all those old songs that we loved came up. We sang along, of course. Odd how I can perfectly recall every line of an old BSB song that I haven’t heard in years. The highlight was during the last length of return trip when the roads were emptying, and we felt particularly good after dinner. ‘So gaya ye jahaan’ from Tezaab came up – talk about timing! A smooth road, after the rains, cool breeze, open windows, a city going to sleep and we sang along. Twice. A perfect ending to a perfect trip.

I could go on and on as many of my fondest memories include music. I guess I have a thing for music and the night and silence and free voices – voices not trying to sound good, but just singing. Songs broken by giggles and abrupt changes in pitch. Songs we sing with a smile on our face, not caring how we sound and who hears us. Songs that just happen.

It.

2009-09-16T18:25:00.003+05:30

Just one more time. What difference does it make? It isn’t really wrong, you know? I’m not breaking the law for god's sake! I am not addicted! I can stop anytime. I’m not out of control. I like this. I am choosing this. How can I be out of control when I am making a rational choice? Why are you being so dramatic about this? It doesn’t hurt anyone. It really doesn’t hurt me. It’s just fun and it feels good. It isn’t my imagination! You have no idea what you are talking about. I am stronger than the others. They can’t deal with it – I can. What do you know anyway? I am not going to end up like them. This is just for now – only for now. When better things happen, I will stop of course. How will better things happen? Things happen, don’t they? I’m just waiting here. What else can I do? The others? I don’t want to see the others. They are perfect, I am not. There, happy? That is what you wanted me to say, isn't it? Why can’t you see? I need this. I want this. This thing – this one thing. Think? About what? Why? Don't you understand? I don’t want to think. Thinking is hard - thoughts keep crowding in my head. I want a blank mind. I can't sleep with all that screaming in my head. This? It kills the voices. It brings that blessed silence.

It’s OK. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really.

PS: It's FICTION, people. Please don't get worried!

Voice from an empty nest

2009-08-31T18:32:00.001+05:30

One from the past again.
--------

You are home after so long. I see you. Touch you. Listen to you. I’m just trying to assess the damage the world has inflicted. I want to know if you are ok. If you will be ok. My glance keeps coming back to your hands. They’ll tell me the truth. Despite your brave, kind lies.

Your hands, once so soft are now beginning to show changes. I notice the almost-healed cut on the thumb – what happened? You were cutting up vegetables for dinner? A splash of hot oil has left a burn mark on your wrist. You palms show the strain of having to pump water from the hand pump. The whiteness of the skin hidden by your watch strap is in sharp contrast to the rest of your hand. It speaks of hours of travel in the hot sun. The very lines on your palm seem to have changed directions. But, I also notice that your grasp, which used be that of a child holding on for guidance, is now changed. I feel the grasp of an adult and an equal. You are growing stronger. You stand tall and speak with confidence and conviction.

I’m still scared for you, of course. I can never be sure that you have all that you need. I will fret and worry. Never mind me. I’m just wondering if I did everything I should and could for you. There is no way of absolutely knowing that. I know that. And yet, I do wonder and hope.

Change

2009-08-28T12:40:00.001+05:30

Everything changes. Everything. That is it.

You are walking constantly and so are the others. For a while, you fall in pace with someone. And there is company - laughter and conversation. Then comes a ditch that you cross in a leap and the other chooses to circumvent. You are over the pit instantly and have to keep walking. You can’t wait. You have to keep going. You try walking in circles feeling a bit clever. But somehow, the land is moving too. Nothing ever falls in place in exactly the same way. You try and try and only go dizzy. You take a last look at the familiar face and stop trying.

Sooner or later, you learn that you cannot re create moments or feelings. A memory is just that. A memory. It is a past record. Not a promised future. You stop trying to hold on to what was and go on to create more memories. Such a lot of effort. But there really is no other way. The odd thing is, it isn’t a lesson that stays with you to prevent future mistakes. It happens over and over again. You don’t learn from this mistake.

The Big Read list - how many you have?

2009-08-27T14:27:00.003+05:30

Picked this tag from this blog.

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.

* Look at the list and bold those you have read.
* Italicize those you intend to read.
* Mark in RED the books you LOVE.
* Reprint this list in your own blog.
* Having seen the movie/cartoon/TV series is not the same as having read the book.
* Reading abridged versions also does not count. :)

The List

1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien
2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman
4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling
6. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
7. Winnie the Pooh, AA Milne
8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, CS Lewis
10. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller
12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks
14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
16. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame
17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
18. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
19. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres
20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone, JK Rowling
23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets, JK Rowling
24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, JK Rowling
25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
26. Tess Of The D'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy
27. Middlemarch, George Eliot
28. Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving
29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck
30. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson
32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez
33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl
36. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson
37. Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute
38. Persuasion, Jane Austen
39. Dune, Frank Herbert
40. Emma, Jane Austen
41. Anne Of Green Gables, LM Montgomery
42. Watership Down, Richard Adams
43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh
46. Animal Farm, George Orwell
47. Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy
49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian
50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher
51. The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
52. Of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck
53. The Stand, Stephen King
54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
55. Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
56. The BFG, Roald Dahl
57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome
58. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell
59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer
60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman
62. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden
63. Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough
65. Mort, Terry Pratchett
66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton
67. The Magus, John Fowles
68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett
70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding
71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind
72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell
73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett
74. Matilda, Roald Dahl
75. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding
76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt
77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins
78. Ulysses, James Joyce
79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens
80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson
81. The Twits, Roald Dahl
82. Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith
83. Holes, Louis Sachar
84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake
85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson
87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons
89. Magician, Raymond E Feist
90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac
91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo
92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel
93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett
94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
95. Katherine, Anya Seton
96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer
97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson
99. The Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot
100. Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie

I tag everyone reading this :) This is fun!

Forget it...

2009-08-22T21:22:00.002+05:30

No. I don’t talk about it. Why should I? The more I say the words, the more firmly they embed in my memory. It becomes a story that I narrate over and over again. With time, it will morph into something different from what it was. Unconsciously, of course. Tiny changes - a word here, a word there. I will even believe in every version of it. Soon it will turn into a reason; an excuse I will use with indignant righteousness.

No, better say nothing. Let it be even if I can't let go yet. I feel it now, but without sufficient attention, most things attenuate into nothingness.

I don’t have to forgive if I just forget.

Mostly ok

2009-08-21T15:22:00.003+05:30

Pain isn’t all agony always. There aren’t any tears or even that choked up feeling in the throat.

Sometimes, it is just a deeper sigh than usual. Or a stolen second glance. Or a momentary loss of breath. Or a finger tracing a face in a picture. It is that refusal to look someone in the eye. That search for past feelings in familiar places and actions. An endless walk on aimless feet. It is like the warmth that a hug leaves behind. A phantom feeling.

If you look at it that way, it isn’t really much.

That Feeling

2009-08-18T23:54:00.002+05:30

A poem from the past.

That Feeling

Don’t let it lie,
It won’t die on its own.

Don’t go to sleep, thinking,
It’ll be gone when you awaken.

It’ll stay alive and well, and,
Feeding on you, it’d have grown.

And, you can’t even kill it,
With a single bold stroke.

You see, ‘tis like the dam,
Holding back the flood.

Throwing the gates open,
Will only flood the valley.

Holding it all back,
Will only break the dam soon.

You need to open the gate a bit,
Let the water flow, little by little.

So, try it out this way,

Cut the wound a little,
Let the blood trickle,

Let the life seep out,
Feel its hold slacken,

It’ll take time,
But it will go away this way.

But, whatever you do,

Don’t let it lie,
It will not die on its own.

The unwilling picture

2009-08-07T22:44:00.002+05:30

Scraps of information,
Tossed away, unthinking;

Gathered by the one,
Who knows where to look.

Got enough to start with,
Patch them up on guesses;

Attention then turning,
To the next possible circle.

Scrounge around for tidbits,
Search in what is done with;

Put all the bits together,
See the semblance appear.

Step back a few and look,
At the unwilling picture.

Confessions

2009-07-13T22:02:00.000+05:30

I whispered those little words,
When you were fast asleep.
You might have heard them,
As a part of a strange dream.
You seem puzzled about it now.
But my hidden and veiled ways,
Will not be found till you believe.
Free of guilt; yet not judged;
Mine is the perfect confession.

Where do you go?

2009-07-10T19:57:00.002+05:30

Where do you go when you run away?
Do you merely run around at random;
Only wishing to get far away from,
What you carry within your heart?

Do you walk deep in to the woods,
And sit down beside the old trees,
Listening to them whisper secrets,
Feeling left out all over again?

Do you wander into the marketplace,
Losing yourself within the crowds?
Yet, knowing you aren't one of them,
Just a fraud in the public space.

Do you walk on calm sandy beaches,
And sit down beside dancing waves?
Watching them play with the shore,
Feeling lost in the lovers' world.

Do you slide into a shallow pool,
Withdrawing into that liquid womb,
Blinded. Deafened. Mute and Numb,
Wishing for strength to stay forever?

Do you stop by a place of worship,
And drop to your knees before him?
Asking questions you want answered,
But, greeted by only passive silence?

I don't know why you wander so far,
To find that place to sink into,
An open heart awaits you here always,
Deep enough for you to hide forever.

Why do you go afar, when you run away?

Understanding

2009-06-30T09:35:00.002+05:30

I found a few words,
Put together in a certain way.

They puzzle me a lot,
As they dance in my mind drunkenly.

Making one meaning now,
Then another as they change partners.

He can stop the music,
And explain it all; but, I hesitate.

Everything is a haze now,
And I'm starting to doubt my sobriety.

I'll just wait for the party to end,
Maybe it'll make more sense to me, then.

Conversations...

2009-06-28T10:47:00.000+05:30

I enjoy, need and thrive on conversations. You know - the real and true ones - where there is no pretense. Just two people willingly siting down and talking. Those magic moments when you forge a connection with another and neither is willing to break it. The kind where you are almost afraid to stop, because you aren't sure if there would be a repeat.

Life throws a lot of questions at you and sometimes, you are unlucky enough to not find the answers to it. But you do try. To help you along, life throws people at you. You have to somehow connect to another human being and you do try. It doesn't always work out. Everybody is interesting in their own right, just not to everyone else. You keep looking for kindred spirits all the time.

I keep realizing how much of myself I discover during my conversations with people. It is as if every answer was there inside all the time, waiting for the right question to be asked to unlock it. Do you know what I mean? I realize my stand, frame my arguments, understand another perspective, process so many bit of info in my head and concrete my views. Conversations force me to think and realize. How much each person contributes isn't always balanced, but both people can't think of anything else they'd rather do at that moment. That is what counts.

There are moments when you can sit in a crowd and still feel lonely. Or you walk out of a fun situation, full of jokes and banter and have loneliness overwhelm you in the darkness as you walk away from the brilliant lights. But, some conversations really warmly cocoon you. They create a high from where it takes a while to get down. You can just keep going back over and over again to the same few words and almost recreate that initial delight.

Conversation are a gift of a person's time to me. I would ask for nothing more.

For old times' sake

2009-06-19T19:32:00.004+05:30

You are always here,
Hiding in the crowd.
And I try to find ways,
To reach out to you.
Infusing special meanings,
In the words of my songs.
Hoping you understand;
And wanting you to know.
It isn’t easy to face a void.
Yet, you hide behind silence,
Though you still see and hear,
But, blinded by the lights,
I have no choice, but sing.
Would you return the favor,
Just for old times' sake?

Poem: Overall

2009-06-14T21:27:00.003+05:30

Overall

Above all and beneath it all,
Just so afraid of one or the other.

Bad decisions? Anyone better?
Worth unknown in these new places.

Felt the pulse of each interaction,
Built impressions, possible reactions.

Voices heard by extrapolation,
In the silence that greets an entrance.

Found sights to dislike and unrelate to,
Remaining alone by choices made.

Made up a meaning for all this too,
Twisting what is to sate an ache.

The unsaid.

2009-06-02T00:43:00.003+05:30

1. Have you ever smiled?
2. How can you be so damn sweeet?
3. How much more can you take?
4. Wow…you are rude today, buddy! What’s up?
5. And I thought you were quiet. :)
6. That was some thought!
7. Dude! Stop it, please!
8. What did you just say?
9. Tell me what is important. I am lost.
10. This is fun! We should do this more often!
11. You have done all of that? Wow!
12. Did you honestly not know?
13. Why did you even bother?
14. Do you ever stop laughing? :)
15. You are super-woman!
16. Are you sure?
17. How on earth do you do that!
18. You are nice.
19. Do you sleep at all?
20. That comes at an expense, you know.
21. Whoa! Don’t run!
22. Look around. See? There are others too!
23. You really need to stop doing that.
24. It was just a joke. I’m sorry.
25. Don’t you DARE!

While you are here...

2009-05-27T19:31:00.002+05:30

You run a marathon as if it were a sprint,
Till you find your pace in each terrain.

You push your limits on another's scale,
Till you make it a race with your past.

You defend against chance opponents,
Till you realise this ain't your game.

You rest with just a deeper breath,
Till you glance beyond the finish line.

You dismiss the ache of dormant ability,
Till reason finally catches up with you.

You know all along what you want to do,
You're just too scared to say it aloud.

And that you've noticed life's hard knocks,
Only tells me you may be on the wrong path.

---
Cross-posting from my class blog. I guess this would make sense only to my fellow students, though. :)

Defining limits...

2009-05-17T07:40:00.002+05:30

Some things have to lie within
But where do I draw the lines,
To show where the boundaries lie?

I feel safest in the tightest circle.
But, that’s a self worn strait jacket-
As if I am the danger to begin with.

I opened up enough to let you in,
But with you came in others too,
Couldn’t keep check after that.

I’m not quite sure why I want lines –
For me or for you. For us or them.
Each bound anyway by free will of another.

I’m a part of me, us, them and then all
Tell me, how do I draw the lines,
To show where the boundaries lie?

Help.

2009-05-09T15:38:00.000+05:30

I need to talk right now.
No, I’m sorry.
It can’t wait till you have,
Nothing better to do.
The words are ready in my head.
No idea how they got there.
But now, there is this voice,
That wants to be heard.
It is mine, not me-understand?
A new born creature I host,
That waits on the tip of my tongue,
Turns into a lump in my throat,
And sudden screams in my self.
Silencing thought. Stopping action.
Choiceless, reluctant, I ask of you.
Please listen. I need to talk right now.

Turning a corner...

2009-04-22T15:11:00.000+05:30

I’ve often split myself to avoid making decisions,
And I’ve walked on every path that I wished to see.

There were limits to the things I could do,
But, it was a small price to pay for a taste of it all.

I kept my various lives separate till now,
Never mentioned this there or that here.

Today, there is a lone road leading away.
And I'm struggling to merge the best of all worlds in one.

I see I’ll have to leave some things behind,
Bolted as they are, to this place or time.

Tomorrow, though I may seem very different to you,
Nothing was a lie – just more to me than met your eye.

Letter to Samantha

2009-04-02T21:58:00.004+05:30

I wrote this story more than two and a half years back. Many of the things I've written in this story, were realised while writing it. The end product has turned out to be loooong and really preachy. It actually sounds as if I've decided on all the answers. But, it was with this, that I actively started thinking about some stuff. That is why it is so special to me, I guess. Hope you find enough patience to read the whole thing. :)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Letter to Samantha

Dear Samantha,

I came home from work a bit early yesterday. I normally assume you are in your room working or reading. I never come upstairs to call you before dinner. But something didn't feel right yesterday. I came up to your room and found you lying on the floor. You lay on your side, your back to the door and your knees drawn up to your chest. I thought you were crying. I knelt down near you and touched your shoulder and softly called out your name.

Then I saw the pool of blood and the razor. I remember how I felt then. My heart stopped beating for a moment. I know it did. I felt it stop and then stay that way. Then I saw you heave for a breath. I closed my eyes and willed my heart to beat again. I felt it beat again - Faster and faster. Louder and louder. As if it was trying to beat for you too.

I remember running downstairs for the phone. I called the hospital. I called your dad. I ran back up leaving the door open. You were unconscious. But alive. I dropped down on the floor and tried to stop the bleeding. But it wouldn't stop. You always did things well. Even this. The cloth I held turned bright red as your life spilled out.

I remember talking to you, saying stupid things - more to comfort myself than to help you. I told you that you were going to be ok. The ambulance was on its way. They'd help you. They would save your life. But would they actually help you? I didn't know. I wished you'd open you eyes and yell 'April Fool' though it was December. I wished I would wake up and find that it was just a nightmare. Wake up darling. Wake up. Wake up. Open your eyes and everything will be fine. I was babbling.

I heard the wail of the ambulance siren as it raced closer, then a screech of tires as it stopped. Men running up the stairs. Someone banging doors downstairs. Someone found us and called the others. Suddenly the room was full of people. They took you from me. Doing their job, calm and collected. Someone was asking me questions. I answered him but I never took my eyes off you even for a single second. I rushed after them down the stairs as they went holding you in a stretcher. A neighbor noticed the noise and came over. She was speaking to me, but I didn't understand what she was saying. I nodded mechanically – all I cared about was your frail form in that stretcher being taken away. I climbed into the ambulance along with the paramedics. I still spoke to you nonstop. Jabbering away without a pause.

At the hospital they took you into a room and left me outside. 'Don't worry', said someone, 'They'll save her'. I nodded and sat down. Your father came after a few minutes - Scared and anxious about his little girl. I pointed to the door behind which you lay. It was chaos out there in the corridor. People were rushing in and out of rooms, carrying equipment, medicines, pushing patients in wheelchairs. I felt lost in there. We sat on a bench opposite to the room you were in. The tears finally came then. We cried for you and talked now and then. The doctors came out. Non-committal tones….. God…. Blood…. Loss….. ICU……

I don't know how many hours it has been now. You are in the ICU. They have let me stay near you and I'm writing this. Why? Perhaps to tell you tomorrow when you wake up? I don't know. To ask you questions? To doubt myself? To remember this forever? Maybe I hope that if I spill my thoughts on these sheets of paper, my heart will hurt less?

Right now Samantha, I have no idea why you did this. You wrote no note. I saw no signs of your pain. What drove you to this?

Did you do it to spite someone? Did you find some pain too much to bear? Did you not find any friend to share with? Did we make too many demands? Did you not find happiness in your work? Did someone hurt you? Did something scare you? Did someone leave you? Were you forced to do something you didn't want to do? Did you lose something? Did you love someone who did not love you? Did you care too much? Did you break rules? Did you do something wrong? Did you fear something? Were you ashamed of something? Did you feel guilty for anything? Did you envy someone? Was jealousy a reason? Were you dissatisfied with something? Did you hate something? Are you sick? Were you sad? Did you think you failed in something? Were you tired of trying? Did you feel unnoticed?

I have put down every possible reason I can think of. But I don't expect an answer from you. Whatever reason you had, there was something that made you to stop wanting to live. I don't want to know the reason. I want to know the reason that reason took you this far. Why did that single reason make you decide this while you could have had a thousand other reasons to live? What power does one single thing hold over your very life?

Something happened and your heart hurt so much that you didn't want to live. I don't know what I can do my darling, I cannot hide every bottle of pills, I can't remove every sharp object on earth so you wouldn't use it to hurt your little body, I have never been able to prevent you from doing something if you really wanted to do it. You could always find a way over every obstacle. I have to make you want to live. That is the only way. I desperately want to say that even if the whole world isn't with you, I will be and you must live at least for my sake. But I cannot say that. I keep thinking of you as a part of me. I cannot help it. I'm your mother. I now realize that you are not a part of me. I would have known if any part of me had been in pain, wouldn't I? But I never knew it in your case. No. Not a part of me. But you are a part of my life. My joy and pride. My child.

I was just an instrument to bring you into this world. But you are a separate person - with a mind and heart of your own. Just because you are our child does not mean that you will turn out exactly like me or like your father. The circumstances you have grown in are different, the people you have been with are different and the world you grew up in was different. But I still hope you take in the good in us in your self. You see Sammy, people are not born with a personality. You are born with your mind empty except perhaps for instinct, and as you grow you learn things. The first few years of your life were just spent in learning how to survive. After that you started to think, make decisions and from then on your personality started to evolve. We are all just creating our self. Creating our personality and evolving into a person who is an eclectic mix of good and bad – the sources of which lie in the persons we deal with, the books we read, the work we do, the ideals we believe in, and oh many many more. Who you are, is therefore not just the physical ‘you’ that we created, it is mainly the mind in your head that you created.

You created your self.

Do you see the immense possibility and the power in that? Do you now see how you have the power to do anything on earth that you want to? Do you see how you can be any way that you want to be? Do you realize the wonder of life Sammy? There is absolutely no carbon copy of you on earth. You are the only one of your kind. Do you realize how special that is? You. This bundle of being called you? Out of the billions and billions of people who have walked and will walk here …there isn't anyone who'll fit into your shoes as perfectly as you do. There is a reason why you are the way you are. That purpose of your life is a nagging question that will drag you to search in many places and believe me, the hunt is what makes your life worthwhile.

There are some people whose lives are such that they live for sometime after they die – either because of fame or because of notoriety. There are others whose presence is limited to their lifespan, who live their lives quietly and pass on with out any racket. I don't know which of the two you are destined to be, Sammy. This is a pretty old world and has seen millions of lives. People don't live on Sammy – their work does, their achievements do, their talents do. Books, poetry, buildings, bridges, movies, music, industries, contributions, designs, styles, creations, products – These are what live on. The creator is lost with time. The creation is not. Perhaps now, we don't know who actually invented the wheel – maybe in a thousand years from now no one will remember who invented the telephone. A towering building is built on foundations. The foundation is lost to sight, but it is still there holding the building up. Your work is what you leave to the world, to build on, to negate, to disprove, to understand, to appreciate, to realize, to experience, to help, to learn from, to reach out and to inspire.

That is why Sammy, you need to live, work, create for yourself and for the sake of the work itself. You can not live for others. When you set out to create something, you don't think of the others – you think of how much you want to do and see it done. You think of satisfying yourself. You are not fighting the world Sammy. You are competing against yourself, against the best that you can be. When you set a goal, you must set it by your measuring stick. You can not measure your success using another person's yardstick. You see, we all know where we want to be and what we are capable of. And we are trying to reach there. To the place where we are at our best. Not where we are the best. But where we are at OUR best. That is the only measurement of our worth.

Most of the times, the very result we aimed for will be less satisfactory than the joy we had in the effort we put in to achieve it. Effort spans a lifetime but the result is always a split second. Now do you get where the actual happiness lies, sweety? Dreams are what drive a person. Once you fulfill them, there will always be a strange lingering sorrow – the sorrow that the chase is over and your life suddenly comes to a halt. Only then, you will realize the truth that your actual dream was to chase the dream and not to actually achieve it. Strange is life and stranger are the emotions of humans, Sammy. Shouldn't you be alive to experience this wonder itself?

Yes. 100 years from now, maybe no one will care if a girl called Samantha walked here on earth. But that doesn't matter Sammy. What matters is that you do walk now. The smallest action of one person will cascade over and over like a snow ball rolling down the hill. So you will make a difference no matter what. Unfortunately life is not a movie for us to play back and check ourselves, our actions and their effects. But rest assured sweetheart that you do matter.

Perhaps your mind is confused now, perhaps you heart is troubled. You have ventured into the world and then realized that the world is not perfect. Perhaps I should have cushioned your fall a bit. No. I don't mean that I want to protect you from the world - it is your life and I will not be around forever. I mean that I should have prepared you for what was to come. There is only one cushion a person has against adversity – Confidence. I should have taught you to understand your worth and your strengths. I should have shared my life’s experiences with you, so that you don’t make those mistakes in your life. But somehow we always want to see for ourselves if the paint is really wet despite a board that says so, right? But still, I should have found a way to share my experience with you so that you had a chance to learn and profit from it. There is one thing I blame myself for; that you did not seek help when your heart was troubled. I taught you to be self-reliant. I never taught you that it was ok to be tired sometimes and to lean on a loved one for support and to rest awhile. We were too busy being the perfect parents that we never let you see the painful times in our lives and how we overcame it. You were a large part of our lives. But we made only our joys a part of yours, and not our sorrows. Maybe, if we had done that you might not be fighting for your very life now?

Maybe you expected that your little world would be perfect? Then you saw that it wasn't. But Samantha, how do I tell you this - there is no such thing as a perfect world. Every single thing in your world has both good and bad in it. This is not a movie Sammy, where the actors are superheroes and embodiment of perfection. This is real. In the real world, everyone you meet has both good and bad in them. You must have felt this before. In yourself. One person means different things to different people. When you judge a person, Sammy you actually are judging him by what he is to you and not by what he is to the different people around him. People are odd creatures, Sammy. They aren't the same to everyone around them. If you try to judge a person by what he is to the others around you, you will understand what I mean and perhaps you will find yourself getting confused. We are all human – with good and bad and shades of gray in us. Just because you can see only one shade of a person does not mean there are no others.

Take yourself for example, now.

There is someone who loves you. There is someone who hates you. There is someone who respects you. There is someone who worships you. There is someone who envies you. There is someone who is indifferent to you. There is someone who likes you. There is someone who is your friend. There is someone who thinks you are pretty. There is someone who feels you are nice. There is someone who believes in you. There is someone who trusts you. There is someone who admires you. There is someone who salutes you. There is someone who doubts you. There is someone who laughs at you. There is someone who laughs with you. There is someone who hurts you. There is someone who scares you. There is someone who is glad to be with you. There is someone who dislikes being with you. If you want the whole world to like you, that is not going to happen. For the same reason why you don't like everyone you meet.

You will perhaps meet undesirable characters, perhaps be forced to be where you'd rather not be. You'll have to put up with people's sneers, their criticism, their low expectations from themselves, their fears and their insecurities. You'll have to deal with these uncertainties without giving way under their burden. Don't ever let another person's opinions, words or actions dictate your life. Every man owns only his own life and nothing else. Don’t let anyone take over yours. Keep your life under your control. Use your mind Sammy, you can and you must grow stronger under pressure. Haven't you heard about how diamonds are made under tremendous pressure? You will never be in any situation which you cannot handle. Any time you feel that you need help, just look around you Sammy. There is always help at hand for a person from friends or relatives or neighbours or total strangers. The world is a crazy place. But there are many decent souls as well.

There will be times when you do something wrong. What ever you do, accept the punishment for your wrong. Learn from the mistakes and then let go. Sometimes the very guilt may be your punishment. Your own mind will be the one punishing you, reminding you of your wrongdoing. No my darling, you are not alone. Every one around you is also drowning in guilt at times. Try and make amends if you can. Otherwise hold that guilt and bear it with grace. Use it as a tool to discipline yourself and as a result to better yourself as a human. Understand that you are not alone even in this. It is when guilt has no bearing on you that you have to worry.

We sometimes do things right. Sometimes we do wrong. Don't be cruel on yourself. There is no need to. The point is to go on and do less wrong. The point is to live and to grow into a better person day by day. Most importantly, remember to be happy despite all the trials.

We make our own happiness Sammy, by the choices and decisions we make. And there is no such thing as an unchangeable decision. You can always go back. Make sure you do go back before any damage is done. You wouldn't keep driving down a road once you realize you are going in the wrong direction, would you Sammy? No you'd try to find the nearest exit on the highway and figure out how to set your direction right. You have to do that in life too. Your only objective on earth must be your happiness, earned in a fair and just manner with no harm intended to anyone around you.

Right now you are sleeping. When ever you wake up you just lie there, saying nothing. I have not questioned you. You'll speak to me when you want to. Your bandaged hands will serve as a grim reminder of your heart’s pain. You will hold the scars for the rest of your life. I am not concerned about the physical scars now. I am wondering about the painful wounds you hold in your heart. This may sound very strange and unreal, but they will heal too. With time comes change and with change, the heart fills with a million thoughts, healing the wounds. But first of all, you must choose life. Don't go back on this path again Samantha. This pain you are going through now, that led you to this decision, will not be forever. There are people who can help you and will. You will come back to live. I know.

Anytime you feel unhappy or pained, think of all that you have not done yet. The things you want to do. Think of the music you have not made yet and choose life and happiness, my love.

With Love,
Mamma.

Short Story : Knowledge Transfer

2009-03-21T21:54:00.000+05:30

Since I can't think of anything to blog these days, here's another story written two years back :)

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Dawn had not yet broken over the city. It was a cool morning but the day ahead promised to be a hot and sweltry one. Pedaling hard on his rickety old cycle, the boy turned in to the main road, emerging from a maze of side-streets - somewhere in the middle of which was his home. It was a bit too early for him to be up, but he needed to get to work early.

He could see that the kerosene lamp at the news mart was lit - the owner was there already then. The sound of the newspaper truck grew louder as it came nearer; the boy felt the rush of wind as it overtook him. He heard the sound of the bundles of newspapers slamming on to the pavement as he reached the store. Cold fresh morning air – for all the pollution in the city, somehow the earth managed to give her children a clean start everyday. ‘Odd, how she manages to do that’, the boy thought idly as he jerked the cycle back on its parking stand and locked it.

The owner walked out of the store carrying a little stool and a notebook. He glanced at the boy “In so early?” He asked as he settled down on the stool and started untying the bundle of papers. The boy didn’t answer. He just settled down on the pavement and began helping. “The new fellow should be here soon”, the owner continued, “You have another half an hour before you need to start out anyway and…”.

“Have to get started early today. It’ll take time to show him everything today”, the boy interrupted.

The owner fell silent and the two of them sorted out the bundles of papers. They were just about done when the tower clock stuck an early hour. The boy could see another cyclist coming up the road. “The new chap”, he thought to himself. It was. The newcomer parked his cycle near the boy’s and walked over to the owner. The boy turned away and began stacking the bundles up. He could hear the owner talking to the new chap. Soon he called the boy over and introduced them. The boy took in the other – He was a little fellow, couldn’t have been more than 12 years old. “I was even more young when I started”, the boy thought with a fierce pride rushing through him. The Owner was saying, “He’s been doing that route for 5 years now. It’s his last day today. He’ll show you the houses. Note everything down. Don’t miss any house. It’s early today. From tomorrow you can come in half an hour later than this. That second bundle is yours. You’ll be delivering it in about 12 streets. You know the area right? You won’t get lost or something? Oh! you live here only, don’t you? Ok then…Get going.”

“Come” the boy called out as he walked to the bundle of papers. The little fellow was at his heels at once. The boy picked up the bundle of papers and separated them into two. He pushed one bundle over to the little fellow “Tie this on your cycle carrier. Get some rope from the owner”. The boy finished tying his bundle on the cycle carrier and turned to the other cycle. The little fellow had exactly copied the way he had tied the bundle himself and was looking at his face eagerly waiting for more instructions.

The owner called out, “Come back later to get your wages settled”. The boy thought for a moment and asked “Can I take it now? I’m leaving in the afternoon.” The Owner nodded and motioned to him to come into the shop. He checked the details in a ledger and counted out the bank notes. He added an extra 50 rupees from his pocket and handed it to the boy “There you are, all settled. Count it and sign here”. The boy signed and closed the ledger, the pen still marking the page inside. “Thanks for the extra money. I’ll go home after we finish the route. Tell the other boys also. I’m leaving in the afternoon.” he said. The owner patted him on the shoulder and said gruffly, “You’ve been a good worker. You’ll be fine, boy. Go on now.” He would miss the boy- it wasn’t often that he got quiet, hard working chaps like him.

The boy went out and saw that the little fellow was already seated on the cycle, one foot on the pedal and the other balanced against the pavement, idly pedaling back and forth while he waited. The boy found that he resented this. The kid was, by chance, facing the direction he usually set out on the route. The boy unlocked and turned his cycle around to face the other way. “This way”, he said and the kid hastily turned around. The boy started off in front and the kid followed. With half the papers on the little fellow’s cycle, the boy found it easier to pedal. He could see that the little fellow wasn’t used to the load. He wondered if the kid realized that from the next day, it would only be harder, carrying the entire load. The Sunday papers would be even heavier. The magazines were the worst of the lot – He’d then have balance two bags of magazines slung from his handlebars also. The boy slowed down a bit so that the kid could catch up.

After twisting through many side lanes they reached the first house. The boy stopped. The kid parked his cycle and came over, pulling out a sheet of paper and pencil from his pocket. “One Hindu and one Dhina Malar here everyday. Kumudham every week.” The kid diligently noted all this and wrote down the door number and street name. Then he picked out the papers from his bundle and opening the gate left them at the front step of the house. The boy was starting to pedal on when the kid came back. He hadn’t told the kid that the house owner always wanted the paper to be properly folded and slipped into the grillwork.

A few streets away, they reached the road where most of the customers stayed. He stopped in front of a huge apartment. The boy came back to him and noted down all the details as he rattled them off “There are three buildings here. First building Ground floor – 1A Hindu and Economic times. 2A Hindu alone. First floor 5A Dhina Malar, Anandha Vikatan and Kumudham. 6A – Hindu and Mangayar Malar. Second Floor 9A Hindu and Indian Express, Tinkle and Chandamama, 10A Hindu, Economic Times, Business India and India Today. In the next building Ground floor 2B take Hindu and Sunday times. 4B Indian Express and Dhina Thanthi, Second floor 10B Hindu and Gokulam, Chandamama, 11B Hindu and India Today. In the third building Ground Floor…..” he went on.

The little fellow looked at the long list and hoping that he hadn’t missed out anything, counted out a huge bundle of papers. It took him nearly 20 minutes to deliver the papers there. He came out, slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. The boy had been leaning against gate talking to the watchman. He watched as the kid drank some water after asking the watchman. They started off again. Behind them, in the third building the man in flat 12A had let his dog out. The kid had left the newspapers resting against the door of each flat, on the floor. The Pomeranian created a mess on two of the papers. In the floor below, it ripped two of the newspapers apart. The boy had not told the kid to make sure he slid the papers under the door for everyone in the third building.

The little fellow dropped off the tamil newspapers in the third house. He came back and they set off – the boy had seen the other car there, he did not tell the kid that if that happened, he had to ring the bell and ask if they wanted the English paper as well. At the next stop, the kid went to the first floor to leave the newspaper at the door. The boy didn’t tell him that the owner preferred to find the paper thrown on to the balcony from the street.

All the things that he had missed out would make life terrible for his successor for the next few days. Then he too would learn. On his own. Alone. This was the first job that the boy had held. He remembered all the difficulties he had faced in those five years. The things he had learnt had not come easily, handed on a platter. It had taken scoldings, angry customers, missed newspapers, late deliveries, wrong deliveries of the past 5 years to be what he was that day. He knew that his customers were a satisfied lot. He had treated it as more than just a paper route. His aim had not been to deliver the papers in the morning. He had delivered them right when and in the way that people wanted it. He was how they all began their day.

He had planned out a careful route to cover them all, leaving the late risers at the end of the route. He had taken care not to irritate the elderly men who woke up early and fretted if they couldn’t read the paper before their coffee, by putting them in at the beginning of the route. Today he had taken a different route totally. The kid would now have to figure it all out on his own.

He had not told the little fellow about the little girl in the previous street who insisted on his ringing the bell to wake her up if he was delivering the comic books. Nor about the old lady in this last house who asked him to read out the headlines to her as the others in the house woke up pretty late. In many such small ways he had inter-twined himself into his customers’ lives. He did not feel that the kid had a right to that. The kid would have to build his own way of working and would bring something of his life into the others’ lives. But the kid should not mean the same thing to the people as the boy had.

He could not bear the thought that tomorrow morning he would not be doing this. That someone would step into his shoes. He had the obligation to pass on his knowledge to the little fellow. But he somehow couldn’t bear to be replaced by another that fast and that easily. Atleast for the next week or two, he would be missed. He knew what he was doing wasn’t right. But, he wanted to know that there would be people whose lives would be a little difficult or at least unpleasantly different for awhile.

Insecurity? Yes. Most probably. That basic human need for feeling wanted. The need to be a part of another’s life. For most people, it is that link that gives them a feeling of worth. God! How sick it sounds when I put it down on paper. But it is true. It is another’s appreciation that makes us feel good. Somehow, an unappreciated effort doesn’t seem to have as much value for us. What others see in us means more to us than what we see in ourselves. How much power do we bestow upon our fellow beings! And how easy is it for them to hurt us. The power to create our happiness no longer lies within us. It lies in hands of all those who surround us. People, who are most probably damned indifferent anyway, are the ones we depend on to let us experience the flavor of joy.

Won’t it be wonderful to meet someone who wasn’t insecure about himself? Someone who doesn’t need another person’s sanction to feel a justified pride in his achievements. A person who is so secure in his knowledge of his worth that he needs no reassurance from those around him? Someone, who doesn’t suffer from the illusions that seem to blind most people? Someone who realizes that he is dispensable in most situations and is able handle that truth and all its implications? Someone who, despite the implications of that truth, finds a joy in his life and in living it? Does such a person exist somewhere? A man who does not need others – a purely self-contained individual.

It actually makes no sense – the way we hold on to the past. Why was the boy doing this? Selfishness, perhaps. Maybe mixed with a lot of fear too. Was he was afraid that this was the best he could be. Clinging on to the past probably gave him a false sense of security --- the past is so comforting, isn’t it? Pathetic …Pathetic….. . Scared humans walking all around, guarding their territories like dogs do. Why does the human heart crave permanence everywhere? Everything is so fleeting – fame, failure, success, love, hate, money, achievement…everything. Why do we keep trying to hold on to it all? It all seems so desperate. As if we are trying to achieve immortality by resisting all the changes in life.

Tomorrow, the boy would be miles away and would have no way of knowing it, even if he were missed. But at least he would be safe in his ignorance of reality; free to imagine whatever he pleased, about the situation in the place he was now leaving. He could see that the kid was sharp and would soon be doing just fine at the job. Perhaps he would do better. He would learn to fold the newspapers properly so that he could throw it properly; he’d figure out the correct route and understand people’s needs and preferences. He would gradually entwine into the lives of his customers. The boy didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to get his last day at work, over with.

It took a long time. But some time later, the cycle carriers were empty. The boy turned to the kid at the last house after delivering the paper. “That’s all. You have written down the whole list right?” The little fellow nodded. The boy checked it once to make sure he had not missed out any paper for any house and then handed the paper back. That was the only thing he would pass on to the kid.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

The death and life of a rose

2009-03-15T09:11:00.000+05:30

The girl was in a hurry, I suppose. She had to struggle a bit to get off the train as people outside tried to get on at the same time. As she made it out of the bunch of people crowding at the doors, the rose fell off. A beautiful red rose, more a bud than a flower. The girl had not noticed. I watched the rose and hence the people.

A man walked briskly down the platform with a large suitcase in hand - he almost didn't see it. Then when he did, he fumbled awkwardly in his desperation to avoid stepping on it. He even turned back to make sure he hadn't crushed it. So did everyone else who came along. They all sidestepped the rose so carefully. The fat lady with large shopping bags, the children who walked holding their father’s hands, the lovers who walked holding each other’s,..everyone. They even gave others sufficient warning so that they wouldn’t step on it.

And the rose? It just lay there, letting the world treat it as a queen and a whore at the same time.

Maybe something would happen to it by mistake? And it did. The man rushed to catch the train, dragging his suitcase behind him. It was the luggage that did it – he noticed the wobble as one wheel went over the bud, tearing some of the petals. He paused to see and I fancy he hesitated the tiniest bit. But he had a train to catch, maybe friends and family waited at the other end of the journey. He shrugged away his guilt and rushed on. A child with a pre-occupied mother, picked it up then. How must that caress have felt? I felt a faint upsurge – must have been hope. But, mother snatched it away with a scolding. The child being only a child, was quickly occupied with a colourful poster. The rose now lay crumbled. The child’s hold too seemed to have damaged it more. Or was the damage because mother snatched it away?

How did it matter? The damage was done. After that, no one hesitated, no one changed their step, no one glanced back. Shoes, slippers, luggage and bare feet -they all pressed the flower into the hard concrete. Till it died. Thankfully, the sweeper came over soon, removed the carcass and hid it away in a dustbin.

Poor darling, it wasn’t your fault. How would you have known that you couldn’t let go for even an instant? That you should have clung on, with even a single fibre of your self. Some stranger may have alerted the girl and she may have saved you. Everyone would have admired you at the girl’s office. If only you had known enough to hold on. But you fell. How were they to know that you weren’t thrown away?

Oh! But, I knew. And even I didn’t save you. What a damned life you had.

I must give you life now. In the only way I can. Here. In my words. From my heart.

Story: Social Networking

2009-03-10T20:54:00.001+05:30

I am very preachy. I don't practice what I preach. I'm posting this because otherwise I'll kill it in my drafts folder.
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Social Networking

'Ding Ding Ding', the doorbell buzzed insistently.

Priya turned away from the computer with a little frown on her face - now, who could that be, on a Sunday morning?

'Priyaaa! Open up!' a voice yelled from outside followed by a furious banging on the door.

Priya’s eyes widened in surprise as she recognized the voice - 'Meghna!'. Priya rushed to open the door to a smiling face. Shrieks and hugs followed of course.

'When did you get back? I had no idea you were coming, you idiot!'

'Of course, you didn't know. No one did. It was a surprise to my parents too!' Meghna laughed as she tossed her bag to a corner of the room.

'Oh you are so completely stupid.' Priya said grabbing her friend from behind and kicking every bit she could. The depth of the friendship should be apparent from the shrieks and the liberal physical ‘affection’ expressed.

Finally they were done with saying hello and sat up to take a good look at each other.

'You've lost weight.' said Priya eying her friend critically. 'But, what's with the stupid hairstyle?'

Meghna punched her - 'You don't look so hot yourself, baby! I headed out to CCD yesterday evening like any sane Saturday expecting to see all of you and only Vijay and Ranjan were there. You haven't been hanging out with them for the last few weeks they tell me? What's happened?'

Priya made a face. 'Nothing happened, Megs! I just don't feel like hanging out - that’s all.'

Meghna rolled her eyes impatiently 'OK. You can probably tell me in two sentences, but you won't and now I've got to drag it out of you over the next few hours. OK. I'm game. Got anything to eat? I'm starving.'

'You are always saying that. I'll make you something. You want coffee too, I suppose?'

'Of course, dear. What's a chat without that?' Meghna fiddled with the music system while Priya was in the kitchen. She soon had Boy zone playing softly in the background.

'Hmmm...Still not gotten over your crush on Ronan Keating, I see.' Priya remarked when she heard the music.

'You still drool over George Clooney, don't you?' Meghna retorted as she continued her inspection of the room. 'Your computer is still on - do you want me to shut it down? Oh hey, you are digging through Orkut. Who is this girl - Vani?'

Priya walked in with a tray and said mysteriously. 'Guess.'

What?' Meghna said absentmindedly as she picked up a cup of coffee ' I know this girl? Really? I can't remember. Did I know her well?'

'Well enough to sit behind her in class for two years.' Priya said smiling as she picked up her own coffee cup.

Meghna's jaw dropped in shock. 'No way!' She said in a hushed tone ' Are you seriously telling me that this is Madhuvani?'

'The one and only' Priya confirmed. She thoroughly enjoyed the shock on Meghna's face as she tried to figure out how the fabulous girl in the picture could possibly be the geeky girl in specs and oiled pigtails from their school.

'They've all changed, you know.' Priya said softly as she took over the mouse 'Almost everyone. Remember Krishna - all pranks and jokes? He's married. Preetham - the quiet guy whom we thought would end up in a dusty office somewhere? He designs cars for a living. Vidya? She's cut off all that beautiful hair and has turned as modern as she used to be traditional. Ritu - you won't believe the kind of paintings this girl does. Ranjith - he's lost weight, see? Looks stunning now, doesn't he? Asha - she's married with a kid. Chandrika - having a great time in the US from the pics. Lavanya - all happy and smiling with her fiance. And Madhav at a fabulous holiday at London. Jenny in Australia doing an MBA. Bharath is doing a PhD'

Meghna put her cup of coffee down and stared at her best friend of fourteen years. 'Priya...', she interrupted gently.

Priya stopped the clicking and after a pause clicked on a last link bringing her back to her own page. 'Priya? Still in the same city. Working a boring job. No fabulous holidays to show off. No great changes to shock people.'

'That's what this is about, Priya?' Meghna asked softly and moved closer to hug her friend.

'No. Not this. Atleast, not just this. I just feel all empty. As if there is nothing to do or something stupid like that. Look at them, Meghna! Look at all the cool things they've done. I want them to look at me and say wow, Meghna. Just like I'm doing now.'

Meghna sighed. 'Priya, you can't take the stuff people put on Social Networking sites at face value.'

Priya smiled a sad smile. 'This is how people keep in touch, Meghna. This is how you know what is going on in their lives. This stuff is the truth, not lies.'

Meghna snapped rather irritated, 'Don't be such an imbecile. All this Orkut and face book and stuff - they are people's happy pages. People share their lives here only when they are happy. They disappear off the face of the earth when they are not. Or maybe they become passive readers when they are sad - like you are doing now. Maybe some also try to reach out to long forgotten friends to remember happier times. But, only the happy moments are for the public. Sadness is always private and dealt with alone or with a few friends for company.'

‘I mean - people share news of their wedding, a great new job, additions to the family, got my own car and so on. But, we don't say things like 'My boss hates me. Work is a nightmare.' or 'I'm sick. I wake up more miserable each day' or 'I lost someone so dear to me that it left this gaping hole in my life.'

‘No. These websites are there for the happy times. They are meant for showcasing perfection. This is a great trip I took to xyz. This is a pic of me with my company's top brass. This is my new house. My marriage pics. My new car. Me doing this absolutely amazing thing. The perfect pic of me which makes me look tall, thin, confident and happy in a casual way.’

Meghna’s voice seemed a bit different towards the end - softer, more thoughtful. Priya glanced up to see a frown on her friend’s face. Meghna shook herself out of the brief reverie and continued.

‘It’s just human - wanting to project perfection. Oh! We probably have friends who know exactly what is going on. But, to everyone else, our lives are apparently blissful - moving from one achievement to another. It really is not that way, you know. People studying now probably have a huge loan to pay. They may actually hate the place they are in, the people they are with, the routine they are stuck in. Seemingly happy faces have their hidden troubles. Sure, they’ve done this. But it couldn’t have come easily. They must have given up something to gain the things you envy.’

‘Why don’t you make these sites a source of your information and inspiration instead of envy? You like the things you see? Go and try it.’

Meghna stopped speaking abruptly. Priya sat slumped in her chair aimlessly scrolling through another website. But she was listening. Meghna gently turned Priya’s chair so that they faced each other. ‘Don’t let people’s achievements make them seem too big in your eyes. Don’t be scared to reach out to them because of their achievements. It doesn’t matter, Priya. They are as human as you are.’

Priya sighed. ‘I was just being stupid, I guess.’

That evening, they were back at CCD. Pictures were clicked. Oddly enough, this time, Meghna didn’t ‘pose’ for any. The group laughed and spilt coffee all over the place. The next day, the ‘real’ pictures were up on Orkut. Two months later, Priya went on her first trek.

One for sorrow; Two for joy..

2009-03-06T20:28:00.003+05:30

I'm in the gym - one of my rare spurts of enthusiasm. I huff and puff on the stepper feeling rather annoyed at the girl using the next machine at twice the difficulty level. I look down to see the timer on the machine as it ticks down. When I look up again, it is there - outside, hopping around on the grass. It waits till it is sure I have seen it and then flies away. A pure black crow - the jungle crow

'One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a...'

We used to sing in school. It is the magpie song. I wonder if there are magpies in India. We always sang it for the bigger jungle crows - the blacker ones. I just call them magpies now. It is gone now. I haven't stopped exercising. Auto mode, I suppose. It's OK - just something stupid that kids come up with. I wish I could forget those first two lines forever. I don't have to be scared then. It isn't like the fear you have when you are chased - not the racing heart kind. This is like a grey cloud that seems to hang there whenever you glance up - threatening to rain, making you hurry towards your destination.

I am on the lookout for sorrow today. Not sorrow, just anything bad actually. It is worse this time because there is already something that I am dreading - a difficult meeting with a lot of emotions attached. What are you saying, magpie? Is it going to go wrong. Again? Show me tomorrow, God.

Wait. That's not till tomorrow. Now, if I see one today, then the bad stuff has to happen today, right? I mean, there has to be some rule of that kind. Yeah. That's it. No problem. I can deal with that. As long as it isn't tomorrow. Please let it not be about tomorrow. So stupid.

Done at gym. No major damage. Caught the office bus on time. No major traffic jams. Nothing goes wrong at home. I double and triple check the lock, the taps and switches. I reach well in time at the travels office for my bus to my hometown. I settle down and sigh. If something doesn't go wrong soon, my theory on the effects lasting only for a day would be blown. Then I realize that I paid a few rupees extra for the auto by mistake and the auto driver didn't bother to be honest.

So, this is it? A small loss - is this really it? I can't decide whether to believe or not. But the bus arrives on time, very few passengers too. Midnight must have struck when I was fast asleep, The day is past. And so is the cloud?

***

On the way to the meeting. The familiar feeling of uneasiness in the stomach. It's OK. I look forward to it being over. I know that this will go away then. Practice. It takes about an hour to get there. My book isn't interesting enough. I glance out at the wrong time again. This one is dragging something out of a dustbin. That sinking feeling again. No. Please. No. Why today? But there it was. Of course it all went wrong. Someday, I hope to control my emotions. Today, I couldn't. I stack things up so carefully in the corner - then I forget about it for some time. Then it all tumbles down again. It was the magpie that did it.

But wait. That was nothing majorly different. Only, it kind of got to me this time. Is it over yet? Anything more to worry about? Deepen the frown lines, streak a few more strands white. Can't be over yet. Just the beginning then? Hey, how about showing up with a friend now and giving me some hope?

***

Another day, I haven't seen one. Maybe one of them that I saw and didn't notice was a lonely Magpie? Had to be. It can't have gone wrong all by itself. Wait. Today's problem is because of a mistake a month ago. It must be because one I saw then.

Sometimes it is big. Sometimes it is tiny. But it happens. One for sorrow. Two for joy. It all happens.

See? The perfect theory - it explains everything. You can't disprove it, can you?

Oh, right. You. So sad.

If you didn't read my story, and hadn't heard the rhyme before, you could have lived in peace. Now, the magpies will be after you too. They are such clever birds.

Sorry about that. NOM.

At the movies...

2009-03-04T20:14:00.000+05:30

I don't quite understand why people look at you as if you are crazy if you go to watch a movie alone. I'll admit it is nice to have company sometimes - more comfortable if you have people you know around you. It's especially good to have company for bad movies - you think of so many clever things to say and you need someone to say it to. But, in general, watching a movie isn't a social experience like a picnic is. It is a personal thing - like reading a book. I discovered the joy of movies very late. School and most of college went by without any special interest in them. Nowadays, as much as I like movies, I prefer to watch them at home. The theatre is an occasional treat. You can't let some things become too common if they have to remain special. Besides, it is more expensive on the weekends. :)

The faint smell of popcorn hits me three floors below - I'll always associate The Forum with that mixed smell of coffee, cookies, popcorn and chicken. The weekend crowds don't make it easy to ride the escalators. I head for the stairs instead. There are couples sitting on the stairs, chatting. Third floor. I look at all the posters, pick a movie and buy the ticket. I almost always manage to get a good seat even at the last moment if it isn't the opening weekend - they always have room for one. I pick up a Pepsi sometimes. Today I'm in the third row from the top.

I find my seat and settle down. I love the largeness of a movie theatre. I like it that the ceiling goes so high, that the walls have this curtain like material, that it always feels the same inside despite it being day or night or summer or winter outside. The preview trailers of upcoming releases are always interesting to watch on the big screen. It must be quite an art - making those trailers. Ever notice how even the worst movie looks ok on the trailer? Yeah...those people are good at picking out bits and pieces to create a few tantalizing moments. The ads are a pain, though - especially the jewellery ads. Sometimes, they repeat the same ad a few times in a row - really boring.

And then, the lights dim down slowly as the boy on the moon tosses his fishing line down. The theater itself puts up quite a show apart from the movie that's playing. Very dramatic - the dimming of the lights, the torches of the ushers, the elevated sensation of hearing and sight, the smallness of your self and the final silence of the crowd. Sometimes a prankster hoots to annoy the others.

The story begins and it goes on - sometimes all twisty, sometimes straight. There are all kinds of movies and zillions of scenes. The big screen works best for me when the scenes show places and crowds than a few main people - like an expanse of water, the mountains, the streets of a city, the view from a chopper, city lights at night. Some scenes are sound intensive - bombs falling, music, storms, monsters growling, people screaming - you know the like, when the sound is so intensive that you can feel it physically, the kind that makes you shiver a bit.

I see the people around me in silhoutte when there is some light from the screen. A couple watches cuddled up together, a child holds on to someone and is almost asleep, a man takes out his crying baby, leaving his wife to watch, a bunch of friends giggle and comment at everything going on, families with stern fathers who make sure that the ladies are not sitting next to strange men, people laden with shopping bags block the whole row and then there are loners who just watch and write blogs later. Popcorn bags rustle around me, ice cubes in the Pepsi rattle in my cup as I take an occasional sip.

In the theatre, I let myself laugh aloud. I don't cry at every sad thing, but I do sometimes tear up. I stick my fingers in my ears when the sound or suspense gets unbearable. I also cower down a bit when i expect something bad to happen suddenly - like when they don't show the monster or the murderer and show the possible victim instead. I don't do all this when watching the movie at home, of course. I don't care about the crowd around me - I have oohed and aaahed and wowed and awwwwed and gasped and almost squealed.

There are movies where the climax is played in slow motion and a complete lack of general noise. The pistol shot is so clear and the only sound you hear. Sometimes it is the beep of a heart monitor. Or a person falling or a clock ticking. And there is silence all around you as well. I like that. I stretch as the lights come back on again as the credits being to roll. People don't usually stay to read the credits unless there are some gag reels \ songs \ something special playing. Pity, really - those poor souls who worked so hard and we don't care.

I'm swept along with the stream of people as they move towards the exit. Suddenly, I'm outside and the treat is over. There is just the sorry old world waiting.

Poem: He, you and me

2009-02-28T06:49:00.001+05:30

He thinks of us as stories walking all around him,
And it interests him to note the links amongst us.

Our lives are only pages in a novel that he reads.
And our problems, mere tangles in the ball of twine.

His hands itch to unravel the knots that he sees,
And he yearns to turn the page to see how it all ends.

So, at times, he manipulates us into fast forward mode,
But that’s ok ‘coz, only what’ll happen’ll happen anyway.

He talks of us to others with the pride of possession,
And we exist to some strangers strictly on his terms.

Still, we owe him something

For, however long they slept deep under ground,
Only stories come alive every time they are told.

The Littlest One

2009-02-23T11:11:00.002+05:30

My first glance of you this visit - you stare at me wide-eyed from the safety of your mother's arms. You have a cold and your mum is naturally worried. You are so small, so frail, so blindly trusting - it must be overwhelmingly scary to be responsible for you. It doesn't help that your Mum and Dad are doctors and know every tiny thing that can harm their darling - they don't have the blessing of ignorance. I lift you up carefully. I wonder if my sequined dress would be too harsh on your soft skin. I hold you with care. You are still a bit shaky and as I quickly learn, at a stage when you want to put everything in your mouth. You grab my hair and pull hard. Whoa - you don't seem sick to me!

I carry you around to let you look at things and I look at them with you. Even the patterns on a leaf seem to fascinate you for a moment. But, I am not left alone to enjoy this time with you. Needless to say, everyone is out to catch your eye. You don't seem to care who holds out their arms - you are happy to be with anyone. We call out to you and use anything around to grab your attention – all you need are flashy colours and squeaky noises. We figure out that if we call out your name at a strangely high pitched tone, you laugh. Everyone tries it out. Stern old men break into a smile when they see you, their voices strangely softened to an extent that I don’t recognize them.

Sometimes you cry and we fervently hope that whatever we do soothes you down. That would be something, wouldn't it - to do something just right so as to calm you down?! We pride ourselves on understanding some of your gurgles. Of course we don't, but your mum does. She seems like superwoman to me - constantly feeding you, cleaning you and the mess around you, carrying you around, dressing you up and so on. You aren't easy to care for, you know.

A multitude of aunts, uncles, grandpas and grandmas spoil you rotten - the house is full of bright toys and cheerful clothes. We click pictures on mobiles and gush about you to all our friends who'd care to listen. Grow up fast, little one. Grow up enough to recognize us all as people rather than comforting pillows. It's going to be so much fun! And you should know this right away – you are the darling of so many. We’ll always see you as the little baby we held and crooned to. We’ll go crazy when you sit up, walk and talk. You’ll grow up and we’ll probably give you unsolicited advice at every step, get unnecessarily over protective, completely embarrass you by narrating your childhood incidents and generally behave as a family will.

Get ready for the ride of your life!

Story - Just another day

2009-02-19T21:52:00.002+05:30

Another story written in 2006. I think story writing was just a phase for me.
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He sighed as the signal turned red just as he was approaching. She laughed. She found everything amusing. He loved the sound of her laughter. She sounded like….everything nice…you know.

This was one of those long stop signals. No point in keeping the engine running, he thought and turned it off. Thank goodness it was a pleasant morning. He adjusted the side view mirror so he could see her face. He always did that at signals. It was so amusing to see her look all around, trying to take in the sights around her at a single go. She’d look at vehicles all around and tell him which ones she liked, she’d stare with unabashed curiosity at every person on the road, she’d crane her head up to look at the tall office buildings, turn this way and that trying to read the billboards. She’d giggle and whisper something about someone to him. She’d lean over and check out her reflection on the car nearby. He hoped she’d stay that way for ever – childish, happy and full of laughter.

For how long had he known her? He knew the exact date he had met her. That date was etched in his heart forever. It was on her birthday. It had been nearly 10 years now. Her birthday was coming up now. He’d make it special. 10 years since he’d met her. That was something special, wasn’t it? His life had been so different before she came along. But right now, there were very few people on earth whom he knew the way he knew her. She had turned his life topsy turvy right from the first day. He hadn’t minded that. Coming to think of it, he had hardly noticed the changes as they happened. He had had so many other priorities in life 10 years before. Now it all reduced to just these - Her laughter and her happiness. She had made his life so simple yet so complex. Fears surfaced in him day after day – fears that he had never known before he knew her.

They usually didn’t drive this far out on the bike. But she had insisted and he gave in, as usual. She loved going out on the bike. She loved to feel the breeze on her face as the bike sped over the road.

He watched her face, those dancing starry eyes as her head whipped impatiently from sight to sight. Suddenly, she froze. She was looking at something. She tilted her head a bit and stared. Then she turned away and continued her inspection of the vehicles around them. He looked up from the mirror, in the direction she had been looking at. It was a huge billboard. A pretty model - maroon and white silk – lovely patterns running at the bottom of the cloth – gem work and embroidery above the border – god knows what they called it – some work or the other – It was beautiful. For a moment he saw her wearing it. She’d look perfect. It would suit her perfectly- the colour and the style. Besides, her eyes had lingered over it just a tad longer than over anything else. She liked it. That was all that mattered.

The signal turned green and he started the bike and they were off.

The next day, he drove to that same place again. He left the bike at the corner and walked over to the other side of the road. “Thank god they put in a camera in these things”, he thought as he took out his mobile phone. Of course it was her picture on the wallpaper, what did you expect? He positioned himself carefully and took a few pictures of the billboard. Then he drove to his office. He was 10 minutes late. He didn’t care.

The next weekend, he went to the shop. God! He had forgotten how crowded the garment shops would be on a Saturday. Where on earth was he supposed to go? This place was huge! He stood there looking miserable. “Your wife in there shopping? She won’t be out for some time then. You better find a chair and settle down with a magazine like me.” said a genial voice. He turned to the speaker and mumbled, “No. I just came…to shop…you know…”. The man opened his eyes wide in disbelief and turned to look at the crowd behind him. “Oh! That’s very brave of you. I should wish you luck.”, he said in a voice that was awed and sympathetic at the same time.

He went to the security man standing at the door and showed him the picture on his mobile, ”Excuse me, Can you help me please? I want to buy this. Where should I go?”. The man smiled, “Surprise, is it? Just go to the first floor. Its on the right side of the stairs.”. Relieved, he thanked the man and made his way up the stairs. It was amazing how many people came up to help him out. They found the sight of a man in there very amusing and rather sweet. Half an hour later, he found what he was looking for. It looked even more beautiful than in the picture. He ran his fingers over the smooth material and hummed as he went over to pay for it. At the entrance he smiled and lifted the bag up to show the security guard and the other man. They grinned back and applauded. More conspiracy and the stitching was done without her suspecting any thing. They had gone shopping for new clothes for her birthday long back. But this was a special birthday. And this was a special gift. He couldn’t wait to see her wear it. It was her birthday the next day.

He had woken up at midnight and left the dress on the table near her. She had been fast asleep. It would be the first thing she’d see when she woke up. Morning came and he was woken up by squeals of laughter.

“Daddy ! Daddy ! It’s beautiful. Oh! How did you know I wanted this? Oh! It’s so pretty! Can I wear this dress today? I saw it that day when we went out on the bike on that sign board. How did you know Daddy?” She danced all around the room holding the dress in her hands. She twirled around and ran out of the room. His wife watched the child, amused and turned to him “You do spoil her a lot you know?”. He smiled, “I know. I have only you two to spoil, don’t I?”

His daughter came back after awhile, wearing her new dress. She looked perfect. Just as he knew she would look. The three of them went for a drive on the bike. She settled down on her seat on top of the petrol tank, in front of him. Her head hardly reached to his chest. They stopped at a signal and he automatically adjusted the side view mirror. She looked lovely, like a little princess - His sweet little princess. He felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He put his hand on hers and then bent down to kiss the top of his daughter’s head, just as he had done 10 years earlier; on the day he had first met her.

If you had seen him that day, he would have been just one more person in the crowd for you. That day was very special to the three of them but it was just one more day in the calendar for you.

PS: Now, tell me truthfully, who did you honestly think the girl in the story was when you started reading? Just curious. :)

Short Story: Betrayal

2009-02-13T21:16:00.000+05:30

A post from the past - a story written about 2.5 years back. I haven't written a story in over a year now. :(

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BETRAYAL

He woke up that morning from a restless sleep. He had woken up at least three times earlier and found it was still pitch dark. He had tossed and turned all night, desperate for the morning to come. Now he could finally see dawn approaching when he looked out of the window. He lay there on the mat spread on the floor, watching the colours of the sky change beyond the bars of the window. When he finally got up after a while, he was careful not to wake the others up. It was too early. After about an hour, he came back to the room and called out to wake up the other children. Slowly the corridors of the orphanage filled up, as noisy as any weekday was – with the fifty four children getting ready to go to school after helping out with small chores. The day was usual – he stopped about 3 quarrels, cajoled the youngest kid to eat some breakfast, ordered defaulters back to their chores…

He was dressed in the white shirt and khakhi trousers which was his school uniform. The clothes were clean and neat. Not ironed. The orphanage couldn’t afford those extra expenses. But he had washed and hung up the clothes carefully, folded them neatly and kept them pressed under a bundle of books. Those clothes and books were what made him different from all those children who worked, begged, lived and grew old and died while still a child. Yes. He did not have a family – no blood relations. But what did that matter? He was lucky to be here, to be able to study – to have the means to make a life that he wanted. To choose and not to be led by inevitability. He was the best in his class just because he always wanted to be better. Never satisfied, never complacent.

He stopped for a moment before he picked up his books. Like everyday, he thought of all those people who were helping him to get this education. Those who set apart a small part of their income to reach out to people like him. The ones who didn’t do it out of a sense of duty or a need to feel benevolent but those who did it, as they would throw across a rope to rescue a person about to fall – Not to see the other live because of their help, not to create a sense of eternal debt, but just to see the other person alive and glad to live on. He never saw them. He didn’t feel obliged to them. Their help was a loan that they were repaying themselves for some hand that had helped them once. It was still a loan given to him that he would one day repay to another. He picked up his books and went out. He was among the eldest and had to take charge of the younger kids on their way to that old rundown set of buildings that stood around a dusty playground - the government boys’ school in the area. All the boys in the orphanage went there. The girls went to the government girls’ school a little further away.

The day seemed to drag on and on. He couldn’t concentrate in any of his classes. He wished the last period of the day would come soon. He didn’t even go to eat lunch. He sat in the classroom instead – he didn’t have too many days left to spend here. School life was almost over. He tried to occupy his mind with other thoughts – but his mind absolutely refused to co-operate and kept turning back to the same topic again and again. Ever since he had handed those sheets of paper yesterday, he had been waiting for the answer. He was almost sure of the answer. But still he waited for it. Clinging on to some shard of hope or was it hopelessness? Today he would know the answer to the question that had pricked his heart for so long. Finally.

The last period was English. They had had the same teacher for 4 years now - that was a miracle because people like him didn’t stay to teach in government schools for long. But he had stayed and everyone liked him. The boy remembered the first time the man had taught them. He had made the subject come alive, bringing characters alive with his descriptions. It was magical to hear his voice – that voice that seemed to belong to a magnificent podium in front of an eager audience - not this forgotten school in the middle of nowhere. The boy had taken him to be a person who was repaying some loan of his own. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had left at the year end. He’d have been glad that he had met this person at all. But to his surprise, the teacher had stayed on. He found fault with no one, was easy going and praised everything everyone did. He was always smiling and called everyone by name. He wore worn out old clothes, though he could afford better. Not that he did not notice his own clothes. But he seemed to derive some happiness out of being more and more like them. The boys accepted him and that was what he wanted.

He was now returning their essays back to them, marked with his comments on the back of the paper. The boy turned his sheet over and read the remarks – “Excellent work. Keep it up. “, scrawled in a corner with a red pen.

The boy waited till everyone had left the class. Then he walked over to the teacher’s desk and laid his paper down on the table. “Do you really think that what I have written here is good?” He asked quietly. The teacher nodded enthusiastically, not looking up, busy bundling up the papers, “Oh yes. It is really nicely written and nice thoughts…quite different, you know”. He looked up smiling but when he saw the look on the boy’s face, his smile slowly faded. He wished he was not sitting down. The boy seemed to tower over him, but he was no giant – just a lean young boy.

The boy looked at the man straight in the eye – “You know that what I have written is total rot. I know it too. Why do you praise everything we do? Do you think that this will give us confidence? You are wrong. It makes us weak and not strong. Do you feel that you are doing me a favor by saying those words? Do you just feel sorry for me and for all the kids here – sorry for our backgrounds, sorry that we cannot afford better clothes, that we don’t have a proper home? Are you trying to satisfy your self by praising our mediocre efforts? ”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”, the man snapped back irritated. But he did. Oh! He did know what the boy was asking. The questions that his own conscience had tried to ask him long back before he finally turned deaf to that little voice. He didn’t want to answer. He wanted to silence this boy, the way he had silenced his conscience long time back. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do anything at all.

The boy didn’t raise his voice – but his voice was so cold, dispassionate and restrained. The man wanted to look away but something made him to meet that accusing gaze.

“Do you know why you get along so well here? Why everyone likes you? You don’t ask for much. You don’t demand. You have no expectations from your students. You are not here to show us what can be and how to reach for the stars. You think we belong here and this is just right. And the others, they find that convenient. You give us no challenge, no reason to do better. You are damn easy to please. I can write anything in the world and you still give everyone the same comments. ”

“You are afraid aren’t you? Afraid that if you don’t say those things and act the way you are now, you will not be liked? You felt that you were doing some good by praising us even when we did not deserve it. You thought that appreciation would give us strength? You thought that we were hurt by enough in our lives and would find comfort in your words, even though it was unearned and empty? You said them out of pity, didn’t you?”

The teacher didn’t respond. His student was reading his mind well. He found that he was not able to even breathe properly now. How could he? The boy’s words seemed to eat into him and threatened to suffocate him with their truth. He didn’t even dare nod his head. He wished this boy would go away and leave him in peace. He didn’t want to argue. Not with this boy who stood so straight at his desk and looked like that into his eyes.

“I am disappointed in you. You are really good at your job. Not like some teachers who come to schools like these, who are here because they are not good enough to be somewhere else. When you started teaching us, I was so happy. I thought you were someone who would help us to become better persons by being an example to us. But over the past four years, you have done nothing but create false impressions of our selves in us. You have only managed to give us false hopes. What will we do when we go out into the world and realize just how false this is? Why don’t you just tell me that what I have written is nonsense? Why don’t you just throw these sheets of paper in my face and tell me that? Don’t you see what we need? We need you to help us be the best we can be. To reach for something that is better than this. The worst of it is that you want to be like us. You try to hide your own self to be like us. You think that we will be happy to meet more like us? You have no idea how wrong you are. I’m dying to meet someone who is not like us – a person who will not succumb to the pressure, pain and under people’s sneers. ”

The boy paused. He was breathing a little faster from his effort. Not the effort of speaking those words. But the effort of restraining himself while speaking them. He held out the sheets of paper to the teacher.

“This thing I wrote – it is no good. I know that. Because I wrote it that way. I deliberately did my worst. Do you know what kind of desperation I am in to have done that? After all this time, to meet a person like you. Then to slowly begin suspecting what you were doing and to finally see the ugly truth? You’ll praise my pathetic effort though you feel revolted by what you see, just to spare my feelings? Am I supposed to feel grateful to you for not asking more from me? I would have been so much happier if you had trashed me black and blue and ordered me to do better. You are blind. Blinded by your heart’s feelings. I don’t need your pity. I need your mind. When someone I admire appreciates my achievement, you have no idea to what heights that can spur me on to. That belief that the appreciation I had seen was earned by me by the work I did. You must show appreciation only where it is due. For things that your mind has consciously found joy and achievement in. Otherwise your words mean nothing. “

He stopped. He looked at the pale face of the man in front of him. When he looked at the man’s eyes, he knew that he had broken an illusion. He wanted to stop but there was one more thing to be said. To be heard by the wreck of a man who sat in front of him.

“To a person whom you show your appreciation for a mediocre effort, praise it to the heavens because you feel he will be hurt otherwise, he knows deep within that you lie. Just as I do now. And after you do that, if you appreciate a truly well done work – something spectacularly perfect in its creation, in the same way, you insult the creator’s talent.”

The boy turned around and left the room, pausing long enough to drop the papers into the dustbin near the door. His heart was heavy. But at least he knew and was prepared to meet the world. He had enough confidence in his ability and in the power of hard work to create the life that he wanted. What would happen to the others? Would they be able to bear this betrayal?

Tag-time!

2009-02-10T16:31:00.002+05:30

Picking up a tag from Infyblogs. :) This was fun!

3 names I go by:
# Malavika
# Malu
# Maals

3 things that scare me:
# Loneliness
# Guilt
# Being vulnerable

3 people who make me laugh:
# Charlie Chaplin
# Sitcoms
# My cousins when we gang up

3 things I love:
# Some people
# Reading and writing
# Ability

3 things I hate:
# Narcissists
# Littering
# Closed minds

3 things I don't understand:
# Finance, pricing and economies
# Politics
# Belief

3 things on my desk:
# Bag
# Mobile
# Papers

3 things I'm doing right now:
# Working
# Checking gmail, twitter on mobile
# Writing this

3 things I want to do before I die:
# Write something unforgettable
# Read aloud to a child who listens wide-eyed
# Holiday on an island where the seawater is a clear green

3 things I can't do:
# Dance
# Make friends fast
# Judge a person right on first impressions

3 things I think you should listen to:
# Sonu Nigam’s voice (but, ofcourse!)
# Anyone who needs to talk
# Your self

3 shows I watched as a kid:
# Dekh bhai dekh
# Swaabhimaan (my first and only soap. J)
# Derrick

3 things I want in a relationship:
# Love
# Courage
# Prudence

3 physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to me:
# Well groomed
# Height
# Pleasant features

3 of my favorite Hobbies:
# Blogging
# Movies
# Reading

3 beverages I drink regularly:
# Water
# Hot chocolate
# Err…nothing else

3 things I like about myself:
# My imagination
# Willingness to adjust
# Ability to withstand pressure

3 things I hate about myself:
# Poor memory
# Bad loser
# Over-cautious nature

3 of my everyday essentials:
# Food, water, air
# Internet
# Hot water

3 things I am wearing right now:
# A pair of new earrings
# Perfume – I don’t know the name
# Boring old salwar kameez

2 truths and a lie: (figure it out)
# I am a typical Virgo
# I am good at sports
# I worry about almost everything.

3 people I want to tag
# Anyone reading this. (Please send me the link if you do pick it up)

The fallen angel

2009-02-08T19:33:00.003+05:30

Short verses from the past again - I wrote these lines a little more than a year back, I think. I hope I haven't already posted it here. Oddly enough, I could write it back from memory - some things sink too deep to be forgotten, right?

Go to sleep now, my dearest
Close those troubled eyes.
You don't have what it takes,
To be able to look into mine.
Just a fallen angel now -
My angel, nonetheless.

Replacement

2009-01-27T09:06:00.001+05:30

After you left, I took out part of my heart -
The part where you used to fit in so completely,
(You had to fit - you see, I built the rest around you.)
I dissected it into bits and pieces -
Creating a jigsaw puzzle for me to play with.

Each day since then, I set out with one part in hand,
Trying to find things to replace that piece in the puzzle.

It will be quite a collage by the time I give up,
And I know the pieces for which there is no substitute.

Some parts of you will still remain in the puzzle,
Glittering bits of a whole that once was a heart.

Are you doing the same somewhere near or far?
If so, I hope you find substitutes hard to come by.

A stolen moment

2009-01-15T22:51:00.004+05:30

After the long walk, I finally turned into our silent street. 7:25 PM by my mobile. All the neighbors would be glued to the TV watching one of those never-ending serials. As usual the puppies came running when they saw me. I had to smile as they rushed around my ankles barking in their childish tones. There is something unbearably lovely about the way those pups welcome me back home everyday. The brown one is my favorite. She is the sweetest little thing with a white stripe right down her forehead and white feet. She has this cute way of cocking her head to one side when I say something, as if she understood every word – definitely the most patient and the gentlest of the three.

Mum was watching some serial…I smiled to myself. She never missed it. I made my usual comments on how goody-goody the protagonist was and mum replied with her usual – ‘I don’t say anything about the things you watch’. The usual routine, you know. I rummaged around in the fridge searching for something for the pups’ supper. Finally found some old bread. I was opening the door when mum called out – “You really are coddling that brown puppy a lot you know.”, she said. “Aww…come on mum – she is such a sweet little thing”, I protested.

Mum nodded- “I know…But you have to stop feeding her out of your hand. I put down some food today morning and the other two ate it all up. She had no idea what to do. Kept following me around yelping all the time”. “She is so little mum! She likes to sit with me and play around while eating.” I argued. “She is as old as the others are. What you are doing is not helping her in any way”, Mum insisted.

I sighed. “Mum’s right.” - I told myself firmly. I stepped out and the pups ran around in delight. “No petting. No. No. No.” - I repeated.

I just dropped the pieces of bread on the cement floor. The other two pups immediately grabbed a piece and ate. But the brown pup just stood there sniffing at the bread and looked up at me. Was I imagining things? She lifted up one paw and touched the bread piece and stood there looking at me mutely. I didn’t move. After about a minute or two, she picked up the bread and began eating.

Yesterday I had played tug of war with her with another slice of bread. She had eaten out of my hand and licked up the crumbs making me laugh.

I shut the door and went back in. “Well…did they ALL eat?” Mum asked meaningfully. I nodded.

That reproachful look clung to my mind. An hour later I couldn’t stand it. Mum was in the kitchen. I went out silently and opened the gate again. She was lying down on the door step with her head between her front paws looking straight at me. I knelt down near her. “I’m sorry sweetie.” I whispered,” But you must learn to eat on your own.”

She cocked her head and listened. I looked up at the silent road. The other two pups were rolling around playfully on the grass a little way off. I felt her warm wet nose on my fingers and ran my hands on the soft fur of her head and neck. We sat there in the cool dark night, till I heard mum calling out for dad and me to come to dinner.

As I stood up to go, she licked my hand once and then ran over to join her siblings in a game.

“I know mum”, I thought as I watched them play, “She’ll eat her meals like the others from now on. But a few moments alone - with just her and me – she needs that and so do I.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Brownie died while still a pup - we don't know why - we just found her cold one day. I'll always remember her. Our street dogs are the closest to pets that I've had (Goldfish don't count!) This is again a post from the past - about two years back.

Love

2009-01-14T16:29:00.001+05:30

Sadly enough,

Love isn’t judged by how much of yourself you gave,

Instead they check how much, what you gave, filled.
Fall short of the mark and turn worthless in one shot,

No matter what was drained out of you in the process.

The Simple Wishes - 1 to 5

2009-01-13T22:34:00.001+05:30

Infyblogs is a very special place for me. That is where I started blogging. Till now, my blogspot account remains a sampling of the posts in Infyblogs. In a few months time, I will bid Infy goodbye and I've planned to make my blogspot account complete with all my posts.

The most interesting times on Infyblogs was when a friend and I wrote a series that we called 'The Simple Wishes'. It was a much simpler time. I was at a mushy-mushy stage in my life and my writing showed that. I wrote 25 wishes. My friend wrote 25 more. We would post one wish each day on alternate days.

The first five of the wishes. From two years ago.

Let me ask of a friend just once
A question worded only in silence,
Let the answer be a simple smile
Let that be all that we both need…

Let me wander in a crowd,
Holding on to another hand,
With no care at all, except to hold,
Child-like, letting the other lead me on.

Let me once catch unawares,
A loving look trained on me.
A soul so lost in complete joy,
At the thought that there is me.

Let us all peep into my niece’s cradle,
Let us find her wide awake and smiling.
Let me then be the envy of the group,
When she holds out her arms only to me.

Let me find my favorite book in a second hand store,
The margins filled in by the one who owned it before,
While I read his thoughts, let me be filled with delight,
That a total stranger’s feelings match mine so right!

How difficult is it to say 'I don't know'?

2009-01-11T10:06:00.000+05:30

I'm reading 'Doctor in the house' by Richard Gordon. Funny stuff :) It is an account of the student life at a medical school.

I couldn't stop laughing on the bus when I read about the first time that the medical student examines a patient. He takes her pulse, examines her tongue, teeth, eyes, listens to her on the stethoscope and tries to make his escape when ....

'Aren't you going to examine my tummy?' asked the blonde with disappointment. 'All the doctors examine my tummy. It's my tummy what's wrong.'

'Tomorrow,' I said firmly. 'I have to go and operate'

How could I tell her in front of the nurse I had not yet learned as far as the tummy?

I laughed and laughed on the bus. The girl next to me tried to peek into the book to see if she could get the joke.

He sings to my soul...

2009-01-09T20:59:00.004+05:30

I have always wanted to tell the people whose talents I admire - that I admire them. I sometimes think that they may need to hear it. To some who are in my reach, I say it. But, some are out of my reach. But, heard or not, melodies and praises must be sung. India is a land of music and there are many singers worth adulation. But, one name will always stand out for me.

Dear Sonu Nigam,

You have a beautiful voice. I fell in love with it when I was in school. People may dismiss it as just a schoolgirl crush on a star; but, it wasn't. It has been more than ten years now and I still remain completely bowled over by the way you sing. Do you know why I love your voice? It is just because I can sense the emotions spelt by the words brought alive in your voice. You don't just sing.

You have, of course been fortunate to find the best songs, the best music, the best co singers and the best musicians to walk along with you. But, I do single you out despite that - because weirdly, I don't have to understand what you are singing to like it. You have sung so many songs in unknown languages that I love and yet don't understand. It's just your voice and the music that takes me through those unknown words - I imagine that I understand since the same emotions, I have heard in a language I know too.

There have been songs for every emotion - joyful ditties that make me want to laugh, soulful numbers that leave me quietly reflective, pain filled lamentations that reawakens my own pain, angry storms that rage against the world, patriotic songs that united the nation against some unknown face - and so many more.

I am a fan and a critic. There are songs I love and there are songs I don't. But every time, I recognize your voice at the first strains of any unheard song. I love the little ways in which you stretch the song, to leave your voice echoing in my heart after the song dies.

I have been to one concert by you - years and years back. You were really good and sang every kind of song. Except my song of hope. It is a little known number. No one would demand you sing it. But sometime, I wish that I attend another concert of yours where you sing that song. The feelings that come up when I listen to that song on my tape recorder, would pale in comparison to the joy of hearing it live. And I need feelings like those your voice awakens in me - to feel alive.

With admiration,
Me

Sometimes...

2008-12-12T14:22:00.002+05:30

I wish I hadn’t been born a girl. Girls are crazy, you know? Selfish, self-centered, calculating, catty and generally impossibly complex beings. Oh, we have some good qualities as well – we love like crazy, always have more to give, can weather many a storm that would leave a guy battered and so on. But still….

From the cartoon strip ‘Hagar the horrible’

Hagar the horrible comes upon a beautiful damsel tethered to a post.
He asks “Excuse me, but aren’t you a damsel in distress?”
“Yes”, she answers.
“Would you like to be rescued?” he asks.
‘Yes,” she replies, “but only by a handsome and young knight in shining armor from a really good family”
Hagar walks away perplexed - “Damsels in distress are getting more picky every day”

I’m reading ’10 stupid things men do to mess up their lives’ by Dr. Laura Schlessinger.

Book review - Marley and Me.

2008-11-25T10:28:00.001+05:30

Sigh. I love animals. Especially dogs. Especially golden labradors. When Marley looked at me at the library from outta the book's cover, I had to know his story. That was how I ended up picking up 'Marley and Me - life and love with the world's worst dog' by John Grogan from the shelf. Seriously, how can anyone resist that 'tilted-head' look!

The book is an biographical account of a young couple - John and Jenny - as they start out on married life. Extremely terrified about starting a family, they decide to first try to bring up a dog, and in comes the first addition to the family - Marley – a male golden yellow labrador retriever. From the beginning, Marley proves to be a handful. He is a compulsive chewer of things – eats everything and I mean that. To Marley, things large enough to get into his mouth are breakfast, lunch or dinner.

He grows up to be full of energy (which he takes out on every person in his path), terrified of thunderstorms and with a serious obedience problem that leaves his owners in despair. After three children, two moves and a movie, Marley is still with them. But, the signs of old age soon set in. Arthritis, infections, poor eyesight and a scary close call later, the family faces a day when Marley can no longer hold on.

The book takes us from right from how they picked out Marley to when they buried him and moved on with their lives. But the book is not just about the fun times and Marley's antics. It is about all the things that life throws at us – the joy and pain in work, marriage, children, moving, finding dreams and everything else. And about how a crazy dog called Marley crawled into their hearts and stayed through all that.

Through their short life spans, our pets help us to understand life. As we watch them at various stages – play, love, fear, family, old age- we realize that things happen at a higher pace to our beloved animals. Their lives are on fast-forward mode. At the end, I think they make us better people – more loving, caring, accepting of faults and help us adjust to the inevitabilities of life - which to humans are the same as to any other animal.

Book review: To sir, with love.

2008-10-31T15:15:00.003+05:30

Everyone faces problems. How would you like to read the story of an individual who faced some problems? Someone just like you and I – a struggle to find a job, facing a hostile environment, braving on through tough times and finally gaining acceptance. A simple story told in a straightforward and descriptive manner yet, different enough to be made into a movie. Pick up a copy of the semiautobiographical 'To sir with love' by E.R. Braithwaite.

A young black man – Rick Braithwaite returns to civilian life after the war. With the end of the war, the admiration that he had received as an RAF pilot, suddenly ceases. In his ordinary suit, he returns to be a black man on the streets of London looking for a job. Discrimination and racism do not exist – only on paper. He is unable to find a job because his skin colour and his high qualifications don't go together. He finally takes up a job as a teacher in an East London school.

Predominantly white but significantly poor - the children at the school are the kind whom circumstances have forced to grow up too early. Poverty, lack of role models, living in squalor - hey don't have much to look forward to. Braithwaite faces his first class who eye him with complete hostility. A bunch of boys and girls in their last year at school, they will be out in the world earning their living after this. Nearly adults, not mere children.

Pranks, indiscipline, rudeness – the youngsters leave no stone unturned to make their new teacher uncomfortable. After stumbling at the initial blocks, Braithwaite's patience and a demand of higher standards from his students works out well to change their attitude. The change he brings about amazes his fellow teachers. Among the children and their families - 'Sir' becomes much admired and trusted.

Our teachers become our second parents – considering the amount of time they spend with us. There is always some teacher we remember years later – who did more than teach and who moulded us by being someone we could look up to in that impressionable age. The story was made into an unforgettable movie starring Sidney Poitier. Even compared to that, I think the book is better.

*****First published in Bodheverse - October 2008 issue. *****

What he does in play...

2008-10-23T18:10:00.000+05:30

He sometimes picks me up without warning
And shakes me up pretending I'm a snow globe
Then sets me aside and watches, perhaps, amused
The uprising of emotions and the turmoil inside
I wish he'd let me be and not stir up the white stuff
It blinds me for some time, those feelings all around
And when things settle they are not where they were
And I'm left trying to find my self all over again.

A moment to remember

2008-10-15T09:02:00.001+05:30

A handful of roses

Half blooming buds

Held between

Two hearts caught

In an illusion

Rapt eyes unaware of

Any other presence

Or possibilities

Gaze into each other,

Making up meanings.

Their soft eager tones

Holding many promises

Completes the spell.

A moment’s glance frozen

To give reason and hope

To more hearts than two.

Book Review: All quiet on the western front

2008-09-24T21:17:00.000+05:30

Once in a while, you happen upon a classic. You know what it is by the worn nature of the book when you pick it up from the library's shelf. 'All quiet on the western front' is a book of that sort. Originally written in German by Erich Maria Remarque in 1929, the book is a first person account of World War I by a German Soldier-Paul Bäumer.

Paul and his friends - a bunch of German schoolboys, enlist in the army at the insistence of their school master, some doing so against their own wishes. We see the war through the eyes of these youngsters. Though filled with fine feelings of patriotism at the beginning, they find themselves systematically broken down during the harsh training. When posted at the front,they learn to rely on their instincts rather than reason to direct their actions. They learn to give in to the animal in themselves in order to survive.

Indifference becomes their way of life - the only way they find, to be able to take the horrors of war. Starvation, disease, non existence of any personal space, fear of pain, death and the morrow fills each day. Outnumbered by the enemy, they soldier on in the face of the inevitable. How would you feel if you had to march past a bunch of newly made coffins, knowing one of them was meant for you - perhaps to be used that very day?

Theirs is a generation betrayed by the previous one. No future seems to be possible after having seen so much at such a young age. Some die painful and prolonged deaths. Some lose the will to fight. Some go insane. Some are crippled. And the rest go on, the numbers of their company reducing each day.

Nations at war depend on the bravado of the soldiers at the front. Sometimes, one wonders who the real enemy is. Is it the soldier on the other side of no man's land, the leader who first decided to go to war, the commander who has to send half healed men into the battle again, the school master who first almost bullied them into believing this was their duty or the people who sit back home and feel proud of the 'young heroes'?

This is a book that will question boundaries, nationalism and patriotism by showing what they all reduce to finally.

First Impressions - Delhi

2008-09-23T21:41:00.003+05:30

I was at Delhi for a couple of days in August. Here are my first impressions of India’s capital city.

Delhi is a huge city and each place feels so different – the government offices – majestic in their power, the monuments and memorials - silent and mourning, the bazaars – loud, confusing and vivacious and the people - mostly unhurried.

Very little traffic and pollution

Most of the sight seeing attractions are far from each other and hence, there is very little traffic at any one point. The roads are great, so just cruise along! You can get around on the metro or bus or autos or taxis. Pollution by vehicles is kept to a minimum by the public transport that runs on CNG.

The sight-seeing

A tour of the monuments is a must - India gate, Raj Ghat, Rashtrapati Bhavan, Parliament building, Birla Mandir, Qutb Minar, Red fort, Bahai temple (Looks beautiful from the air). The kind of intricate work on some of the older monuments leave you gaping. I also visited the doll museum that houses over 6000 dolls from all over the world representing their country's customs and ways – quite interesting to children and adults alike.

A haven for bargain shopping

Bazaars are around everywhere and you can bargain a lot in most places for clothes, electronic goods etc! So, put away your timid feelings and jump into a heated discussion - more often than not, you'll get a good deal. Check out Connaught Place, Palika Bazaar, Karol Bagh market, Sarojini Nagar Market and Chandni chowk. Each market is closed on a particular day of the week – do check before you decide your itinerary.

The weather is pretty hot. I wonder if all the gardens and parks have helped any to reduce the heat. Most places demand some walking. You'll find lemon soda stalls everywhere and it tastes a bit like heaven after a tiring walk.

Agra is just a few hours away and I am told I missed a lot by not visiting the Taj Mahal. Oh, well – there is only so much one can do in two days.

Helpful websites:

http://www.bharatonline.com/delhi/

***First published in Bodheverse September Beta Edition***

When the scales fall

2008-09-20T10:18:00.002+05:30

The truth is out there,
Though obscured by high hopes and
Hidden by clouds of love and lies;
The hiding made easier by trusting eyes.

But, when I hold a tear in my eyes,
The fog clears up; I see what is.
Everything so clear and true when
Viewed through the lens of pain

Moments of healing of another kind-
Those cold fleeting moments,
When true colors flutter into view;
Trembling, with each drop's fall.

Alone

2008-08-20T11:07:00.001+05:30

Each of us - we walk alone,
Despite all the noise around,
Solitude - the only tie binding us together.

No one really close enough,
To claim a complete hold on me,
I live with, without, due to and despite you.

Nothing to envy, prove or seek
No one really knows better than me,
All remain amateurs when chance plays the game

Given freedom to just live
Nothing does seem to matter.
All there is to do seek and sate my self.

Writing good emails at work

2008-08-05T17:19:00.002+05:30

These are a few things to remember while you send an email at work. This may be especially helpful to fresh graduates at their first job.

Catch the attention of the reader with your subject - The subject line is how you capture the interest of the reader first - especially when you are mailing busier people in higher ranks, make sure your subject is clear and gives a good idea about the contents and its importance.

Keep your mail short but don't leave out important details - You don't have to set the context by explaining the whole story in your email. If you reply on the same thread, anyone can see what you are talking about. Keep your mail short and precise. Don’t beat around the bush or use verbose language.

Don’t get fancy with the formatting - Use bullet points wherever possible. Highlight important points by bolding them. Use easy-to-read fonts at a readable size – Arial or Times New Roman at 10 would do nicely.

Start with a salutation and end the mail with your signature - 'Hi ABC' or ‘Dear ABC’ are both quite acceptable these days. ‘Thanks’ or ‘With Regards’ or ‘Thanks and regards’ and followed by your name. Don’t send mails with just the content. As far as possible, address your mails to a specific person. Avoid ‘Hi all’ kind of mails unless to merely inform people about something. You can also share your contact details in your email signature to avoid people searching for phone numbers.

Mark a copy to all relevant people in your team – NEVER be the only person to know about some issue/requirement. If you aren't available for the day, someone else should be able to carry on with the work. Keep the relevant people informed about your work – this may include a peer or two as well.

Follow up on important emails with a phone call - If it is important, always follow up an email with a call. This impresses the importance of the issue in the receiver’s mind as well and ensures a quicker response.

Summarize large attachments in the body of the mail – When sending attachments, keep in mind the allowed size at your and the receiver's end. Check if the correct version is attached. Always include a short description of the attachment in the mail body – this will save people’s time.

Paraphrase important phone calls in an email - Sometimes, we discuss things over the call and proceed with the work. Are you sure you understood that requirement correctly? When you send an email putting down your understanding in black and white, you are reducing the chance of errors due to misunderstanding. This is important. Friends or not - no one likes to take the blame when things start to crumble. Make sure you don't have to take the blame either.

Use keywords in your subject line - Many times it happens that you need to search for an email months after it was sent. Instead of putting all the important things in a mail just titled 'Status', send a separate email with a more relevant subject line. You can always refer to the other mail in your status mail as well.

Keep a separate paragraph at the end to mention what you expect the reader to do - If you expect someone to give you specific details after reading your mail, then mention it in the mail. Most importantly, give a deadline by which you expect the reply.

Don’t spam mailboxes - Don't send inappropriate emails or forwards to your colleagues’ official ids. If you are thick friends, it may not matter. But people generally don't like their official mail box being spammed.

No tag lines please - All the fantastic sayings that you live your life by - please don't put them on your emails. Keep emails professional. There are other forums where you can use those lines.

ALWAYS review before you press send – Use the spell check option to avoid embarrassing mistakes. Press send only after you read through the mail once however long it may be.

Use the settings provided by your mail client – There are many options like return receipt setting, rules setting, creation of .pst to move mails from the server to your local machine, marking importance in mails, usage of flags etc. USE THEM. THEY HELP.

Set an out of office message when you are on planned leave – If you are going to be on leave for some day, make sure you let people know. Setting an out of office message helps if you are being contacted urgently by someone out of the blue.

Don’t share passwords through email - Strict NO. Get it encrypted or by phone call.

Reply to e-mails promptly - Prompt replies to emails is appreciated by everyone. Penning a few quick lines does not take too much time and gives a good impression with both peers and superiors.

These are things usually acquired by experience and they become second nature with time. Experience here refers to mistakes. Learn from mine rather than making some of your own.

Book review: We the Living

2008-07-13T10:34:00.001+05:30

'Ayn Rand' - We have heard criticism from some quarters and adulation from others – but the fact remains that her words have the power to make people sit up and take notice, 70 years after she first wrote them. Unlike her later and more famous works like 'Atlas shrugged' and 'Fountainhead', her first novel –'We the living' is slightly less known. A decidedly smaller book than either Fountainhead or Atlas Shrugged, this book may be the perfect one to start out with.

'We the living' is set in Soviet Russia in the 1920's. It is a time when the Czar's army has been overthrown by the Communist army. A new political system is being established and the country is changing dramatically. The Argounov family's comfortable days during the Czar's regime as the owners of a textile factory are over. It is the day of the collective when they return to Petrograd. The system in which they ruled the roost has collapsed and they find themselves to be the dregs of the new society.

Despite the hard times, Kira Argounova steps into Petrograd with all the hopes that youth carries with it. She despises the communist ideology - its basic premise of the importance of the collective being against her belief in individualism. But, being a realist, she decides to go with the flow till she grows strong enough to oppose it. She joins the Technological institute to study to be an engineer.

At the institute, she meets Andrei Taganov- a Party member and a soldier of the Red army. Andrei has a deep belief in the ideals of Communism and truly believes that he is on the right path to building a better country. Despite their completely opposite beliefs, a trusting friendship forms between them. Andrei seems to be very similar to Kira herself, but his intentions are turned into the opposite direction.

Circumstances lead Kira to meet Leo Kovalensky and in him, she finds a person worthy of her adoration and love. Leo and Kira begin to live together, but Andrei is unaware of this situation. Life is hard for them - Kira – the daughter of a textile factory owner in the Czar’s days and Leo – the son of an Admiral in the Czar’s army represent what communism had fought against, conquered and still lorded over.

Leo falls ill with tuberculosis and their poor living conditions threaten to be his death warrant. Kira tries to persuade, beg and borrow money to send Leo to a sanatorium, but, is unsuccessful. Meanwhile, Andrei’s feelings for Kira turn slowly from friendship to love. Kira is shocked when he confesses his feelings but seeing a way to save Leo, she accepts Andrei. With money that Andrei gives her for her family, Kira sends Leo to a sanatorium. Both men are unaware of the other's real relationship with Kira.

When he comes back with his health restored, Leo immediately gets into an illegal and dangerous game of speculation. Kira's pleas are in vain. Frustrated by a system that will not let him live the way he wants to, Leo turns reckless and indifferent to the thought of corrupting or destroying himself. Leo’s dangerous business venture leads Andrei to arrive at their house to arrest him and there he discovers about Kira's and Leo's relationship. The three of them are very similar despite the glaring differences and at that point in the story, each chooses a different path to take.

Throughout the book, using her three main characters and a host of minor characters, Ayn Rand describes the life in a communist country - the new regime, the starvation of the body, mind and soul, the disregard for the individual, the demand placed on a person to put the collective before himself and the grotesque forms that people choose to twist themselves into in order to survive. It was not a novel written to merely share the story of the trio - but also to tell the world the truth about communism's effect on a nation.

Sometimes...

2008-07-08T17:50:00.001+05:30

Sometimes, there is so much to do. Keeps me completely occupied, gives tangible results and that sense of satisfaction of time well-spent and a destination arrived at. But, sometimes, my search for tasks like them seems to be an excuse to avoid the difficulties brought out by just thinking and feeling. There are also times when there is so much to do, that I end up doing nothing at all.

The Kite Runner

2008-07-07T14:08:00.002+05:30

Khaled Hosseini’s book ‘The kite runner’ has made a great impact on readers all over the world. It is on every person’s list of ‘Must Read’. It’s as if, everyone who reads it is recommending it to everyone else. I finally picked up the book at my library a few weeks back. And when I finished the book a few days later, I sat and thought about it a lot.

The reason for its success was immediately apparent. The story of the kite runner is one of human beings and their flaws. Real people – the kind who make mistakes, their guilt and the ways they choose to redeem themselves. Everyone can identify with that kind of a feeling, isn’t it? It reminds us of our flaws and assuages our guilt, helps us to go forward and do the right thing.

The story is set in Kabul. The main character – Amir is the son of a wealthy Afghan businessman. Ali is their servant who lives with them with his son Hassan. Hassan and Amir are inseparable friends.

Hassan is the ultimate Kite Runner – someone who rushes to catch the losing kites as they flutter to the ground when their strings are cut by the others. When Amir wins the Kite flying competition, Hassan runs the losing kite for him. However, he is confronted by Aseef – a bully who takes pleasure in harassing the two friends at every opportunity. Amir, who goes looking for Hassan witnesses a horrifying incident but does nothing to prevent it.

Back home, Amir is unable to face Hassan again - his guilt and cowardice gnaw at him and he decides to take the easy way out. He frames Hassan in a theft and Ali and Hassan leave the house. Even at this stage, Hassan does not denounce Amir. His loyalty is unwavering, almost as if to give so much for Amir was an unconscious reflex than a thoughtful action – just as inevitable as the wind and the sun.

The political atmosphere changes in Afghanistan with the removal of the king and it is a dangerous time in Kabul. Amir and his father decide to leave to Pakistan. Eventually they find their way to the USA where they form a part of the small Afghan community. Amir grows up to be a writer and marries. Years pass by and out of the blue, Amir’s father’s friend – Rahim Khan asks Amir to come and meet him in Pakistan.

When they meet, Amir learns of a shocking truth. He struggles with dealing with it – his impressions of several people changing in one instant. What Rahim Khan gives him is a chance - one go at making amends for more than one sin. It is a chance that he can not let go of and one that will not return. This time, Amir chooses the difficult but right path. His journey back to Afghanistan is a journey into his past. What he does there forms the rest of the story.
Amir’s character is wonderfully complex – it shows those shades of grey that we see in ourselves. Neither God nor the devil. Confused. Scared. Guilty. Insecure. Blundering through life, hoping things would turn out ok. Everything to do with being a human in this world. Pick up a copy and try it, if you already haven’t. You won’t regret it. There is a bit of Amir in all of us.

Testing posting by email

2008-06-26T09:41:00.001+05:30

Test post for posting through email :)

Poem: The Pedestal

2008-06-24T21:33:00.000+05:30

One day, I found that you existed,
And was delighted by my finding.
Don't come too close, though.
Don't try to be anything to me.
Just be there...be you as you are.
Let me have something to admire.

Even my enemies are close to me,
Just as my friends are so dear…
For, I see clearly the faults in both.
It is merely the distance between us,
That keeps me safe from seeing yours-
And frankly, I prefer to keep it that way.

So, just stay up on the pedestal and,
Let me look up to you from down here.
All the things in you that I admire -
Let them get their whole due,
Without the taint of the faults that
Make you mortal like the rest.

Something nice happenned...

2008-05-10T20:31:00.002+05:30

Sometimes, the sweetest things happen to you out of the blue. This happenned a few days back. I had just settled down to eat, when the kitten ran into the room from outside. I put down the plate and ran after it, of course. It ran from room to room - meowing loudly. It was cute - grey and white -absolutely perfect.

Uncle mixed up a little rice and curd and gave it to me to feed the little thing. We put some on the stairs and it ate hungrily -but not much. It kept running away to roam a bit. Then came back to eat. It fought valiantly when I or anyone else tried to hold it.

After roaming around the house a few times, it saw the stuffed pink doll on top of the TV. I don't know what it thought. But a few jumps, some careful navigation and it settled down on top of the TV, next to the doll - nuzzling it now and then. It seemed to like it there. We let it be - though someone or the other did try to pick it up to cuddle - in which case, it wailed till it was deposited again on the TV.

Soon it fell asleep - yup, on top of the TV - Despite the TV running and a crowd of people around. I just sat there and watched it for some time, stroking its soft fur. You know what - that must be one confused cat. It heard around five different languages from various persons around. It heard loads of delighted squeals - each louder than the last, even a few expressions of alarm and distaste. I wonder what it made of all the hungama that its arrival had created. Maybe that why it preferred that doll - warm, furry and quiet! I do hope it comes back..we haven't seen it for two days now, though. :(

The Storm

2008-05-01T05:23:00.001+05:30

The day had been cloudy throughout. A welcome respite from the heat of the summer sun. A storm was expected. They had even named it - why do they always give it a female name? The usual jokes were cracked about female tempers. I hoped it would break in the middle of the night when the world was asleep and did not care. But, as I walked towards the bus, the signs were already starting building up for the perfect storm.

I reached the bus and had to shut the windows against the dust that the rising wind threw up. The book that I was reading was soon covered with a fine layer of dust. The first sign - the rising wind.

People were rushing on the roads trying to beat the storm home. Umbrellas would not help, they knew. The traffic jam built up rapidly as did the anxiety levels. As the bus moved through the traffic slowly, the wind fell again. The second sign - the calm before the storm.

Vehicle windows were being opened now. The night was turning cold quite abruptly. The summer warmth seemed to have vanished. The third sign - the cold summer night.

It took some time, but the rain drops began very very slowly first. Just a few drops people didn’t bother opening their umbrellas or rolling up their windows. They just concentrated on getting to their home. The fourth sign - the beginning of the rain.

It continued at a slow pace for quite awhile. I hope no one was misled. It slowly increased. Oh! ever so slowly - if you had kept watching it, you would have hardly noticed the difference happening. But take a break from the window and then look again in five minutes - there..do you see what I mean? The rain was pelting down hard. Umbrellas were out on the roads. People without umbrellas were rushing towards every possible shelter. And then, the fireworks started. Thunder boomed all around scaring the kids. Lightning streaked across the sky. The fifth sign - nature’s fireworks begin.

It was suddenly time to step off the bus. I had an umbrella, but doubted if it would be useful in any way. The wind had picked up again to a howling fury when I was busy looking at other things. I rushed through the torrent of water with my flimsy little umbrella. In a few seconds, I was completely drenched. The wind turned my umbrella inside out. I stopped at a crowded bus shelter. I tried to fix the umbrella, finally closing it, slightly battered. No use anyway. Right then, the lights went out in the whole area as if they were giving up under nature’s assault. Just the headlights of the vehicles on the road kept the world from turning black. The sixth sign - the power cut.

There you have it. Every sign of a perfect storm!

Home didn’t seem too far off. Why not make a dash for it? The rain was icy cold. I decided to keep moving - towards the promise of closed doors and a roof above. Visibility was bad, but I crossed the road and stood in front of my little street. Behind me, there were the lights of the cars to show the way; in front, was a deserted dark street. No one seemed to have taken the plunge like I had. The swirling water was about ankle deep and all rushing somewhere. I hoped there were no open drains waiting for me to fall in.

The raindrops seemed to be getting sharper somehow. It took me a few minutes to realize that it was no longer just rain, but hail - tiny pieces of ice were raining down and it hurt quite a bit when they hit. Then, I had to take shelter under my battered umbrella, huddled down on the door step of a house. All doors and windows were tightly shut. And no one else seemed to have been as fool hardy as me. After the painful hail stopped and it was just the rain and lightning, I started again - reaching home - cold, shivering and completely overjoyed. The usually cold house seemed warm. I felt the concern in the voices around me. We ate in the meager light of our cell phones and life felt so good.

Now, I don’t know why I was foolish enough to walk into that storm. I just did. And reaching home, felt like an achievement. I somehow felt exhilarated. Maybe this feeling is what people are looking for when they climb mountains, run marathons, sail the world or explore underground.

Others had waited for the rain to stop. But they weren’t the ones with a tale to tell. For them, it had rained and then stopped. Me? I had walked in a storm.

Maybe, there is something about that unknown darkness that makes you want to walk in to it. Of course, it could have ended many other ways. But, it didn’t. Not yet. So I’ll do it again, I think.

Movie - Krazzy 4

2008-04-13T21:07:00.001+05:30

Sigh...I pity myself terribly. And I pity the two friends who also plunked down 200 bucks each to watch this totally forgettable movie with me. On the brighter side - it did help us kill a few hours.

Ok..Let me stop grumbling and give you a brief synopsis. Juhi Chawla (looking more beautiful than ever) is a Psychatrist who comes up with the plan of taking four of her group therapy patients to a cricket match on Independence day - so that they would learn the value of team work. The four are Arshad Warsi(his problem being inability to control his temper), Irrfan Khan (suffering from obsessive compulsive disorder), Rajpal Yadav (lost track of time and believes it is the period of the freedom movement), Suresh Menon (A kid. He never speaks).

Kahani mein twist is when on their way to the match, Juhi Chawla is kidnapped and the four of them are left to fend for themselves in the streets of Mumbai. How they manage in the big bad city, how they finally rescue Juhi, uncover a few ugly truths, singing some bad songs on the way - forms the rest of the story.

Irfan Khan has done an ok job. Arshad Warsi loses his temper a lot but is the saner of the lot. Rajpal Yadav is totally wasted with some repeated dialogues which lose their funniness as time goes by. Item numbers and guest stars do nothing to save the movie.

I squirmed in my comfortable seat a lot. There are better movies playing.

Movie - The Lives of Others

2008-04-13T19:41:00.008+05:30

The German movie 'Das Leben der Anderen' ('The Lives of Others') won the best foreign language movie Oscar in the year 2007. The movie has been released in India with English subtitles now. It's on at PVR in Bangalore, in case you are interested.

The movie is set in Germany in the 1980s. Germany at this time, if you remember, was split into East and West Germany. After watching this movie, I did some digging to get some context. Here goes (thanks to Wikipedia)- After the defeat of the axis powers by the allied forces in World War II, Germany was divided into four zones to be occupied by USA, UK, France and Soviet Union. The regions under the control of USA, UK and France eventually joined together to form Federal Republic of Germany or West Germany with a democratic political system and a capitalistic economy. The region under the control of Soviet Union was called German Democratic Republic or East Germany with a Soviet style economy and political system. Berlin being the capital city was also divided (by the Berlin Wall)- despite it being in the Soviet region. So, West Berlin was surrounded by East German territory. The Stasi were the secret police in East Germany - modeled on the similar agencies of the Soviet Union.

The main character in the movie is a Stasi Captain - Gerd Wiesler. A man with no family. One who has a dogged belief in the system which he enforces. He is a clever person - that is made evident by his interrogation methods. Watch out for the first scenes where Wiesler is teaching a group. The kind of analysis of the human mind that he speaks about lets us know just how well-developed a group he belonged to. Their work was almost an art. It was not mindless noise.

Some things told to you during the movie is disturbing - like when Wiesler's friend is talking about type of artists. He talks about one particular type -

A 'hysterical anthropocentrist' Can't bear being alone, always talking, needing friends. That type should never be brought to trial. They thrive on that. Temporary detention is the best way to deal with them. Complete isolation and no set release date. No human contact the whole time, not even with the guards. Good treatment, no harassment, no abuse, no scandals, nothing they could write about later. After 10 months, we release. Suddenly, that guy won't cause us any more trouble. Know what the best part is? Most type 4s we've processed in this way never write anything again. Or paint anything, or whatever artists do. And that without any use of force. Just like that. Kind of like a present.

Those are the kind of things that made the Stasi into a much feared group. It is scenes like the ones described above that set the context so well in this movie. It is a troubled time in East Germany - when you trust no one and even a child's innocent talk is enough to trigger an downfall. To survive, one needs to be a part of the system - a system that has rules but also is controlled by men and their passions. In a world like that, no one is safe - even if they play by the rules. In the end, it becomes a game of power and lust - and one just gets caught up in its whirl, tossed around and finally thrown out - sometimes dead, sometimes alive.

Wiesler's friend Lieutenant-Colonel Anton Grubitz is the head of the Stasi Cultural Department - responsible for curbing any signs of revolt in artistic venues - books, dramas and the like. Based on the Culture Minister Hempf's doubts and reinforced by Wiesler's suspicions, Grubitz places a playwright, Georg Dreyman, under surveillance.

Wiesler starts 'Operation Lazlo' wherein he is constantly evesdropping on Dreyman's life. As time goes by, he finds himself being drawn in to the world of Dreyman and his girlfriend - Christa-Maria Sieland, an actress. Dreyman seems to be a harmless soul - Straightforward, principled and rather slightly astonished at the way things go. Slowly, Wiesler's convictions in the system that he is a part of begins to loosen their hold. He becomes some sort of a guardian angel - pulling the couple along and keeping them out of trouble with fabricated reports of his surveillance.

When Dreyman's friend - Director Albert Jerska - commits suicide after years of being blacklisted by the government, it triggers Dreyman to write an article to be published in the West German magazine 'Der Spiegel' on suicides in East Germany. The planning for the article goes on in Dreyman's house which they are convinced is safe - unaware of Wiesler's presence in the attic above. Wiesler's own change of heart leads him to safeguard the little group by filing cooked up reports.

The article is published and it ruffles a lot of feathers. Grubitz is convinced that it was written by Dreyman. Christa is pulled in for questioning based on a tip off by the Minister who is disgruntled by her avoidance of his advances. The decisions various people make over the next 24 hours forms the climax of the movie.

An epilogue too follows when a few years down the line, the political situation changes, (Gorbachev being elected, The fall of the Berlin wall) and a few truths are finally unveiled.

It is a beautifully made movie spanning about 2.5 hours. The characters are built up beautifully and very realistically. During my diggings, I came across articles which said that the character of Wiesler is not very convincing. That a Stasi Officer would just not act that way. I don't know. I was not a part of that world and no doubt, that reviewer was - but just as another human, it is only people like Wiesler who make you trust in a stranger. And I really believe that people like him exist even in the worst of the world.

Check out the movie at imdb

Random thoughts...language...

2008-03-27T22:37:00.000+05:30

The kannada song 'Ninindhalae' was playing on the radio. As always, I listened - though I don't understand the language. Sonu Nigam was singing - that was one reason. He went along those twists and turns beautifully. He could actually be cursing - but, I would still listen as long as I didn't know the meaning and he sang it in that way.

It reminded me of a scene from the movie 'Three men and a baby'. Tom Selleck is reading out the details of a boxing match from the newspaper to the baby - in a tone normally reserved for reading out children's fairy tales. When asked what he was reading, he answers in the same tone 'It doesn't matter what I read, it's the tone you use. She doesn't understand the words anyway'...and continues...

That was a cute movie, really. There has been a movie in Hindi on the same lines -'Heyy Babyy' - but me thought it was rather lame. I couldn't sit through it for more than half an hour. Whereas I'd happily watch the original again even now!

It can happen to you too.

2008-03-24T22:19:00.002+05:30

Don't fool yourself into thinking,
That you are safe within your life.
What has happened to me today,
Can happen to you on the morrow.

Looks of pity and sounds of sympathy,
I get in plenty from you and your like.
From all the ones who stand out of reach,
But never once move out of my sight.

Constantly watching ;gloating silently,
Over the contrast between our lives.
Using my sorrow as a measure to find,
How much joy there is in your life.

Your present is just a page from my past,
And my present could be your future too.
For, my yesterdays lie close to your today-
Closer than you'll ever want to know.

Movie : The Bucket List

2008-03-23T15:26:00.002+05:30

Dad was in town yesterday and there really wasn't much to do except to head for PVR. Human dramas aren't really my cup of tea but it was either that or nothing yesterday. I don't mind the ones that have action in them. Those which span over a long period are easier to bear than those few life-changing moments that are stretched to fill 2 hours.

"The bucket list" is a humourous drama of the latter sort. Two men - Edward Cole (Jack Nicholson) and Carter Chambers (Morgan Freeman), find themselves with less than a year to live. They come from different backgrounds - one a self made billionaire and the other, a hard-working and self sacrificing mechanic. They strike a friendship as both go through the torture of living with Cancer.

Carter begins to make a list that he calls 'The bucket list' - things to be done before he kicks the bucket. The idea catches Edward's fancy and he invites Carter to join him to fulfill their wishes. To finally live and do the things he wants to do for himself.

The movie is humourous throughout - the part played by Edward's assistant Tommy contributing to a large part. The actors themselves are veterans and do a great job.

The movie is nothing amazing. But you won't want to run out of the theatre and you definitely will enjoy the humour, if not the drama. It hits on an important truth though - that no one wants to die alone. The major fear of most people - loneliness, being left uncared for, having no one to cry, having no one to miss you when you're gone. Its a movie about men preparing for death and realising what's important in life and death.

Food!

2008-02-28T17:25:00.005+05:30

I know that last post said 'To be continued', but I really have nothing more to continue on that right now. so, maybe later...

Funny really, I have been blogging here as if I'm talking to a person - someone who has no choice but to listen. Maybe no one is reading this after all...I really should stop thinking so much!

I have been eating too much these past few days...and not going to the gym much too. Have you noticed how socializing always revolves around food? Treats, birthday parties, meet for lunch, for dinner, for b'fast, for a snack, for a coffee.... We all invariably gravitate towards the familiar comfort of food as we catch up with people and chat.

Sometimes, I cook - usually when I am idle and find that I am just 'thinking' too much about stuff. At those times, I get into the mode of cutting and chopping and measuring and mixing and frying and tasting. It makes me feel good when I make something and it doesn't turn out to be disaster. But it has to be pretty aimless. I don't like cooking when I am hungry. Those times, I just want something to be available magically! :)

Sometimes I cook to try out new techniques. The food court at work has partially open kitchen and you can see the cook as he works. I was particularly impressed by the nice round omelettes that he made and tried out his technique and am now hooked to that 'technique'. Sometimes, I cook to make something exotic. Not the regular dal, rasam and poriyal. Maybe to bake a cake ( disaster, BTW), make a sweet, try making things which I enjoyed eating someplace and so on.

But when it comes to actually eating, nothing really beats dal and rasam and rice, and poriyal.

Happiness

2008-02-27T17:26:00.002+05:30

Something has been troubling me for awhile now - The extent to which a person's happiness depends on others. A badly placed dependency can wreck us. Yet, we start out on things eagerly, joyfully, thinking nothing bad can possibly happen. That is the way man is. As Ayn Rand says

'The best of mankind’s youth start life with an undefined sense of enormous expectation, the sense that one’s life is important, that great achievements are within one’s capacity, and that great things lie ahead.

It is not in the nature of man—nor of any living entity—to start out by giving up, by spitting in one’s own face and damning existence; that requires a process of corruption whose rapidity differs from man to man.'

This is the only way we know to live our life. To hope that all our dreams are going to come true. That sense of invincibility - brave, almost touchingly child like and trusting in the unknown. And we somehow don't understand/believe it when rotten things happen. Yes. It is not your fault. Yes. It can still happen. Maybe we are prepared for bad stuff in some aspects of our life, but not in others? I really don't know.

I know I have no control over others in my life. I cannot make them behave in a manner that pleases me and makes me happy. Extending that, I have no control over the creation of happiness in my self. But extending that a bit more, others' happiness also depends on my actions. So, I can still make joy. Just not in my own heart. Some people are too perfect. Creating joy in the world is their source of joy. They are probably more happy than most of us despite pain. But, that is again probably the most difficult thing to achieve as a person. Anything worth achieving is difficult to achieve.

To be continued...

Peom - Pain

2007-09-11T16:52:00.000+05:30

Pain

When all the pretence is wiped away,
Leaving the truth behind, clean and ugly,
When the mirage dissolves so up-close,
And the desert is all there is to see,
What do you think will happen to man?

When reality strikes its deadly blow,
Would the one who feels it be made of stone?
And shatter into pieces under the onslaught,
Then despite every attempt to cement his self,
Remains broken, weakened, never the same again.

Or when the dams that restrain finally break,
Would the one facing the assault be of steel?
Twisting out of shape under the battering,
But then be willing to go through the fiery furnace,
And rise out again molded into another shape?

The world out there is a wonderful place,
After the heavy rains, out comes the sun,
The lingering droplets, paints there a rainbow,
Life goes on despite it all and so does man,
Shattered or reshaped depending on what he is made of.

Poem - The way I feel…

2006-12-11T16:18:00.000+05:30

The way I feel…

If my world comes to an end, I won’t cry.
If I ever soar to the heights, I won’t smile.

While I wait for life to happen to me,
My mind restlessly races ahead of time.

I imagine the best way it could be for me,
Burst into laughter at the joy that I might see.

Experiencing the worst that could happen too,
I then cry for the pain I may have to bear.

So, when whatever happens finally happens,
I’m never disappointed. I’m never delighted.

My life does not halt and neither do I.
But the world waits for me to laugh or cry.

And when I seemingly go on sans smiles or tears,
People turn away feeling rather offended,

Puzzled at my lack of ‘feeling’ for the things,
That life chooses to throw at me at random.

And yet I know,

I’ve ‘felt’ far more than the rest.
For all the things that do happen and
For all the things that finally don’t.
I’ve felt them all, with all my heart.

~~~~~

Poem - Power

2006-11-02T09:01:00.000+05:30

Power

To know that I can say a few words,
And by saying them, I can destroy you,
Not because those words were said,
But, because I said them to you.

That is the power I hold over you.

Then to realize that I never will say them,
My heart which hurts if another harms you,
Would break if it knew that I be the cause,
Of a single tear of pain in your eyes.

That is the power you hold over me.

Your whip, you’ve handed to me willingly,
Mine you do hold with my consent,
Both of us know that neither will use it.
And we go on as a willing slave to the other.

That is power we hold over each other.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Poem - The Rivals

2006-10-11T19:54:00.000+05:30

They call you my adversary; my rival they say you are,
With the crowd I did once agree and thought of the race as war.

Today’s race was somehow different - the last race for both,
Only now did I realize the truth about the man I used to loathe.

The races we have run together, the miles that we have covered,
To run this fast and to reach this far, each other we have powered.

You are the only one, who truly ran the same track as did I,
You are the one – the most like me, I now not wonder why.

Today, at times, I followed you and at times, I was the leader,
But the leading man did now and then, glance back to see the other.

That odd glance - half of triumph - at having surpassed another,
Half of pleading, - yearning to see something better in the other.

Tapping every store- known and not; we ran the ultimate race today,
For though the last, it still was a race and we treated it that way.

Till this day, we ran each race, feeling a foe in the nearby lane,
Today as ever, we raced to win; yet, as rivals we did feign.

The race was over, still, not stopping, we ran on around the ground,
Amidst the thunder of crowd’s applause, that made our hearts pound.

At every step we kept in sync, since by nature we are the same,
Not hand in hand yet keeping pace, we ran for love of the game.

Poem - Less than perfect

2006-09-30T22:09:00.000+05:30

Less than perfect

I unlock and open the rusty gate, prepared to sit for hours staring,
At the sound of the creaking gate, the three puppies come running.

They’re perfect in every way- Two of them white and one brown.
Seeing them always brings on a smile and smoothens out my frown.

One would find some piece of garbage and over it all would fight,
Tugging at it in three directions till it gave way under their might.

They’d sneak in to the garden, under the gate at least thrice a week,
And run off with a shoe in mouth to make me play hide ‘n seek.

It was a delight to watch them as they rolled around in play,
And see how they curled up together at the end of every day.

They’re a naughty lot, yet the pet of every person on the street,
For one who has not the heart to pet them, they are yet to meet.

I kneel down now and hold out my hands just so that they see,
I have nothing to offer them, though so hungry they may be.

All three come up, their tails wagging and sniff at my fingers,
They lick my palm just the same, that sweet feel still lingers.

The pups’ mother sees her brood crowding around my gate,
She gets up and makes her way quick, fearing she may be late.

She limps over and nuzzles my hand just to make me pat her,
And closes her eyes contented, as my hands run on her white fur.

I glance at her left fore leg, the one she can no longer use,
Faintly grotesque, twisted and broken it hung in mid-air, so loose.

Suddenly I remembered the first time, I saw her in our lane,
She was alone then, a thin dirty white dog with one leg lame.

I had not noticed those gentle eyes and how she never was in a brawl,
Never saw how quiet she was, all she wanted was the shade of a wall.

She had left with no objection when I had shooed her out of my way,
She was less than perfect - I now realized that’s why I turned her away.

A few months later, I had seen her again – this time with her children,
For those beautiful little ones sake, I had fed the mother from then.

I had just named my feeling ‘pity’ and was convinced I was doing my duty,
Now in tears, I see things in true light - I had fallen then for skin deep beauty.

Physical Perfection is what is seen just in a moment’s glance,
It’s a fairy gift, which falls on one mainly by luck or chance.
But True Beauty is no gift and is not seen if you are on the fly
For in true words said and good deeds done does this feeling always lie.