Tempest

Happiness

2008-09-08T13:18:00.000-07:00

Down through the centuries men have sought to explain the meaning and the art of happiness. Millions upon millions of words have been written on the subject. Poets, priests, philosophers and scientists, teachers, preachers, and leaders of every age have sought to work out a simple formula for what Sir Philip Gibbs called "the eternal quest of mankind" - a happy and contented life.

For in the end happiness is what all people want, regardless of the many ways they may seek it. To be happy is the ultimate goal of all ambition, all endeavour, all hopes and plans. "Happiness is the meaning and purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence," declared Aristotle, supreme philosopher of the ancient world.

But what is happiness? Clearly it means vastly different things to different people. Since earliest timesmen have sought and found their happiness along amazingly divergent paths - in work, in achievement, success, in love and family ties, in the affection of friends, in religion.

There is one point, however, on which philosophers in every age agree: true happiness stems from a quality within ourselves, from a way of thinking of life. Of all the millions of words written on happiness, this is the oldest and most enduring truth. If the principles of contentment are not within us, no material success, no pleasures or possessions, can make us happy.

This philosophy has been expounded by writers and thinkers since civilisation began; but never more beautifully and effectively than in Maeterlinck's famous play, The Blue Bird. Tyltyl and Mytyl, the woodcutter's children, search far and wide for happiness, only to find it on their return home. ("We went so far, and it was here all the time!") It isn't necessary to search for happiness in far places, since you carry your unhappy self to each one of these places, says Maeterlinck in The Blue Bird. Yes, it is everywhere around you and about you. But, the quest for happiness is always vain unless you find it within yourself, within your own heart and soul.

On that happy note, I hope dear readers, that I am leaving you behind with something fruitfull as Prude bids adieu.

Just a thought

2008-08-26T02:01:00.000-07:00

"Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves."

- Annonymous

So true. We each know our weaknesses. We each live in denial of these weaknesses...in control of them in order to be civilised. What happens one day when all of us lose control? Is this the so called end of the world? I think I fear this more than D-Day.

2008-08-12T03:01:00.001-07:00

I want to live an extraordinary life.

I could live here till I die

2008-08-06T01:49:00.000-07:00

Once again I walk down that cobbled lane
Where the sun shines bright and warm
Tis a stroll in a dream and yet I'm sane
Quietitude into singing fantasies transform

The eagles soar, the sparrows chirp
And traverse hills and trees
The low buzz of the humming bees
All blend into a symphony

As I lay squinting up at the branches
Suns rays, azure and gold dances
Floating balls of cotton tickle lazy senses
My soul spreads out free beyond the fences

A sudden rain magnanimously drenches
Our want to celebrate this season quenches
With eyes closed and arms spread
Lying on a green grass and heather bed

This is the place I dream up oft
Perching on a soft cloudy loft
Where the mountains touch the sky
I could live here till I die

The new trend: Apathy

2008-07-29T03:59:00.000-07:00

The death toll of the recent bomb attacks in Ahmedabad is now 45.

People called their friends and relatives to check how they were doing and continued living their busy lives. The media wrote a few aricles detailing the areas of the bombings, the toll figures and a few impressive statements from political leaders against such violence. People opened their newspapers the next day and grunted, some discussed it over morning chai and ranted, then threw the papers aside and resumed their routines. Life must go on. The day after, the papers and news channels did a few routines about how brave the shopkeepers are that they continued to go to work and how important it is for the economy to continue running as normal. Nobody thinks a protest against these attacks is necessary. Nobody thinks it is important to to shut down shops to impress upon the government that we want forces mobilised to find out who is behind this and we want them punished. Life must just go on.

We have become strong. We have learnt to compartmentalise our emotions and set them aside and continue living. Emotions aren't important anymore. Empathy and consideration are a weakness today. A girl in our neighbourhood gets raped. How does it matter? We read news like that in the newspaper all the time. Its normal. People get mobbed. 'Oh! that's so terrible, but they didn't die did they?' And if they did, 'well people die all the time!'

Friends meet. 'my mom is really unwell...her cancer is getting worse.' A gushing response, 'Oh thats so sad, you must be very brave'. We just don't care anymore. We don't want to get involved in anything. We don't want to get our hands dirty. It reflects in our reactions, our actions, our sentiments. Everything is intellectual. We discuss the causes and effects of cancer, we discuss with great importance the causes and effects of terrorism but we wouldn't give a damn if some big bully beats up a scrawny kid in an alley right in front of us. 'Its not our problem...lets just get out of here.'

We've learned to turn a blind eye to most happenings in an extremely clever manner. We hide behind our intellect. It's easy. Show your concern through a few high flying words, eat a little bhel puri, get a few accepting nods from peers and get out of there. You've done your bit of appearing concerned in a social gathering.

An employee discusses with fellow colleagues a very unjust practice of the upper management. All are in agreement that it is unfair. When the employee sends out a letter the next day for all to sign, not more than 5% do. 'If it doesn't directly affect us, why bother? I'd rather not get into trouble!' Sounds like a minor pin prick in the larger picture, but this is a reflection of who we are as a race.

We just don't care anymore. The instinct to really do something about anything has almost disappeared. It's been a long while since I saw someone doing something as simple as helping another at a tube station, giving up their seat for an older person, carrying a suitcase up the stairs for a young girl, going out of their way to help friends without feeling that it's a big deal.

Today, we are all achievers in our own ways. We have good jobs, lead busy lives and follow modern trends of success. We are proud of ourselves and who we have become. We don't notice it when we talk rudely to a waitor, we don't notice it when we belittle a friend who knows less than us on a particular subject, we don't notice it when we walk a little too quickly for our grand parents, we don't notice it when we break something our parents have preserved for years and simply offer to replace it with the tons of money we earn without even a sincere apology. We don't notice it when we carelessly litter in public places. We don't notice it when we use foul language in front of children with impressionable ages, we don't notice the world anymore. Yet, we are proud of ourselves. We are proud that we live in apathy.

I wonder what it will really take to shake us up? I wonder what would tug at our heart strings? I wonder what would squeeze a little bit of blood into our dry hearts...

"It's no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society."
- Jiddu Krishnamurti

Remember?

2008-07-18T01:39:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. There is no resemblance to charactors dead or alive. This story has been inspired from vivid memories of a novel I once read, but do not remember the name of now.

Do you remember, dear, the days so long ago when we were at school and the chemistry lab where you and I worked over messy experiments and grew to know each other? Your family had just moved to our town; I learned that your father came from a distinguished family and was a business magnate. You only knew that I was a dressmaker's son.

But I was taken into your crowd because I was the football captain and head of class. When I told my mother that you were going to the school dance with me, her tired eyes clouded. She knew that my waking thoughts were only of you, but she also knew that the gulf between our families could not be easily bridged. Yet she did not tell me that, she said only that she wished I had a new and classy suit to wear. I assured her that my grey one would be fine.

Outsider. When I arrived at your house to take you to the dance, you came down in a pale blue dress, your face was like a flower, pink roses in your cheeks, and there were golden sparkles in your hair. You gazed up at me with a smile unmindful of my cheap suit. You must have seen something in my eyes which a man reserves for sacred moments.

Then your mother came in, and I was aware not so much of disapproval but of tolerance. There was a subtle difference in her attitude towards me and the others in your crowd. In her presence I was awkward and inarticulate. That night we danced together till the last song and there gold specs in your eyes even when it was time to say goodbye. Do you remember that last dance?

Do you remember the little cafe near the beach. It used to be the place where us middle class kids would hang out. But that year your group decided to do some slumming and you hung out with me till late in the evenings and walked along the beach with your slippers in your hand and moonlight glinting off your hair. I would give you my coat to wear when it got cold. Do you remember feeling warm and smiling up at me?

Then one evening, you were leaving the next day to go to college and I got a parttime job here since I couldn't afford to go. You stood facing me and asked when I would see you next.
"I've got a job starting next week," I said. It isn't much at first but there's a chance to work my way up. And I'll make good. I've got to."

"You will," you said. "I know that." You moved closer. "Jack," you said softly, "I want you to come for my college dance with me next year. Will you come?" "Yes," I promised.
I reached down and took your hands. You raised your face and put your arms around me and your lips, which I had never touched, lightly brushed against my cheek. The stars came down and enveloped us and you said, "I shall always remember tonight."

Straight to college. I wrote to you often but you wrote back once saying your mom had told her not to write to me regularly. After that I wrote only twice a week. At the end of July, your sister told your parents you were mooning around and did not play tennis or attend music classes because you wanted to 'write a letter to me'. After that our correspondence became a rare and much awaited for event. Those were the longest months.

I came for your college dance. I rented a suit for it as I had nothing suitable for the evening. Even the cheapest hotel was too expensive for me, so I walked the streets until I found a boarding-house which I could afford. At dinner you introduced me to your friends, but I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. I became aware that my dinner jacket was old fashioned; that grey shoes were not proper with evening clothes. Somehow I suffered the hour through. We then walked to the gymnasium where the dance was held while other took cabs. During the first dance I noticed that all the other girls wore flowers. I hadn't bought any for you, I hadn't known I was expected to.
"I'm sorry about the flowers," I said. You looked at me with a hint of tears in your eyes. "The flowers don't matter," you said.

At the end of the evening, you said, "Oh Jack, I wanted you to have a good time tonight...but you didn't." "No," I said, "it was a mistake having me here. I just don't belong." I put my hands on your shoulders and said, "If in years to come you should think of me, will you remember that I love you very much?"
And you closed your eyes, swaying towards me, and said, "Oh Jack, don't say that!" I thought you meant I shouldn't say I loved you and so we said goodbye. That sunday, I wrote you a restrained letter thanking you for the wonderful time I had. You never replied. One week followed another and I only had memories of you.

Do you remember dear? The years have gone by...30 in all and tomorrow we shall celebrate our twenty fifth wedding anniversary for one fine day I bumped into you again on the street and I knew you loved me. You told me yourself.

You are worried now about your daughter, as your mother was once worried about you. She is 20 years old and thinks she is in love. I am asking you to let the young man have a chance. You can decide about him after you read this clumsy attempt to recreate our own romance. It is my anniversary present to you.

Perhaps we can ask him to our dinner at the country club. He will probably be ill at ease with a famous biographer, a government official and other distinguished guests. He will probably wear hired evening clothes and may not know what to talk about.

But a long time ago, you invited a poor boy to a college dance. Do you remember?

Do you remember that he loved you? He still does.

Guiding principle

2008-07-16T06:22:00.000-07:00

You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it.
That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies.
That is why you must sing and dance, and write poems and suffer and understand.
For all that is life.

- Jiddu Krishnamurti

Waiting for you to come...

2008-07-15T10:57:00.000-07:00

...days become birds, flock together in a crowded haze and then fly away.

Discovery

2008-07-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

Its a moment of pure epiphany,
when the true meaning of 'blessed' is discovered.
When in rage you render a string of litany,
and yet a tenderness in embrace is uncovered.
You believed you're as hard to understand as botany,
when he unravels you with ease and your faith is recovered.
Gratitude professed in a monotony,
And you know its meant to be, this love uncompared.

Heady Politics

2008-06-25T06:53:00.000-07:00

Most companies have just one CEO. Wipro recently appointed two. Wipro is a multi billion dollar multi national corporation. I work for this small, just out of the cottage industry category, 20 labourer sized internet company that now has two heads. An old head and a new head literally and metaphorically. So, there's the founder/previous MD with ideas of his own and also a senior industry expert/new MD also with ideas of his own. The objective is to behave like siamese twins conjoined at the head and nourish the body together i.e. the company. Unfortunately, the concept of the conjoined twins is at this point in time very hard to follow as both seem to be at loggerheads with each other at all times. The situation looms ahead of me like a famished hammerhead lurking in gloomy waters.

The new head wants power, respect, a territory of his own and also his own subjects that he can rule over. The old head has power, respect, a territory of his own and also all the subjects are his to rule over and he is not even a little inclined towards relinquishing control over his headstay. Yet, the old head needs the new head to give him heady advise on how to take the company forward to head the industry. So, the new head and the old head meet together regularly to put their heads together in order to achieve the concept of the siamese twins. The old head talks and the new head refuses to agree which makes the old head stubborn against assimilating the ideas of the new head. Both the heads bang their heads against the wall and plead for a third opinion. I try to make peace while maintaining my originality. I decide to take the safe route out by agreeing 50-50 with both heads giving myself a massive headache while trying to keep my head on my shoulders. Both heads having agreed to disagree give me the heads up for their respective projects. Sigh. I take up the tasks heads on and wish they'd leave me alone and go practice a couple of headstands instead.

PS - Just realised how difficult it must to be one of a conjoined twins. What if one wants to go left while the other wants to go right. What if one wants to watch TV while the other wants to take a walk? What if one wants to pee while the other well doesn't want to pee. What if one wants to dance to loud music while the other has a headache? Cooperation and compromise...the key to any 'hedonic' relationship!

Home is where the heart is

2008-05-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to write this post for a very long time. A post about home.

I live in London. I love this city. I love the little neat cottages with slanting brick roofs that line the side streets and the small gardens with roses, tulips, weird arches, creepers, bathtubs, kids and dogs playing. I love the sights of an odd housewife standing on a porch talking on the phone and an odd grandpa trying his hand at weeding. I love the small corner shops that say 'wine shop' and sell everything from alcohol to groceries. I love the fresh smell of the air here, the expanse of the great blue sky, the winding roads that seem to go on forever making you believe they lead to neverland.

I also love the heavy crowds and lightening speed of life in the central. I love the hustle bustle of oxford circus where the world's biggest brands come together on a single street that today helps define fashion globally. I love the big supermarkets where variety is not the spice of life but more like a confounding charm for many a bewildered shopper. I love the big banks with architectures that go back a few centuries opposite the squares and the metro stations that seem to turn up whenever you need them.

I love watching the people. I love the sight of black, red and grey heels clicking on the sidewalks of main streets in the mornings when the workforce is on it's way to accomplish another days set of goals. I love the sight of people in the tubes. I love the way every morning people habitually pick up the free daily 'metro' irrespective of whether they will or wont read it. I love the way they are all dressed up in the mornings in formal suits of only three colours - red, black and grey. I like the thought that I add colour to the city's population in my mismatched blues, greens and pinks! I love the way in the evenings the tubes are strewn with remnants of the morning paper everywhere, the shirts are out of their tucks, people are sleeping with their mouth open, others are borrowing pens to complete the 'sudoku' in the evening paper, women are touching up their make up (I keep wondering how they apply mascara in a moving train) for an evening out 'with the girls'. Most of all I love the fact that people read. Almost every other person has a novel in hand. Some sit and read, some stand and read and others bend over in awkward positions to read what they are reading!

I love the mixture that London is. I love that almost every third person is a foreigner. I love that everybody is so friendly and eager to hold a conversation with a stranger. I think it is because of this bond of all of us being strangers on a new land. It makes you come together in an odd way. I've been to New York, Paris, Chicago, Boston, Ottawa, most of the main cosmopolitan cities and there is no other city that sees no difference between Indian, Spanish, Chinese or Norwegian. I love the culture in this city. There is every kind of dance, every kind of music, every kind of stage performance one can ask for. From Broadway to Shakespeare's globe theater, the city is rich in things to do, places to visit and explore. I've lived here almost two years now and I try to discover and see something new every weekend. I still haven't run out of things to do and I don't think I will for years to come. A couple of months ago, my aunt and I printed out a map and set off on a 10 mile walk to discover Karl Marx's grave which is here in Highgate cemetery. Every nook and corner has a history of its own and the beauty is that it has been preserved in such a way that all one has to do is revive ones inquisitiveness and rediscover it all.

I love the confidence this city instills in you. I love the way the systems make life so much easier. I love knowing one can live life without help from anyone. I love looking at the 70 and 80 year old brave elders who seem to be so agile and fit and capable of doing everything from their grocery shopping to a night out in Soho independently. I also love this city because it helped me discover myself. It threw my way a kaleidoscope of experiences that tested the negatives and brought forth many positives in me. The city showed me what I am capable of. It taught me that if one can imagine it, one can achieve it. It gave me an affirmative told me it was okay to stand by my beliefs and live life my way.

I love it, but I still can't call it home.

I've moved house almost every year and a half for the past 22 years. Looking back I love every single moment of my life, cherish every single memory and have no regrets. I have loved and enjoyed most of the places I've stayed in. Every places teaches you something new through its people, through its culture, languages and habits, through living. I have vivid memories of the Nepalese 'Ramro cho', chinese noodles, anglo indian hostels, leeches and green mountains in Kalimpong. I can still recall the fun and joy of the early teenage years in Ferozepur from swimming to horse riding, boys, dirty jokes, parties, dancing, early arithmetic and Punjabi food. I remember Bangalore teaching me the valuable lessons of cherishing intimacy and close friends that are in actuality not that easy to make, that money can be an important aspect of life, parents are not as wise as we consider them to be and life is all about learning. Delhi gave me my first taste of independence of dare devil pranks and exploring and discovering and taking chances, living for what one truly wants to do, understanding that happiness and optimism is what life is truly about and any sort of negativity is against the circle of life, to change that and turn it into something positive.

I have loved and lived these places and many more. I have sometimes wistfully fancied what having lived in one place would have been like and then realised that every moment of my diverse life has been wholesome and amazing. As a kid when I used to protest against the constant shifting I used to be told that the place doesn't make the person but rather what the person does in that place makes the memory.

As I sat staring out of the window this afternoon, looking at the yellow sky smiling down at the world at large I racked my brains to think of what or where would be home for me. And I realised that something in all of these years and through all of these places never changed. Something always remained constant. The people I loved never changed, I always loved them and they always loved me. The people you love are a reflection of who you are. They mould you and blend with you. Irrespective of where you are they give you a point of reference, a sense of belonging, a sense of confidence that allows you to adapt to every new setting without them even being there, simply because your heart knows how to find its way home.

This is an ode to and an acknowledgment of all the people I love, always have and always will.

My parents, who have been extremely encouraging, loving and supportive through every step since the first.
My soulmate Varun, who just fell into my life like a meteorite a few months ago but has been holding my hand and walking alongside me since when I was a little girl and discovered I could dream. I love you.
My grandparents, who have loved, spoilt and pampered me to no end.
Pulkit, the oldest friend that I remember who's scrapes never cease to surprise me and who's always passionately loved me.
Divya, my first true book buddy and intellectual partner who shared many a 'novel' crush with me.
Madhuri, my swimming partner and personal gossip column who taught me how to bake cakes and skip school.
Manisha, who showed me what gentleness means and completely idealised the concept of love...one of the last few believers left in the world.
Karan, who redefined rudeness and showed me being tolerant is not as easy as it looks and that friendship always comes first.
Rajiv, my cousin, local musician, friend and confidante. He listened to many an endless agony with a grin on his face.
Sid, my cousin who introduced me to alcohol, nightlife and all the 'bad stuff'!
Divya, my cousin, my first competition in life...together we learnt that competition should be and is meant to be friendly.
Tanu, who taught me a galore of swear words that i still can't seem to memorise and loves me like a sis.
Neha, who was always cool for one more shop lifting escapade and loads of philosophical talks under trees.
Anu, who became friends in a matter of seconds and then refused to let go.
Shriya who speaks of fortitude and is an inspiration everyday.
Ashwathy, we learnt that friendships can happen in the most bizarre of ways and places without reasons.
Chitra chitti and Mouli chittappa, who showed me that largess of heart and being generous and kind is actually easy and is still what makes the world go around.

Home is where the heart is and I have a full house!

Luckiest girl in town

2008-04-29T04:07:00.000-07:00

They are scared the Thames might overflow...
There's rain everywhere I go
And it's following like an old foe.
A tempest swirls, ships drown
I stood like the boy on the burning deck,
But he's already gone and with the crown.
But in all the mist and devastation
I feel like the luckiest girl in town
Sun kissed and caressed,
My heart's got a glowing tan
For I am in love with the most WONDERFUL MAN!

Love & Season's

2008-03-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

Tis so easy to be mistaken,
So swift to feel forsaken,
Granted to be human,
Usual to walk away wanton.

Like the seasons in the sun,
Our loyalties change as if on the run.
As the warm rays caress our faces,
A single drop of rain makes us forget summer in hazes.

I watched many turn away from a gentle breeze,
For once upon a time they'd seen stormy winds freeze.
I watched many miss the spring,
Remembering the disappointments it could bring.

They all forgot to see,
And that is the key,
That along with the harsh seasons
Comes always a new hopeful reason.

And I promise to meet each new dawn,
And dying day in dusk,
With faith and belief never gone,
For you my love, my heart and my husk.

For the first time...

2008-03-05T05:12:00.000-08:00

Stopping my tracks to watch the clouds get tossed around
Suddenly its all I can think about...
There's a sunshine in my heart
Its this feeling that I always sought.
I don't want to run, don't want to dart
I want to stay, feel what this tide has brought.
I used to be so scared of being lost
For the first time I won't calculate the cost.
I feel this confidence in my soul
A trust in all things beautiful
A faith in happy endings
A belief in me and you
A promise at a glance
A will to take a chance
There's a truth in your eyes
And for now, no more clouds in the skies.

Inspiration gone dry

2008-02-01T03:11:00.000-08:00

Thoughts brush past
just like drafts of wind.
I close my eyes
to sift through its many hues and dyes.
To hold one still,
In the palm my hand
To colour it bright,
Like that rainbow not in sight.
I hold in that cry,
as my inspiration runs dry.

To write a tale of glory,
And run up that trail of victory.
To feel the strokes of the pen
as the ideas run through in tens.
To revel in a moment of discovery
Beyond the cocoon of uncontained misery.
I hold in that cry,
As my inspiration runs dry.

To see a spot of green,
in the sky of blue.
For a word of encouragement,
to make this seem true.
To walk through a meadow of marigolds,
And let go of fears never told.
To wake up in the middle of a fantasy,
And feel its touch of ecstasy.
I hold in that cry,
As my inspiration runs dry.

Yet they twirl before my eyes,
Like temptations of lies.
In words that that seem not to form,
those meaningful lyrics now dorm.
They yearn to awaken,
And dance with the dreams forsaken.
To tap these yarns of lore,
And create magic ever more.
I hold in that cry,
As my inspiration runs dry.

Her story or mine

2008-01-16T13:33:00.000-08:00

'No...stop...please don't hurt me'
'You almost won. You almost stole him away from me.' She said in a soft voice, her gaze steadily directed at her victim, the hatred shone.
‘You have to stop this madness…please…’ she desperately begged. Her hands were tied behind her back; her legs were tied together by a rope that was attached to the bed post. Tears streamed down her face as she helplessly struggled against the rope.
‘I would’ve forgiven you if you hadn’t made him say it,’ She slashed the tied woman’s arm with a bread knife.
“I would have let you go without a scratch if you hadn’t made him say it’, she cut her cheek with the same knife.
‘Wh..what did I make him s..say…?Please stop…I didn’t do anything to hurt you’ she sobbed and covered under the knife’s sharp eye.
‘He’s mine! You made him say he loved you! You tried to come between us!’ she screamed while slashing her in various places in mad fury. The air was filled with the victim’s cries.
‘He loves you t..too…he always loves you…’ she cried, ‘please stop this…he loves you t..too.’
Those were her last words. Sita pushed the knife through her stomach, ‘Yes, but I could never love him…’ she said with a small, satisfied smile, twisting the knife deep, killing her in one final brutal blow.

Half an hour later Sita had untied her, put the rope and the knife in a bag, dropped one of the big ghee barrels in the shed over her body and dropped a match on her way out.
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They had known each other since the day she was born. They had played together, quarreled together, read together and played practical jokes on all and sundry together. Of course since he had been the elder of the two partners in crime he had always suggested the idea and she in literal idol worship had executed. They would play cards, he would teach her silly tricks like how to create a blue flame in a beer bottle when the last sip was left with a lighted matchstick, they’d run around the garden playing tag and always finish each other’s sentences.

He lived next door and apart from school hours they were always inseparable at least until primary school. Things started changing slightly and gradually after that. He began to enjoy a mean game of football with the neighborhood boys more than play cards with her and by the time she was twelve and he was fifteen they hardly met all week. Sometimes two or three weeks would pass before they came to spend an occasional weekend together. They still had the same rapport and enjoyed the same easy camaraderie each time they did meet.

Then one summer, Tatha built The S&S Arc. The Sita & Sampath Arc had been named after them. Tatha loved children and animals and had innocent eyes just like the former two. He was a philanthropist, an eighty year old man still robust like he was just fifty. He looked like an old sparrow, always hobbling around doing first this and then fixing that. He was always busy; nobody had ever seen him wastefully idle. The S&S was built two streets across from where they stayed. It was a shelter for animals with a small veterinary division that would provide vaccinations to local street dogs and house any animals brought to its doorstep. Both Sara and Sam had always dogs and S&S became a new meeting ground for them. Both would volunteer regularly and work together on most days.

‘Tatha just got four horses Sita!’
‘Don’t kid with me maa. There are only ducks and starving dogs and disease stricken cats in S&S’, replied Sara with disinterest.
‘Am telling you! This farmer…I forget from which gaon…he did not have money to feed his horses, so he left them at S&S for Tatha to take care of for the time being. Sam has gone to see what he can do’
‘Wheeeeee…really? I can’t believe this!!! Maybe I’ll get to ride one! Am offff’, shouted Sita while leaving the house at a sprint.
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She saw Sam almost everyday. But this day when she gazed at him, it was different. It was then that it happened. Not full blown, but a tiny bud unfurled in her girl’s heart.

Sam was sitting astride a tall, sturdy horse with his back straight, that boyish grin on his face and his hair windswept. The reins were held by one of the mali’s who was making the horse slow trot.

‘Sita! Come here…you could ride Salim with me! He’s big enough’, he waved her over. The excitement in his voice washed over her and she eagerly climbed up behind him and held on tight. It was perhaps silly to feel this thrilled to sit so close to him in spite of knowing him for so many years. But at fifteen, Sita was finally smitten by her childhood buddy. He laughed gaily at the breeze, the sun, the jolting horse and at nothing at all. Sam was like that, easy to please, happy and irresistible.

The farmer never came back to claim the horses. Horse riding became a passion and an obsession for both of them and then eventually a routine. They would meet four to five times a week to ride at S&S. Sita’s affection for Sam grew with each meeting. They would talk about everything and nothing. She could read his mind, he never even managed to read her heart in spite of the fact that she carried it on her sleeve. He would discuss his girlfriend’s with her. Sam was one of those lucky few who was never single for long and never smitten for long either.

‘She can’t ride’, he’d complain about every other girl and that would be the end of that.
‘She’s just not like you’
‘She doesn’t understand my jokes like you do…’
‘She’s gorgeous and sexy as hell. I’ll see you after the movie with Rimmy…one more race? What say?’
There was always time for Sita. She began to feel a kind of ownership for Sam. She was content with just being around him and the other women did not bother her. They never lasted. They could never ride. They were not like her.
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College once again began to take up a lot of Sam’s time and the boards swallowed Sita’s. Riding was no longer an everyday activity. They still met often but both would end up discussing classes, studies and evil professors. There was no time to talk about girls. Or maybe there was something different about this girl…

Sam mentioned her once or twice casually over evening chai. ‘She’s really good at sketching you know. Her horses look just as good as the real ones’, he said and changed the subject.

Then another day he said, ‘I love the way she just laughs at anything I say. Meera has no sense of humour, but she still laughs at my jokes’. It was still nothing. Sita didn’t even pay attention.

Then a few months later, they were sitting on a bench in S&S after having raced. ‘Meera’s beautiful you know’, Sam said out of the blue.
‘Yeah…bet she can’t ride like me though’, retorted Sita with a laugh.
‘Nope she can’t, but bet you can’t sketch like her!’ said Sam slightly annoyed. He had never defended a girl before.
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After this she heard Meera mentioned several times. Each time casually but unlike before, Sam was never really willing to laugh about her like he used to about all the other girls.

School finished. Sam went into his fourth year of engineering and Meera was still in the picture. Summer break was on, so Sam began to invite Sita to go for coffee and other outings with his friends. The first two times Meera couldn’t come. It was at the third outing that Sita met her and it was only then that she realized how much she had wanted to see this girl.

Meera was nothing spectacular. She was short and just about reached Sam’s shoulder. She had a girly voice and smiled at most anyone. She’d squeal and yelp if someone so much as clapped their hand on her back. She wore earrings that matched her dress. She was like any other girly girl. What’s so special about such a ninny? Sam introduced them with much enthusiasm. He had his arm around Meera as he did so and didn’t manage to perceive Sita’s coldness.

‘I’ve heard so much about you. He talks about you all the time’, gushed Meera.
‘Well he hasn’t really mentioned you much’, replied Sita tersely.
Meera gave Sam an uncertain look and he put both his hands on her shoulder and said with a wink ‘we don’t talk too much about someone special do we?’

This trend continued throughout summer. Sita was silently building up a latent hatred for Meera. They would stand in a group and he would crack a joke and never exchange those familiar looks with her anymore. He would always wink at Meera like it was some sort of private insider that only they knew about. They would go to S&S and Meera would say she was too tired to ride and he would sit down with her instead of joining Sita for their usual rounds. Sita would say ‘lets try Chinese’ and Meera would say ‘Oooh yes Chinese is yummy but you guys go ahead...am not very hungry’ and Sam would immediately say ‘We aren’t too hungry either, lets just all have an ice cream’.

He was not neglecting Sita. He was as usual being himself; the revered elder guy who Sita had always doted on anyway. He just made decisions for all of them not because he wanted only what Meera wanted but because he was used to overlooking whatever Sita wanted. But this had never been evident before because before there had only been Sam and Sita.

Sam told Meera he loved her in front of all of them. He did it all the time these days. Sita would have still survived it, if Sam had not woken her up from a long dream.
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They were standing together in a group at a friend’s party. All of them had had a drink or two, laughter was in the air and since most of the friend’s had been Meera’s she had left Sam to Sita while she mingled in the crowd. After ages they’d had time together. It was the first time that they’d danced together and both had a gala time goofing around. One of Meera’s friend’s had kept a close eye on them.

After a few songs their group came together and Meera emerged from the crowds and gave him a hug. Amidst jokes, Richa, Meera’s friend said ‘you guys are really close. Why are you flirting with Meera when you already have something going with this girl,’ Meera was shocked and looked ready to apologise to Sita and Sam. Sam simply burst out laughing and casually said ‘I love Meera. You think I have something going on with Sita? She’s my cousin! I could never like her like that! Crazy!’

It was then that something snapped inside Sita. Not the fact that he didn’t love her or the fact that he loved Meera, simply the fact that he could never love her and she could never have him.

From then on everything was easy. After a lot of patience and months of planning suddenly one day she walked out of S&S leaving a burning carcass of wood, shed and body behind her…

Contemplations

2008-01-11T04:48:00.000-08:00

I don't want this blog becoming a diary...and when you have nothing to write about except your own life, you realise how self centered you have become. Its all about my life, not 'life'...the most narrow minded view one can have, I can have. I also hate writing in first person, it makes me more aware of what I am telling the world about me and in turn inhibits me. I thus speak boldly using 'I' voraciously and fool the whole lot by not saying anything about the 'I' in actuality. So, this time, I've decided to write in third person and unleash my true thoughts onto an imaginary 'she'; in essence fooling myself rather than everyone else.
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Everything needs to be done for the right reasons or it is never done right and never yeilds the desired results. Why is anyone good to anybody else? Why does anybody do a kind deed? Why would anybody go out of their way to help anyone? Is it simply because they are called nice? Is it simply because they become more popular and favourable in others eyes, in the eyes of their peers and comtemporaries? Recently...or sometime back, she can't quite put a date to it, but irrespective of when it was, she discovered that being nice to others made them nice to you. She discovered that a few kind words in spite of rudeness would in turn make the other person eventually soften their demeanor towards you. At times long drawn and enduring, but always with the same sure shot result. It was a simple matter of what goes around comes back around. She attributed it to tolerance and patience and assumed it to be a great virtue to be nurtured and valued. Little did she realise that this little virtue was cultivated on a very selfish pretext of ensuring that the world or those that mattered, even those who didn't were nice to her. In effect being nice, kind and helpful to others was purely a reflexive act towards the ultimate goal of self preservation. She lived in an air-tight bubble of imagining that she would always be kind and helpful to her friends and those she cared about irrespective of the returns. Its good to be kind is what she believed. This in essense shows that she was more or less nice because 'someone' or rather 'society' decreed it right to be nice and not because genuine empathy came from within her.

A while ago, getting carried away by some idealistic reading and conversations she started volunteering with old people. She figured it would be a nice thing to do, to spend a few evenings a week with the elderly and make them feel good, in effect make herself feel satisfied. Yes making herself feel satisfied was the main reason she took up this endeavour. It had nothing to do with helping them and making their last few years blissful. Initially it was a little embarrassing to refuse to go meet friends for dinner as she had a volunteering engagement, but there was also an odd pride in standing up in front of peers and saying what she thought was right. Yet again the end to the means was different. It was about proving to herself that she could do anything that she thought was right irrespective of what everybody thought. It was not about the old people, it was not about truly making them happy. It was never about seeing the delightful glow on their faces when she read them an interesting piece of gossip from the evening newspaper, it wasn't about the glee expressed by an old woman who was surreptitiously offered truffle by her, it wasn't about making him cheerful either. Lets call him Mr. George. He made everything difficult. He refused to smile when she offered to spend time with him, he refused to feel happy when she played chess with him, he never felt flattered if she skipped her social engagements to walk around the premises with him on a cold evening. He told her in a very flat tone of voice that she was doing him no favour by being there and it was him that made her question all her reasons. She doesn't know if her reasons are the right ones. She doesn't know if knowing this will make her reasons change...
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She had been reading Gandhiji's biography the past few days. This statement instantly invokes two common responses of 'I hate him' or 'I love him' from most people she knows. She hasn't quite made up her mind about him but for what it is worth irrespective of consequences he was a great man. There is something to be learnt in perseverance, dedication and stauch stubborness. The man had self control...the power of will. The reader might argue till summer greets us, but it is an extremely rare charactor trait. People wonder (cynically) why Gandhiji's strict philosophies and way of life could not take India further to becoming the equal opportunity nation he wanted it to be. Others 'thu' their own fellow countrymen saying that the love for Gandhi died with the man itself. She doesn't think it was the love that died. His life gives this one very potent lesson, message. Its evident in every stage of his life. For instance, living at Sabarmati ashram, he inspired the discipline, he made everyone follow the rules and live austere lives and do all their work themselves. It was tough but they did it with him, for him and inspired by him. But everytime he left the ashram on a mission to another place, the ashram would fall slack. It would lose its discipline and the 'inmates' would again go back to living lazy lives. She says 'inmates' because they lacked inspiration from within and lacked a will of their own. They fed off his will power and the conviction of his beliefs. They only did what he said because they felt it was the word of one very wise and great but did not hold the conviction of the very same beliefs in their hearts. Gandhiji's major failing (I apologise) here was not being able to translate the very same understanding of these beliefs to his followers. My only defense for him is that it was not his duty to do so. He spread the right message it was not his duty to ensure that our hearts and minds grasped it...that was our duty. Its a major lesson in being staunch towards ones beliefs, a major lesson in being resolute and following something to the core. Nothing ever works unless it is done for the right reasons. The will cannot be resolute unless the heart and mind in unison believe in the purpose, in the mission. Gandhiji had immense belief in his purpose, we had immense belief in him. Therein lies the difference.
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She learnt the meaning of humility.

She learnt that some stay...some walk...but you love them anyway.

She also learnt that sometimes when you think you've given your very best to someone and are happy and satisfied in a bubble of knowing you went out on a limb to be there for them, they can tell you that you did not come through for them as a friend. She learnt that it was okay to take a deep breath and re-question whether she actually had.
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'Always look at the bright side of life', this is a song in Monty Python's 'Spamalot' which is a laugh riot. This song has been running several marathons in her head for the past few days. But she truly learnt how to the other day when, as she was looking at herself in the mirror and complaining about how unapealing she looks normally, her friend pointed out 'Well atleast you look decent when you dress up, think about how awful some poeple look even after that!'

It was mean, but she laughed like hell.

You

2007-12-14T12:15:00.000-08:00

I brush a strand of hair falling into your eye
Gently I cup your cheek not wanting to say goodbye
Molten concern in your gaze
I look away in a teary haze

Every breath I take is a memory of your face
Every word I write as pretty as lace
Nothing as beautiful as here, as this place
You walk away...turning my dream to glace

Forever and for always
I'd dream of this for days
In every sparkle of the sun's rays
and every shadow of the moon you lay.

In a smile oft inside
I built you up like the tide
And we swirled on this exquisite ride
until you pushed me aside

Yet I wait for another stormy night
not a moment of fear, nor a heartbeat of fright
In consumed hope of light
All my wait...just to see your sight.

Every war needs a saviour

2007-12-08T13:39:00.000-08:00

'Why don't I have a papa?'

'You have a mama who loves you very much,' said Karla while she lifted her daughter onto her lap.

'Yes, but why don't I have a papa? Everyone else does.' came a pertinent and indignant response.

'He had to go away darling and live among the stars', said Karla feeling so foolish at using the same age old meaningless story people have used for centuries to explain the phenomenon of death to young kids.

'Why mommy? Why can't he come and take me biking like other papa's?’ asked five year old Sue in a very reasonable voice.

'Because he loved his country very much and has gone to the stars to find a way to save it darling', replied Karla with the satisfaction of having said at least something different from lore, a part truth if not the whole truth.

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Sue was a much loved, pampered five year old and had been adored by her papa while he was still alive, but she did not know that. Her papa was the late Patricke Mariach who had laid his life down for his country. The Patricke Mariach who had been one of the first to stand up to the present military regime and had awoken the nation to the voice of enlightenment, to the voice of revolution. The Patricke Mariach who had initiated the formation of the National League for Democracy which had won the unanimous support of the nation within a year. Sue was the only child and heir of the late Patricke Mariach who had had the unwavering courage to oppose the military rule while nobody else had dared to.

Military regime had held this small country called Derain in East Asia under siege for over forty years. The people enjoyed no rights and had no voice. They succumbed to laws and regulations and ever increasing taxes in silence. Over the years there had been a few uprisings, minor ones conducted more in frustrated passion rather than being planned executions. Patricke had been the first to start talking to people, to start making them love their land, to start making them understand that it was their right to live it on with freedom. ‘Freedom’; he had given them this anthem. Freedom not from a rule, but from being weak and cowardly and forever submissive. He had raised a voice which had echoed and the National League for Democracy had been formed, supported by thousands. He had petitioned for elections and after forty years of a repressive rule elections were held in Derain. The NLD had won hands down to nobody’s surprise. The National Unity Party which had run the military regime had won only 10 votes as opposed to the opponents 366. Even before the parliament could convene, the military regime had imprisoned the main leaders of the NLD and executed Patricke Mariach. There were to be no protests, no uprisings and no revolutions at the cost of death. In spite of the blow and in spite of the mass acquiescence, in the hearts and the minds of the people war had been declared. And in this war, the military regime had won the first round. The people were in wait for their next saviour.
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Sue grew up known as the daughter of Patricke Mariach, an identity she came to resent over the years. Everywhere she went, every person she met would refer to her father and his great sacrifice and wonderingly question her as to when she would grow be ready to follow in his footsteps. All this would of course be hush as the military government would not tolerate anyone talking about an ‘insurgent’, as they called him, with praise. No one would dare say the name of Patricke Mariach in the open, no one would dare acknowledge Sue as his daughter in public, but the whispers would continue behind backs, in dark alleys, in quiet kitchens and people's bedrooms. She would be talked about and discussed in almost every household of Derain. Rumours about her future were almost a fever during the first few years of Sue's life. Ex-party members and friends would ask, pester and nag her about when she would take over the League and lead the nation to freedom. By the time she reached her late teens, members of the party began coming home for calls and visits. They would drink tea with Karla and talk about Sue’s future as if it were all decided, as if was their right to decide it. Assumptions and presumptions would be made about what her first political move must be. Sue hated it. She hated being the 'great revolutionary's' daughter. She hated having everything decided for her in life. She hated feeling like a secret pawn kept hidden until the right move was to be made in the political game of chess. She wanted her own life. She wanted to make her own destiny. She wanted to be an ordinary teenager and be able to make her simple dreams come true. In the indignation of her youth she considered this constant outcry against the military rule, ‘pure hype’.
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'What about my life mama? Don't you care about what I want? You have brought me up to be a sacrificial lamb...an end to your means!' Sue threw bitterly at her mother.
‘Your father gave up his life for this country. How can you talk like this?’ asked Karla.
‘He might have because it is what he believed in. Why should his beliefs and dreams be mine? I want to help people; I want to make a difference in this world. I don’t want to be a silly political pawn for this country. Even if I do agree to become the face of this party, what will come off it? More political mileage, more people murdered by the regime…there will never be any elections. Why should I waste my life here?’ Replied Sue without budging.
‘Look at the poverty around you, the economic stagnation, the number of people dying without jobs and food…’
‘There is poverty in most nation’s, including all our neighbours. Just because this place has a military regime does not make our poverty any worse!' Sue interrupted.
‘Your talking like a selfish ignorant child!’ screamed Karla.
‘Yes I am a child and I’m yours. Please let me live my life.’ Begged Sue.

She got what she wanted. Karla’s heart like any other mother’s was most vulnerable to her daughter’s trauma. They left for New Delhi, where Sue pursued a Master’s in philosophy and philanthropy at the University of Delhi. They lived an ordinary life, undisturbed as mother and daughter and re-discovered themselves as people. Karla always wanted to go back but she never voiced those desires, letting her daughter enjoy a free rein. Sue began to find direction; she took up a job at an NGO where she worked with underprivileged children; taught them the basics of Maths and English and fought with various fund groups to gather enough funds to feed as many desperate hungry mouths as possible. Her life became about working for the poor and downtrodden. With perseverance she began to achieve small goals in making a difference and began to be known in the NGO circles for her achievements. She was forming an identity; she was no longer Patricke Mariach’s daughter alone. In spite of making this identity for herself, there was an odd restlessness in her spirit. She never acknowledged even to herself why she had chosen to do all this in a different part of the world and not in her own homeland. She still resented her childhood and refused to consider going back the few times her mother mentioned it. The NGO in Delhi was both work and home. It is there that she met Rajan.

She did not know how or when it happened but, fallen in love with Rajan she had. He shared her passion for making a difference, he sympathized with her about her past, he believed in her and they supported each other through each minor victory and major loss. The strong bond of friendship turned into love and they got married. In the course of the next few months, Rajan got invited to London to head a series of talks and Sue decided to go there to present her book on NGO systems. They bid adieu to Karla who asked to go back to Derain, to the home of her husband. Goodbyes were said and promises were made.
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For years to come, Sue and Rajan continued their fight for justice in London. Sue wrote many books that were acclaimed and accepted as benchmarks in child labour and the UN allowed Sue and Rajan to set up a trust for children in India. They had two daughters of their own, twins. When the girls were about eight years old, Rajan and Sue made a trip to Derain to show them their homeland. Karla was overjoyed and it was the perfect family reunion…except for a small play of fate. Anne, one of Sue’s daughter’s came down with a terrible case of jaundice. Before they could even realise what the ailment was, it had become very severe. They tried to get treatment, but the country would not allow them to use the services of the only and largest government hospital of Derain as Sue was no longer a citizen. The private clinics were small and few in between; none of them had the resources necessary to save the life of this child. Anne died in a month and Sue’s life became a well of guilt and silence. It became a sort of mission for her to open government policies and to bring such medicines and services into the country that had denied her daughter life. Rajan took their second daughter and left for London refusing to stand by his wife while she fought for the country that had taken his daughter away from him.

Sue began petitioning, calling out to people and spreading awareness. ‘Its only when your own child is hurt that you want to do something. I had once said that attaining freedom for this country was Father’s dream and not mine. For the first time I understand that this is my homeland. My daughter died like so many other daughters because my homeland is suffering and father’s dream is now mine,’ she told Karla.

She took her place as leader of NLD and once again the nation had hope. In the years ahead, campaigns were fought, elections were called for, the UN was asked for help. There were numerous protests and silent demonstrations that were mercilessly and violently ended by the regime. Various NLD leaders were imprisoned and Sue was placed under house arrest. She was restricted from any sort of movement and was not allowed to meet anyone. Due to lapses on part of the regime’s strict watch on the media, the world media got a few glimpses of the conditions in Derain. Sue began to win sympathy across the globe. The regime could not assassinate her without attracting the attention of the world court of justice. They desperately wanted her to leave the country. Rajan tried to come to Derain several times to re-unite with his wife but was not permitted entry. The regime hoped it would make her leave. Her letters to the people and recorded speeches were giving the people courage to question the regime. Yet, Sue was not released.

Two years later, one of her books won the Nobel Prize and she was invited to Copenhagen for the award ceremony. At the same time, Rajan sent a few wires requesting to see her as he was dying of prostrate cancer. The regime offered to let her go for the ceremony and be with her dying husband, releasing her from the house arrest if she agreed never to return.
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In the sixth year of her being in Derain, the price of fuel and gas went up inexorably and the people could no longer afford gas even for cooking. There were silent demonstrations across the country. For the first time in history monks took to demonstrating on the streets and gathered in throngs outside Sue’s home announcing NLD as the new government. In spite of the brutal suppression by the regime, the nation stood united. The protests were recorded worldwide and the UN asked to hold dialogues with the regime. Sue was released from house arrest and immediately took to the streets to lead the protests. The prices of fuel were brought down again. It was a small victory and it will take years to overthrow the regime but it was start. The second round of the war had been won by the people of Derain. They were no longer waiting for their saviour.
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On October 15th each year, Sue keeps a day of silence in memory of her husband. She had made a choice. We don’t know whether she regretted it, but we do know that she made it.

Derain still fights to overthrow the regime. Elections are yet again to be contested and yet again there are no doubts about who will win them.
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All places, events and characters of this story are purely fictitious. It has been inspired by the life and achievements of Aung San Suu Kyi who fights even today for Burma’s freedom. A brief biography can be found at: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/peace/laureates/1991/kyi-bio.html

He got the whole world in his hands...

2007-11-18T13:27:00.001-08:00

Amidst the glitter and sounds of clinking crystals I gazed with admiration at my uncle who had the whole world in his hands. At fifty, he is among the top five men of India’s most successful MNC. He sat at our lunch table at the Hilton, with an ease that spoke of luxury and a humility that could humble a king. He had started out like any other young man with an ambition burning in his heart to lead his life his own way and earn his laurels through his own hard work. This isn’t a tribute to my uncle. He has many more mountains to climb and much more of the world that he still wants to enthrall with his enterprising charm and voracious successes. Someday, given half the chance I’d like to write a book about him.

This post is just about young men and women and ambitions and what success can be defined as. I won’t try to kid us all by saying am going to talk about it as a holistic subject. I am simply going to try and define or rather comprehend what I think success or having lived a successful life is in my mind. It’s all I’ve been thinking of lately. It’s the one question if answered will probably lay down the general structure that my life is going to take.

I love the word passion. I won’t call myself a very vocally passionate person. But I am passionate about certain things that can get my blood to boil and my heartbeat to race and my mind and my body to tremble in indignation with youthful idealism. These are not just words or statements. These are things that mean a lot to me. A dream means a lot to me. If I were to meet a man/woman with a dream to build the largest chain of news cafes, or hosiery mills or even an honest dream of setting up a small dhabha and making it the best in town I would fall sucker to the passion, to the dream, to the desire to make it happen. I am passionate about wanting to make a difference. I am passionate about suddenly taking a year off to go off on an NGO project in some god forsaken town of Orrissa if I could so much as make a difference to the lives of five fellow human beings. I am passionate about passion. Passion for music, passion for dance, passion for sport, any passion that anybody would have for anything. I respect that. Most of all I am passionate about writing. I don’t think a passion or talent should be harnessed or controlled. I think it should be allowed to grow wild to take whatever form it possibly can. It should definitely be honed and nurtured, but never harnessed.

I am also a firm believer of the combination of hard work and passion. I don’t think talent comes easy. It definitely is the first step towards that spectacular career. But I also believe that the path to success via the nurturing and honing of a talent is slow, tedious and sometimes fruitless. There are some rare instances wherein the path to passion is very much on the lines of the path to making money but such is not always the case. I know at this point all this sounds random. Let me exemplify.

I spoke with this composer/singer the other day. I have never met him in my life, yet passion spoke. He talked about his ambition to create a record breaking international album. He spoke about how he had been one of the most successful employees at an advertising firm and how one day at the peak of his career, he decided his heart lied in music...how one day he resigned and gave up all fears of money and security and put all the fight he had in him to creating that music that gave him ultimate joy. Just joy. He lives for the pure exhilaration that composing gives him. He did not take the risk knowing he was good at it. In fact quite the opposite, he didn’t have a clue whether he was good enough to make it. But he decided that he would rather put his sweat and his blood into trying to make a career out of something that gave him pure joy rather than work extremely hard to earn money from a job which was just that. A job. I know his story sounds cliché but it requires immense courage to do what he did. He asked me if I was willing to work my entire life in a firm that would probably give me monetary success or whether I had the guts to let lose and do what I love doing….writing. I didn’t have an answer. But I knew that this carefree spirit had spoken the language of my heart.

That same evening, I met a friend I had recently made. Another mechanical engineer, though not run of the mill. An intelligent, above average man with a different kind of passion. He had dreams, dreams that I am sure with the ambition glittering in his eyes and the hard work he readily puts in, will come true. His decided path is a future MBA leading to a career in consulting. He does not have just the random ambition that most software graduates have in common. He does not just want to make tons of money. He wants to be a consultant because he believes he will be good at it and even if he isn’t he wants to do it because he claims he enjoys it. Yet, he knows for sure he will make money, tons of it, out of this particular passion. It’s a decided path. It has a known future. It is secure, yet it is still a fight for a passion. He asked me if I did not want that kind of success, that kind of sense of achievement from my career. I didn’t have an answer. But I knew that his sense of logic and essence of attainment is something that I connected with.

Both ambitions are pure. Both I understand. Here I have not mentioned the rat race that only works to earn money because it is survival. I have only mentioned the two pure examples. And I am afraid because I want both. No, I am not talking about money here. I know me and I can safely say that it does not hold too much temptation for me. But I am talking about a sense of achievement. And I want both kinds. I want to pursue those passions that make my blood boil. I want to write and I want to do something with it. I want to experience the tumultuous joy from the minor successes of this passion and the heart breaking agony from its many failures. But, I also want the sweet victory of a corporate battle fought and won. I want to know that I can exist in this world of today and hold my ground when facing the challenges in a boardroom that I have studied to encounter and defeat. I know all of you will say do both. But nothing in life comes with half measure. You have to set your soul on it and give it everything you got for otherwise it isn’t worth it. Then giving everything you got to that one passion is success. Without an iota of slack, without an iota of mercy, without an iota of regret…this is success. Where neither success nor failure matter, just giving it your all does because you know this is what you want. Its then that you can say ‘he got the whole world in his hand’…

How does one decide? How does one become fearless? How does one make the choice? How does one do both? How does one have the cake and eat it too?

Promise

2007-10-21T06:35:00.000-07:00

The dewdrops of dawn are disappearing in the soft sunshine
It could be a harsh noon,
But for now there's a soft breeze
A lilting harmony in the rays of light appearing in the horizon
A lot of promise,
A lot of anticipation
This could be love,
Perhaps it wont be
Yet, I throw caution to the winds.

Predator

2007-10-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

She got up screaming. Her body was covered in cold sweat and she was still shaking. Vision hazy, she tried to edge herself into the centre of the bed curving her body into a ball, clutching at the sheets; trying to peek into the dark and discern the lucid images. Gradually she managed to convince herself that it wasn't there, that she was okay, that it was okay to move, it was okay to breathe. Slowly she willed herself back to reality and got up cautiously to turn the lights on. Her body tense, her every nerve ending on alert to run at the first hint of danger.

The flash of the blinding light seemed to pierce through her very consciousness and the nightmare was gone as easily as it had come. Trembling she sat down on the bed again and drank thirstily from her night flask. It was not fear at its sharpest most vibrant intensity, but it was still fear. She had thought it had been dealt with but the nightmare still came on odd nights uninvited like a sudden tornado and then the vision of that horrific experience would come to her so stark, so clear that it would almost be real. It would bring with it a choking, numbing terror and a flood of memories that she had always fought so hard to control.

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She’d always been fascinated by sharks. The sheer power and thirst for blood that the animal displayed would have her hooked to the TV for hours together watching Discovery. She was terrified of the creatures but would still for some incomprehensible reason watch from behind a pillow the circling fin, the cold evil eye that freezes you over, the leap that the gigantic fish would make in the air for those 20 odd seconds to bite into a piece of bait that deep sea divers place so they can study its instincts, its behaviour. She would gasp in horror at the blood dripping from those teeth and watch the muscle play of that gray body in awe. She would grudgingly admire these divers for their pluck and madness to be doing this and secretly wish she was there among them.

Surprisingly in spite of this tremendous and compulsive fear of sharks, she loved swimming and had always been a water baby. She would swim for hours together in pools and even when she visited beaches not once would the thought of the creature cross her mind while in the water.

Human psychology is a weird thing. In the year 2001, she finally understood why so many doctors, physicians, academicians and psychologists were so interested in the human psyche, in what the person perceived and thought rather than what really was. In 2001 she turned 17; she passed out of high school, finished the most pressurising exams of the past 12 years of her life and went for the first time to Goa with her cousins. Her’s was a very sporty family. For all of them, going to Goa meant five days of sun, sand, snorkeling, scuba diving, water skiing, water polo and intense tanning.

They had the time of their lives pulling each others legs underwater, playing tag, going water skiing in pairs and racing. All of them were decent swimmers. The five of them hadn’t met in the last few years but this sporting seemed to bind them together within a few hours.
Snorkeling was exceptionally beautiful and all the reefs, fishes and corals that they had seen left them talking and thinking of nothing else. They did it two days in a row and couldn’t seem to get enough of it. Highly charged and eager for more, the eldest Sam suggested they try scuba diving as well. “I mean how often does one come to Goa like this without parents?” he reasoned in a matter of fact way. They all agreed and the enthusiasm caught on. And so Barracuda diving it was. All listened tenaciously to the guide’s instructions on how to handle the equipment, on how to work the oxygen masks taking slow deep breaths at all times and also to keep away from any dark spots or anything that looked suspiciously white or translucent; to swim as fast as possible towards the boat if one noticed such a thing, to not try to help each other and always stay within a 500 metres radius from the boat.

They took the first few attempts to get a hang of the breathing. In the first few initial spots they didn’t swim more than a few yards away from the boat, venturing hesitantly and looking around furtively before doing so. Gradually the sights and the pure exhilaration of swimming as one among the sea life took over and they began to swim fearlessly, admiring the glorious colours and textures under the sea.

It was mid afternoon and the guide was rounding them up. She and Sam broke surface together about 100 yards from the boat and took off their oxygen masks. They were so excited and thrilled, they almost began to talk at the same time and burst out laughing in the awe of the beauty they had seen together, not knowing how best to express it. She was still bobbing lazily. Ron was already in the boat grinning and waving at Sam and Ross. Sam gave Ross a friendly shove and started swimming back. A few feet to Ross’s right Dee had broken surface. Ross smiled at Dee and both girls made to move towards each other. Nobody knows when exactly it happened. Nobody saw it coming. Ron later claims to have seen a white translucent stiff wire rise from the water next to Ross but he wasn’t convinced. It happened in a split second and in that instant Ross felt like she had died. It was excruciating pain radiating from her foot to the very nerve endings of her every pore. It was pain that screams through you and tears you apart. She lost consciousness for a few moments but it felt like an eternity.

When she opened her eyes everything around her was red. There were terrified screams coming from all directions and all of them seemed to have her name in them. It felt like it was coming from far away. The red had spread in a radius around her forming a full circle with her in the center. It was then that she realised that the red was blood. It was her blood. The fear rushed in and immobilised her. Suddenly she was acutely aware of where she was, suddenly she could hear every word in the screams clearly, she was petrified to move, to breathe. She just floated there unaware of the tears seeping down her cheeks. Alex had surfaced right next to Dee the minute this had happened. Neither of them had realised until the blood had started forming the perimeter of the circle. Although only a few seconds had passed from the moment that they saw the shock and muted scream on Ross’s face to the moment that the blood began merging with the water around her, for her it was a lifetime’s worth of nightmares ahead.

There was no sign of it. No great gray body, no evil eyes, no circling fin. But all of them could feel the fear it generates permeating from and towards them in waves. But they couldn’t see the creature. Alex broke through the shock first. He was brave. In fact according to Ross he had been the bravest among them all that day. ‘It’s not here now! Ross, ROSS swim. Swim Ross,’ he yelled suddenly. Stupefied, in the sharpest haze of her life Ross just kept looking at him. ‘C’mon Ross swim!’ he yelled again. He started swimming towards her. He hit the edge of her blood circle and hesitated. He circled her and kept urging her to swim but was still afraid to break through the blood perimeter. The guide who was next to Sam slowly started swimming towards her as well. But they all stopped at the edge of the circle. For some reason she couldn’t think. They were all saying it now. ‘Swim Ross swim. You can do it. Just swim towards the boat. SWIM!’ It seemed to move thru her haze but she was still afraid to move a limb for fear of instigating the animal again. But the pain had gone, or rather dulled to almost a non-existent level. She slowly tired to move her legs and it was then that she realised that she was literally paralysed, that she wasn’t able to move her limbs. Assuming she had lost them she suddenly mentally gave up, she stopped struggling and became passive…only the vest holding her up.

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In an desperate, yet almost fatal attempt to shock her into movement, Ron threw a mask at her hoping that it would land next to her and shock her into action. It hit her in the face and she went down gasping and gulping mouthfuls of her own bloodied water. The survival instinct took over and she pushed herself up and flayed her arms in an attempt to move. It had shocked everyone into action. All of them moved through her circle and Sam and the guide held each arm of hers and swam towards the boat. This time they reached un-attacked. They don’t remember much about the boat trip back to the shore. It passed in between shocked, glazed gazes and body wracking sobs. Her foot was in a mess. It was split open from ankle to toe and the flesh was hanging out. She doesn’t remember if she had been in pain because the mental shock seemed to have numbed any other sensation. They got to the hospital and she was operated upon and the chief surgeon told them that she was lucky it had been a light graze and not a full fledged sting. ‘Sting?’ asked Dee, confused. ‘Yes, the sting ray seemed to have grazed past her, the current therefore not being too strong seemed to have only cut through her foot instead of giving her a proper fatal shock’, replied the surgeon. ‘Phew! We thought it was shark!’ whispered Alex. ‘This could have been worse and more dangerous than a nurse shark bite,’ said Dr Nanavati before walking away.

That first evening was fine. Ross and the others talked among themselves easily. They discussed the incident and laughed over how they had all assumed it had been a shark. They were relieved and tired and slept only in the way exhausted children can for a full 14 hours. The trauma began the next day when Ross refused to go to the bathroom alone. She refused to get off her bed and put her foot down. She refused to drink water and she refused to have a bath. Her fear was so acute that she could virtually conjure up the murky sea and then a shark rising through the water with blood dripping down its jaws and she would shake and cry and vomit, but the vision would persist. She refused to close her eyes and sleep, for no sooner would her eyelids drop would she see the evil cold eye and feel the waves of chill creeping up her body.

Each time in pure exhaustion that she would begin to nod off, Ron would come and shake her awake and ask her if she was okay. He was going through his own guilt trip and nightmare and could not get the vision of her spluttering and flaying her arms about in the bloody water when he had thrown the mask at her. He kept feeling like he had killed her. Insomnia combined with Ron’s persistent ‘are you okay shakes’ ensured that Ross hadn’t slept a wink for a week. It culminated into a high fever leaving her delirious and shouting in her sleep. Gradually she recovered. Over the period of a few months the trauma of the experience was slowly dispelled.

One day she ventured into the shallow end of the swimming pool and even though she came out almost crying and shaking just moments after, it was definitely a start. Her father persevered and finally made her jump off a three metre board in order to get her over her fear. Standing there, on the board, she could see them circling in the water below as clearly as if they were there, waiting for their bait, waiting for her jump. She stood there and cried and begged and sat bent sobbing and vomited in the small chlorine box beside her, pleading with him that she couldn’t do it. They were there with blood dripping down their jaws and her father said jump. An hour or so passed and the man disappointed, slowly turned and started walking away. And then she jumped.

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Its been years since that day. She is still a decent swimmer and loves the sport. But even today while swimming in the deep if one of her friends jokingly mention the word shark, she freezes over and her heartbeat accelerates and it takes immense self control for her to tell herself that the edge of the pool is just 5 strokes away. ‘C’mon Ross swim. You can make it’.

Its funny how in spite of knowing that it was a sting ray that had caused her such pain and almost killed her that day, she to this date fears sharks. In that one instant that she felt her foot rip apart in the water, she had associated it with a shark bite. She had feared it all her life and her mind refused to grasp the simple logic that the fish had nothing to do with what had happened to her. She knew it.

Yet…even today, she can smell the fear sometimes when early in the morning she walks over to the washbasin to wash her face. ‘Its just a washbasin Ross, its just a washbasin’.

Confession

2007-09-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

I made a mistake. No, it was blasphemy and I would like to apologise to all of you most sincerely.

The following lines from the post 'Home to you' were picked from the book Shantaram written by Gregory David Roberts.

"Like brown and black dunes, the acres of slums rolled away from the roadside, and met the horizon with dirty heat-haze mirages. It seemed impossible that a modern airport, full of prosperous and purposeful travelers, was only kilometers away from crushed and cindered dreams. Had I been a foreigner, my first impression would have been that some catastrophe had taken place, and that the slums were refugee camps for the shambling survivors. Since I wasn’t a foreigner, I knew that they were survivors. The catastrophes that had driven them to the slums from their villages were poverty, famine and bloodshed. Somewhere in my subconscious I had expected to see it. I knew it. Like every Indian does in every picture of every road and scene etched forever in his mind. But it still hurts. For that moment I blamed London for having spoilt me and made my nerve endings raw. But I do remember bleeding for this sight even then before I left.As the kilometers wound past, as hundreds of people in those slums became thousands, my spirit writhed. I felt defiled by my own health and the money in my pockets. It’s a lacerating guilt, that first confrontation with the wretched of the earth. I had worked as a labourer in a restaurant in London, I had lived surrounded by this poverty for most of my life. Still, that first encounter with the ragged misery all around cut into my eyes.That guilt soon flamed into anger and rage at the unfairness of it: What kind of government, I thought, What kind of a system allows suffering like this? In indignant bourgeois thoughts I also wondered what kind of wasteful human attitude allowed the people to let this happen to themselves (I most sincerely apologise for this callous thought).I looked at the people then and I saw how busy they were. Occasional sudden glimpses inside the huts revealed the astonishing cleanliness of that poverty: the floors were spotless, the utensils all stacked together in little pyramids. And then I saw the women (I admit to always having found all these Indian women extremely gracious in spite of the dirt in their lives and in their surroundings) wrapped in all colours of sarees, dupattas and some in just a meagre imitation of both sweeping the areas around the huts, cooking meals on stoves outside the house, braiding their daughters hair; constantly active. Mostly I saw the affectionate camaraderie of the fine-limbed children, older ones playing with younger ones, many of them supporting baby sisters and brothers on their slender hips. Responsibility at such a young age under such dire circumstances where each one should have been only thinking of himself and how to diminish the pain of his own depravity filled me with a certain pride for this beautiful race."

I meant to quote/attribute these lines then...but I never did and then once the comments started pouring in I didn't even clarify. I promise not to allow such an oversight to occur again.

I apologise dear readers, for you have been so supportive in taking the time out to read and comment on my blog and I confess I repaid very poorly.

2007-08-28T06:06:00.000-07:00

A slow annihilation of sense
Bursts of light, shards of glass
Infusing steadily as though with rights to pass
The pain a constant...its mastery a lapse
Of losses immense
Held within labourious gasps
Where words die in their value
And language doesn't do justice
While the writing becomes stale
When this ceases to be solace
Fists clenched, perceptions dazed
Straight backed, I hibernate
This too shall pass...
So long.

Just...

2007-08-26T15:06:00.000-07:00

I walked into the house and I just knew it. I felt it in the space around me, in the charge in the air. I could sense it, I could smell it...the smell of home. I could actually see myself cleaning up the filthy mess and the thick layers of dust from the mantle pieces, from the rugs, from the furniture. I could picture myself standing in that kitchen on a cold winter morning and drinking a cup of coffee while staring out of that window. I could feel the sunny summer days when I'd lounge around in the cool living room that has the blue bean bag. I was almost there in that vision where am lying on my stomach leaning over a book on that bed...in that bedroom which I already felt was mine. I was lost...yet I was found. I wasn't hearing a bit of the conversation that my future roomie was having with the landlord...I was already sold on the house.

Thats when I caught a sudden snippet of conversation mentioning the rent. Once that was mentioned other practical considerations came into play; considerations of accessibility of transport, distance from nearest amenities, security etc. Eventually for all good reasons we gave up the house and for all good reasons I felt like someone had just stomped on my silly chit of a heart. Just like that...

And so the house hunting continued. Its been harrowing and exhausting and overwhelming. Many were practical but they still weren't the same as that house. I was being ridikulous I know...but for some reason it was like having rejected the right guy and now temporarily settling for ummm well a practical alternative. See how callous it sounds?? But well we are unemployed and looking for a place to stay till we find a job and so it was the only sensible thing to do. And I always think a million times and try and do these sensible things...try being the operative word.

But all the practicality definitely killed the fun. I've never had a concept of what house hunting should be like and have simply taken people's word for it when they said it was exhausting. But that day when I saw the house, a funny thing happened. I wanted to look for one with someone else. It surprised me this thought...this feeling...this feeling new...I wanted to find one and rejoice the feeling of belonging there with a man. I wanted to feel his presence in our house. I wanted to just worry about practicalities that would revolve around this little world of mine. I even thought of how it would be house hunting with him when we have kids if ever...how far would the school be, is it close to his office...I couldn't stop. It was like this flood. House suddenly brought family to my mind. And suddenly I wanted one of my own...I wanted to be doing this search with him. I wanted to be exhausted, exhilarated and overwhelmed with him....house hunting ofcourse!!

So today, as I think of practicalities I promised myself that someday house hunting will just be fun. Just...

Tears in Heaven

2007-08-20T15:36:00.000-07:00

I sit hugging my knees close to my body...rubbing my palms over my arms in an unconscious attempt to ward off the slight chill in the air. Staring out the window far unto a dark and starless sky, I watch as it begins to drizzle and then gradually to pour. While they stream down, the tears in heaven, in solitude...I wasn't alone. My companion...a reiteration of my earliest recollections of those words wise once told to me to raise my spirits...words that I seem to remember and have known forever...words that have proved themselves right with an unmatched consistency...words that have mirrored one of life's simplest, hardest and fairest truths...words that I would have loved to have defeated...words that aren't just words...but a mantra...a way of life...a moral code...a verite'...words that seem to have a life of their own...not painful...but true...thus, painfully true.

'Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone'

Seemingly innocent words...
They sing along with the tears in heaven...

Olive Ashes

2007-08-16T01:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was India's Independence Day. I woke up to my Dads voice on the phone wishing me as he always does every year. I sometimes have wondered if this is because he is an Army officer; I now realise that it is because of this deep seated feeling of patriotism that he is an Army officer by choice. I thought I would write something as a tribute to this day but as I read the wonderful blogs a few of my friends had written I wondered whether I knew enough about my nation to write without insulting her. I couldn't do it yesterday. The nation was developing and there was much to be proud of...there were a number of things running through my head and I couldn't quite pin point which of those stood out the most for me at that moment. But, as I watched NDTV in the morning, every patriotic song I heard and every scene in a movie that gave me goose bumps glorified those hundreds and thousands of men and women who join the armed forces to protect the nation regardless of perks, pay and problems. They are the most prominent symbols of patriotism and pride…

"... he's a jolly good fellow, he's a jolly good fellow... he's a jolly good fellow so say all of us..."

Normally these are the words and tunes to which army officers bid adieu to their colleagues... but in the summer of 1999, a small operation to foil an infiltration bid turned into a bloody battle forcing the army to bid adieu to some of its bravest soldiers by the "last post".

8 years hence, the guns may have silenced but the wounds are still fresh. I remember the principal telling us in the morning prayer that our army buses would no longer be there to take us to school. But that only meant more masti as we would now be cycling our way to school! A little later I learned that it also meant that I wouldn't be seeing my bus driver ever again...

Soon the depression of the war sucked us in. The army is one big family. And my family was bleeding and dying... Mothers lost sons... sisters lost brothers... wives lost husbands... children lost dads...

I know yesterday was 15th August…but all the other days of sacrifices and struggle have gone to make this day. July 26th could be just another day for many of you... but for me its more than just Kargil... it's a day I remember my family and pay my respect to those who left us...I think our Independence Day is also a time to rejoice these victories and acknowledge these sacrifices…

Join me in paying tribute to these great individuals by lighting a candle. For all you know that small flame could be the only ray of hope for his family... the army was once their oyster... now all that they are left with are olive ashes...
Remember... Pray... Come together... Let hope be the way...

"Olive Ashes"

Nothing breaks the screaming silence,

I deny the truth staring at me...

...just staring...

They call you brave, they call you daring,

But I lose on a lifetime of love and caring.

They bring you draped in the colors of the nations pride,

I look around, search hopelessly for my colors of a bride.

The bugle breaks the deafening silence...

The band plays on...

I remember our song... so long gone...

Kept before me, I look at you frozen form,

I shut my eyes and in my memories... we dance along...

My heart weeps, my throat screams,

But the eyes are dry, the lips are shut.

The pyre is lit, I see you burning...

I feel the heat, the smoke chokes me...

...my insides churning...

I accepted the truth I long denied,

The strength broke... u burned...

...I cried...

In the face of reality our dream smashes,

Now all that I'm left with are your...

...olive ashes...

2007-07-29T08:44:00.000-07:00

Chaos. A mad rush. Lists. Plenty of lists. Lines scratched out, lines erased, lines replaced. People to meet, people to call. Dissertation mania. Pages to be read, pages to be sorted, pages to be typed. Panic, exaustion, dread. And repeated again. An almost gnawing worry, a mind in constant turmoil. Questions to be answered, solutions to be found, comfort to be given, friends falling apart, friends to reassure, things to make up for, in reverance and devotion, love to those most important. Stretched at a hundred places at once. Undoing. Unmanageable. Daunting. Choked. A range of feelings extremely familiar. The familiarity infuriating. Deep breaths unhelpful. Patience weaning...reaching zeniths end...an almost unacceptable feeling this. Water. Splashing the face hard as often, as mercilessly as possible. A desperate scramble for respite...is it deserved...or is this self pity...

And suddenly warmth from old wrinkled hands, soft and rough on the face at the same time. Crinkled eyes, black and beaded but glowing with love unquestioned...warm in her embrace, enconced from the world...a relief expressed in drying tears on her bossom. A strength to carry on blazed from her frail yet unbeatable spirit.

Granny in absolute ingnorance and innocence with a single smile and hug made it all do-able and I echoed her whispered words, "I love you too Pati".

So easily its a new dawn.

Home to you...

2007-07-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve been meaning to write this since my return to Delhi. I have the fondest memories of this dirty, uncivilised, over populated, polluted yet generous, cultured and wise city. I came back from my year as a student in London last month. The Delhi airport with its little neat duty free shops and extremely smart and efficient ground stewardesses is like any other international airport. You don’t quite realise you are in India until you make you make your way out and then it hits you so hard you only have reflexes enough to gasp. The driver greeted me and I settled for a nostalgic drive back home. The area around the airport is covered with slums for at least about five kilometers in places.

Like brown and black dunes, the acres of slums rolled away from the roadside, and met the horizon with dirty heat-haze mirages. It seemed impossible that a modern airport, full of prosperous and purposeful travelers, was only kilometers away from crushed and cindered dreams. Had I been a foreigner, my first impression would have been that some catastrophe had taken place, and that the slums were refugee camps for the shambling survivors. Since I wasn’t a foreigner, I knew that they were survivors. The catastrophes that had driven them to the slums from their villages were poverty, famine and bloodshed. Somewhere in my subconscious I had expected to see it. I knew it. Like every Indian does in every picture of every road and scene etched forever in his mind. But it still hurts. For that moment I blamed London for having spoilt me and made my nerve endings raw. But I do remember bleeding for this sight even then before I left.

As the kilometers wound past, as hundreds of people in those slums became thousands, my spirit writhed. I felt defiled by my own health and the money in my pockets. It’s a lacerating guilt, that first confrontation with the wretched of the earth. I had worked as a labourer in a restaurant in London, I had lived surrounded by this poverty for most of my life. Still, that first encounter with the ragged misery all around cut into my eyes.

That guilt soon flamed into anger and rage at the unfairness of it: What kind of government, I thought, What kind of a system allows suffering like this? In indignant bourgeois thoughts I also wondered what kind of wasteful human attitude allowed the people to let this happen to themselves (I most sincerely apologise for this callous thought).

I looked at the people then and I saw how busy they were. Occasional sudden glimpses inside the huts revealed the astonishing cleanliness of that poverty: the floors were spotless, the utensils all stacked together in little pyramids. And then I saw the women (I admit to always having found all these Indian women extremely gracious in spite of the dirt in their lives and in their surroundings) wrapped in all colours of sarees, dupattas and some in just a meagre imitation of both sweeping the areas around the huts, cooking meals on stoves outside the house, braiding their daughters hair; constantly active. Mostly I saw the affectionate camaraderie of the fine-limbed children, older ones playing with younger ones, many of them supporting baby sisters and brothers on their slender hips. Responsibility at such a young age under such dire circumstances where each one should have been only thinking of himself and how to diminish the pain of his own depravity filled me with a certain pride for this beautiful race.

I thought then that this is the reason for India’s speciality. I also understood in a way that this is the reason for India’s deplorable status as a developing nation. We are special and great for the deep connection between Indian and Indian. We love ours anywhere and however. The camaraderie is strong. But our failure lies in the fact that there is no bond between Indian and India. We love each other, we love our culture but we don’t love the nation enough to do something about anything. The fight, the killer instinct, the possessiveness dies with the people and the culture. It doesn’t reach the land. It doesn’t matter; the poverty, the disabilities, the corruption nothing matters anymore to the educated Indian. He has forgotten ‘India’…he returns/lives only for his ‘Indians’ (by his I mean his immediate friends and family), his ghar ka khana and his language.

Almost reaching home, I saw a few more beggars sitting together sipping cups of chai and talking with smiles on their faces. In a city where there are no rooms for miracles, (I won’t end with the cliché that miracles do happen) the beauty of it all is that these people still believe in miracles.

I love every moment of every breath taken here in this country, on this land. I hope this feeling isn’t romanticism of the youth. I hope I don’t have to come back to this page ever to remind me of it. I hope I can be more sincere than sincere while publishing this. I hope.

Would you die for the one you loved?

2007-07-09T09:43:00.000-07:00

Climb every mountain
Run the distance
Lavish with every soft word ever known
Swim across the seven seas
Wade through taunts of mockery
Stand still as cutting shards of glass shear your skin
Walk over thin ice
Bend over to allow thou perch
Kiss thou feet in reverance
No shame, no wrath, no avarice
No moment of qualm
Your love alone...
Tis' not enough, not enough, not enough.

It's a kids life

2007-07-03T09:51:00.000-07:00

I walk everyday. Sometimes I walk fast, sometimes slow and sometimes am too lost in thought to notice the speed. I love drinking water. I drink like a camel. I even sleep with a bottle of water by my bed and get up a few times each night for a gulp or two. So I love opening my mouth wide while staring up at the sky when it rains. I like dust storms. I like the extraordinary charged quality in the wind. I love walking through them even though I need to bend my head low in order to avoid the besieging particles. I love Labradors. I enjoy calling out to every lab I see on a walk and watch it come towards me with a little jump, a wag and a wiggle. I also love kids. I take immense joy in watching them play, yel,l shout, fight, laugh and play again whether in the heat, rain or a dust storm. I love especially listening to kiddo conversations, the vague boasts, the bizarre exaggerations, the ‘my daddy strongest’ syndrome, the blatant honesty. I come away from these conversations always with surprise and envy at the forthright existence. I know all these things make me sound old and boring. But I have been walking in this park and have noticed these little kids play together and I realised how much of an impact peer pressure has on children and their decision making abilities and the evolution of their moral rights and wrong, on their ability to take the initiative.

Meera plays with Rajeev and Malini who are her neighbours. They come from the same social set up and have seen the same kind of life. It isn’t much but subconsciously it still makes an impression on them about the hierarchies of society. They play ‘tag’ and ‘blind mans bluff’ and make a whole load of noise and enjoy themselves silly. Rajeev and Malini always make fun of Sangeeta, the poor girl who lives with the ‘aaya folk’ where they play ‘pakadan pakadai’. They rag Meera and make her feel extremely ashamed when she says Hi to Sangeeta once in a while. They mimic her and call her names and tell her they won’t be friends with her if she continues to talk to the ‘aaya girl’. ‘Bbut but she’s in my class,’ Meera stammers. ‘So go stick with her and catch her fleas’, shouts Rajeev. And so Meera began to ignore Sangeeta whenever the other two were around. I saw Meera and Sangeeta go over to Sangeeta’s side of the living quarters once or twice. The two little girls seemed extremely happy and were giggling over something like all little kids do. But the next time Meera saw Sangeeta when Rajeev and Malini were around she ignored her. I saw Sangeeta’s face drop with disappointment, shame and confusion as Meera turned her back to Sangeeta when she called out to her. I saw Meera flush a little trying to hide her abashment from Sangeeta while calling out to Malini to take the ball.

Rajeev suddenly stopped coming to play for a few days. It was holiday season, so I figured he must have gone out of town with his family. With Rajeev gone, Malini’s visits to the park became erratic. It was then that Sangeeta and Meera could be seen playing everyday. Those two weeks their friendship blossomed and flourished. I saw them play, run, talk, giggle, draw with sticks in the mud and become thick as thieves. Meera was moving out of this place in a few days. I realised that as the wooden boxes began to pile up outside her house and there was a whole load of chaos that can be seen in an Army officer’s home when he is about to move out on a posting.

Rajeev came back, yet Meera would run across the park earlier than normal to Sangeeta’s side of the living quarters so that neither Rajeev nor Malini would spot her. She was embarrassed of being seen with Sangeeta but had become such fast friends with her that she didn’t want to give up on the camaraderie. The day she was to leave Meera was stuck with Malini and Rajeev as the parents were saying goodbye. The kids were cracking jokes and enjoying as usual.

I saw Sangeeta walk up the path to Meera’s house then. She wasn’t alone, there was a man walking beside her. I am guessing he was her father. She had a little gift wrapped package in her hand. Meera saw Sangeeta coming and suddenly detached from her two friends and went towards her. Sangeeta gave her the gift, which Meera quickly tore open right there. Malini and Rajeev walked up to her, saw the two tiny little plastic dolls wrapped up in the gift paper and exclaimed ‘How cheap! Couldn’t she have gotten you something better?’ Embarrassed, Meera turned to Sangeeta and asked ‘Aur kuch nahi la sakti thi?’ Sangeeta gulped a sob and with tears running down her cheeks took hold of the man’s hand and walked away. I think I saw a look of anguish and uncertainty on Meera’s face, like she wanted to run after her friend and apologise. But she didn’t. She just stood there and watched Sangeeta leave.

I don’t know if she felt bad or guilty. I don’t know if she felt remorse later. I don’t know if she will remember Sangeeta or the incident in her later years. But it was as simple as that. Her peers had such an influence on what she thought or did; she didn’t strike out and do what she wanted to. Most of the times when we are growing up or going off to college, our parents advice us to avoid bad company, not to get tempted to smoke or drink. What we all forget is that peer pressure affects a lot more of the basic issues, of what we would stand up for, whether we would, what would make us take the initiative and how much harder the peers can make this for kids.

Not bad for a walk huh?

2007-07-01T03:15:00.000-07:00

When you have no light to guide you
And no one to walk to walk beside you
I will come to you
When the night is dark and stormy
You wont have to reach out for me
I will come to you
Sometimes when all your dreams may have seen better days
And you dont know how or why, but youve lost your way
Have no fear when your tears are fallin
I will hear your spirit callin
And I swear Ill be there come what may
So if you feel that your soul is dyin
And you need the strength to keep tryin
Ill reach out and take your hand
I will come to you

-Hanson

For all these words...will I?

For all the doubts then can I even ask...will you?

It happened to her

2007-06-28T23:26:00.000-07:00

R did not entirely understand him. They had this vast cultural barrier and they spoke two different languages. English and well English. But his was unreasonable, tactless and insensitive. She didn’t quite get the ways of her in-laws to be and she hated the food that this new family of hers loved. All bread and leaves and loads of olive oil…ugggh! They thought she looked like a gypsy in those Indian ‘shirts’ of hers (that’s what they call my kurtas can you believe it?!). Where she was loud and joyous, he was quiet. Where she loved going for a movie on a Sunday, he preferred gardening in the backyard for hours. Where she loved candle light dinners in a lovely restaurant, he drank the night away in pubs with his bunch of friends who spoke his kind of English. She cribbed and complained and groaned and grunted. The wedding is in five months and M didn’t think she sounded happy at all. M told her so last night. At which point she smiled, sighed and said she had gotten lucky and had fallen by mistake into her old Cinderella storybook and by some stroke of luck the fairy Godmother had given her the Prince. M smiled her secret little smile then and continued smiling even while R told her there was no way in hell that she would marry this ‘obnoxious’ man.

Mind you she said this in French and spoke from France (which she didn’t let her friend forget for a moment through out the conversation) and she injuncted every odd line with ‘Les francais…ils sont betes!’ She loved calling them stupid. (I think it is something all us students who go abroad carry with us…I love calling the British stupid. I apologise for this rather rude public declaration but in my defense, I do say it with an ounce of affection).

Paris had been a rather shattered dream for R. She’d thought she’d come off with an amazing French experience, lots of French friends, a French love affair (she even confessed to having carried a few V.I.P Frenchies with her as gifts for those supposed beaux of hers, ‘T’wud have been so funny’ remarked R ruefully). But alas, Universite’ Paris Sorbornne turned out to be a French trench emanating French stench of Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent etc and not a single whiff of human warmth and acceptance. Sniff. Though she had learnt and lived French for the past five years she was still not 'gooood enufh' for them to mingle with. She was frustrated, lonely and miserable. Every time she’d try and strike a conversation with a fellow classmate all she’d get were ‘Pardon?’, ‘Quoi?’, and ‘Je ne comprend pas’ at which point poor R initially truly believing that they really didn’t understand her, endeavoured to explain yet again ‘Est’ce que…’ they’d cut her off with a polite ‘au revoir’, an even more polite smile and with a famous French pirouette turn and stalk off.

Oh the despair in beautiful romantic Paris. It was there all around her in the roads, in the chateaus, in the houses…it was everywhere that famed romance and charm of Paris. And so she roamed and explored the beautiful, delightful sights and tourist spots such as the grande Tour d’Eiffel and the beautiful Rue Moufftard, the Montmartre with artists sketching in splendour and took in the gasping beauty of these sights…all alone. ‘C’etait abominable!’ she cried! ‘If romance wouldn’t come hit me on the head in Paris, where on earth would it?’

And then it happened. It happened right there in that magically miserable city. She got hit on the head so hard she had to be revived with a French kiss! ‘Fine fine, it wasn’t a French kiss. Ok so it wasn’t a kiss at all. It was just a blow’, she said. ‘A what?’ asked her friend M in indignation. ‘Ha ha he blew on my face ever so lightly, so warmly, so…’ ‘Yeah yeah, so how did whoever he is get to start doing that?’ M interrupted impatiently. ‘Well he banged into me while I turned the corridor and I knocked my forehead against the wall, so he tried to be a gentleman and blew’ she replied and M could almost see her smug smile over the phone. (More like billowed she added later but then M who knew her so well was already smiling and sieving in only the information she fancied).

‘My prayers had been answered’, exclaimed R. ‘I think it was because I had finally stopped praying in French. I don’t think these arrogant (but oh so hot) French Gods respond to prayers from Indians’, she snorted. T was English and he was the new exchange student in her class for that year. And since both R and T were the only non-French students in class, they unfortunately had to make do with each others company.

Love happens in the funniest of places. It happened to them in spite of his British ‘larger than thou’ attitude and her Indian ‘we’re no less’ attitude. They made their peace on issues of colonialism, rascism, world politics, their first kiss was on agreeing that Tony Blair was ***** ummm lets just say hopeless, and accepted they were in love when he agreed that India was indeed a growing economy and the British economy was fast losing grounds in spite of being a part of the EU. (‘Gosh he groaned and groveled like a baby before saying that! Can you believe it?’ R still couldn’t get over it.) They fought because his English was unreasonable, tactless and insensitive. He never understood why she had this opinion after all the English are known for their diplomacy! She couldn’t digest his meals of all bread and leaves and loads of olive oil…ugggh. But then on one particularly drunk day he had exclaimed that her biryani was ‘outstandingly weird food’ and she’d in equal inebriety agreed to marry him, missing the real import of the statement.

And so M finally gets to see the world and see England for free because her now Indian born, Brit loving and French hating friend was getting married and settling down in London. She couldn’t stop smiling her secret smile for according to her she was benefiting more than anyone because of this Pan European romance. ‘An investment made well in time’ she said to herself and slept that night with dreams of the London Eye, Madame Tussauds and a secret smile on her lips. You see a long time ago M had given R the Cinderella storybook as a birthday gift.

Let us

2007-06-17T23:10:00.000-07:00

Based on a real life incident. All names of characters are fictitious for reasons of maintaining anonymity.

Everyday

Meera jumps off the bus and runs to join the multitude of students streaming into school. Battling the hot loo and trying to avoid banging into any of the other babbling students and teachers who were scuttling along the corridors pretending to be busy, she keeps a look out for any of her friends on the way to class.

‘Hey! Tun-tun managed to come to school today, we’d better finish off the homework’, greeted Shruthi as she walked in.
‘Why can’t we change our class teacher? I mean we’re in 7th now…they can’t possibly keep giving us the same class teacher for 3 years in a row. Its like we aren’t really evolving in learning!’ Meera voiced the daily crib.
‘Just finish off that essay on sati and let me copy. Then I’ll come up with a plan to dispose her off’.
‘Lazy! It’s real sad what we read about sati yesterday right. I heard it happens in villages etc even today. Not just widows but brides as well. We’re so lucky we were born into such educated families.’ Meera commented while sitting down to write.
‘Yupp sounds unreal. Make it real sad and dramatic, Tun Tun will love it!’ laughed Shruthi.

Their days always began with a load of jokes, fun, cribbing, five minutes of intellectual talk habitual of any smart 12 year olds and jokes yet again.

One Day

Meera got off the school bus and caught sight of Shruthi’s bag in the crowd. She called out her name, once, twice loudly and didn’t get any response. She ran after her but it looked like Shruthi had picked up pace and was avoiding her. Indignant, Meera followed her to class all prepared for a confrontation and show down demanding explanation for her friend’s ‘stupid’ behaviour.

The minute she walked into class, she was assailed by Shruthi who hugged her and began sobbing uncontrollably. Immediately understanding that this was more serious than usual, Meera held her anguished friend and waited for the tide to abate. They got to miss assembly and sat in class together while Shruthi incoherently explained everything to Meera.

‘They burned her’, gasped Shruthi.
‘I wasn’t even supposed to know. How could they do this?’
‘Uncle called mom and I picked up the phone at the same time that she did.’
‘I didn’t mean to overhear. They burned her, Meera’, she continued sobbing.
‘My cousin...they tied her to a chair in the kitchen…Mom doesn’t even know that I know…she will be so angry…’
‘Who did? Why? Your uncle will tell the police don’t worry. You sure you heard right?’ asked Meera trying to get a hold on the situation.
‘I did…she didn’t give him enough money…uncle says they aren’t even sure he did it…they tied her to a chair Meera.’
‘They tied her up and burned her… my cousin…how could they…they went to school even and were educated…she died Meera, she died’.

They sat together for sometime not knowing what to say. Being kids, the tears abated soon enough and it became this entire discussion on what they would do to get justice. They psyched themselves up and talked each other into a frenzy of childlike passion on the subject.

Day one

‘Mom, why did they do it? What are the police saying? Has he been arrested yet?’ Shruthi demanded.
‘Don’t ask so many questions. He has not been arrested. They didn’t give a complaint. It was a kitchen fire.’
‘But aunty, you know that she was burned why not give a complaint? He surely will be put in jail. Why does the police need a complaint in the first place?’ persisted Meera.
‘That’s the way it is in this country. And we don’t have proof. Plus it looks like you girls are more worried about the case rather than hurt about what happened to Sheetal.’ replied Shrthi’s mom.
‘But, auty only if we investigate will we find proof…’, began Meera
‘And mom we do care but…’, said Shruthi at the same time.
‘That’s enough. Its degrading for the family. Everyone talks…I don’t want it to rub off on you. What can be done we will do. Please focus on your school work’ and aunty put an end to all discussions.

Day two

‘I heard mom and dad talking yesterday…’ started Shruthi.
‘Shruths you are going to get into trouble eaves dropping like this…’ Meera interrupted
‘You would’ve done it as well. It’s disgusting. You aren’t going to believe, the police inspector in Patna refused to file a case. Apparently he gave the cop money and convinced him it was a kitchen fire.’
‘What? Are they all mad? So she would tie herself up to a chair and purposely burn herself? Like she was a nutcase!’ shouted Meera.
‘Yes that’s exactly what they are alleging. We can’t do anything. Mom won’t listen to me.’ Shruthi said, crying helplessly.
‘But we have laws. We found out…why can’t the police see it’s a crime and do something?’ added Meera feeling as helpless.

Few days later

‘The guy is getting re-married. What if he does the same to her’ Shruthi said one morning.
‘Let’s write to your cousin’s sister and tell her to warn the girl’, replied Meera and set about it like a secret mission.

And yet

‘I wrote to Soumya. She dared reply…brave kid; her mom is a real strict monster. It’s unbelievable but the girl knows and her parents won’t listen to reason and since she is of age and he earns well and they can afford the dowry she will be marrying him.’ Shruthi looked flabbergasted.
‘He’s gone scot-free…’, Meera couldn’t say anything more.

Slowly they got back into their regular schedule and being kids forgot what had happened. The memory remained of an incident that had taken place, there was no reminisce of feeling associated to it left. Even when it had happened, they had gotten over their hurt and pain quickly which only kids are capable of. They had taken it as an event and had passionately wanted to do their bit. That they had not been able to was disappointing but then even that was forgotten.

Meera only remembered one thing…a single line that haunted her even when she grew up..

It happened next door. It happened next door. It happened next door.

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

Educated families are not immune to bride burning. It isn’t restricted to villages or towns…it happens next door in cities like Delhi. Being educated people we turn a blind eye to such happenings. We talk about it for a few days, feel enraged, perhaps visit the police station once but then eventually let the matter go. I know we have read articles on the subject very often. I know that we intellectually debate it and are aware it happens. But all this media publicity has in a way made us immune, thick skinned to the trauma that such women go through in the name of dowry. We hear it, we raise voices for a few minutes and then we forget. We forget that it is a heinous crime. We forget that it is a crime against humanity and our very existence. Since they are now everyday words, words like rape, sati, bride burning have ceased to evoke any emotions of rage, compassion or even indignance.

It is sad that many families even today decide to keep quiet instead of taking action against this atrocious tradition to avoid shame that could be brought upon the family in the name of social stigma. And tradition it is. To keep quiet and watch for centuries is tradition. Let us not be too proud of being traditional.

I accept that not all of us can be journalists or activists but we can at least endeavour to be active citizens. In comparison to the population of India, we educated lot are just a handful. Even though we have stringent provisions against violence against women in the IPC, not even 2% of the population is aware of them. At least us, the handful, must try and educate ourselves on what can be done when the situation arises. If nothing else, it’s like having knowledge of first aid.

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Even today brides are burned alive if dowry is insufficient. At least 5000 women die each year from dowry murder, and the official cause of death is typically reported as a kitchen fire. The UN estimates that as many as 25000 women may be killed each year. In most cases, the husband is not punished.

In 1995, amendments were made to the Indian Penal Code, the Indian Evidence Act and the Dowry Prohibition Act, with the intention of protecting wives from marital violence, abuse and extortionist dowry demands. The most notable ones are sections 304B, 406 and 498A of the Indian Penal Code, and Section 113 A of the Indian Evidence Act. To know more about laws against domestic violence read up with Manushi at http://www.indiatogether.org/manushi/issue120/domestic.htm.

Solitude can be excrutiatingly silent.

2007-06-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

For a few days I did nothing.
I sat on a rock and stared into the sun until it faded into a red sky.
I watched a grasshopper jump for as far as my eye could follow.
I sat and heard the gurgling of water in a dam until blended into my natural existence.
I watched a gardener laboriously plant seedlings in a long row in the hot sun.
I stared at the way tadpoles attach, then detach and then again attach themselves over and over again for hours.
Time stood still and I welcomed the slow infusion of a very familiar feeling spread through my body.
It hurt more than anything this time because it was alright to allow it to hurt.
I watched reality in slow motion until all things real in my life zeroed in on my spirit.
It hurt because I accept it was alright to let it hurt.
It hurt because I realised that acceptance is the most painful yet the purest of feelings.
It hurt because I realised that inspite of facing the truth I was still lying to myself.
In realising the lie my walls of self deception were crumbling.
I confess to still holding onto them for temporary solace
I accept that not all things are my fault.
I accept that by nature I pay for what is my fault but I also accepted that it is wrong to accept blame for what one has not done.
I accept that this has been the hardest to accept because I would then have to be finding fault in those that found the blame.
Those that I give every right to put and hold me to any blame.
It hurt most to accept that the pedastal never is and that the Gods also become mortals when the mind desires.
It hurt to go against my every instinct and accept this simple alchemy that blind respect and love is infact neither love nor respect.
It hurts to accept that ones religion could be wrong.

I bit my tongue and tasted blood.

The taste hurt more than the sting.
A murder is a murder. Would I consider my dearest who committed the crime a murderer?
I drank blood as I realised I would. I would condemn my dearest a murderer.
But I would also protect the murderer from the world of judgement.
I would go against all the written laws on right and wrong and beg for thy forgiveness.
I would feel a heinious crime has been committed but I would still unabashedly stand by.
The throbbing exploded as I accepted that my love would weigh greater than any moral right

The blood tastes bitter as the I face the depths of my own depravity.
The blood is a proof of my acceptance.

But in the solitude as I accept the onslaught of painI understand another cliche...a cliche as old as the sands of time. Life is about choices. There comes a time in your life, when you must decide with no help from anyone; Between right and wrong, between black and white, between good and bad, to walk or fight...

To be honest and true, to be open with your heart, or to hide your feelings, play it safe from the start. To sit back and watch, to listen and learn, or jump into the fire, taking a chance on a burn.

To stay, to move, to not care, or always prove.
To be strong, to be weak, to be agressive, to be meek.
To laugh out loud with all your might, or smile a little just to be polite.
To stay together, to live apart, to think with your mind or trust with your heart.
To live in the past, to always look back, to look ahead to the future, with ambition you won't lack.
To dream, to hope, to quit, to cope.
To be a lover, to be a friend, to be real, or just pretend.

There's much I haven't done right, many a bitter mistake I have made.
All choices made true to the moment, yet to accept the hardest blade.
Accede tis' human to make mistakes, to repeat them raises the stakes.
In denial lies the blasphemy.

"Life is about choices...not because we have to make them,
But because we have to live with them until the day we die."
- annonymous

And I refuse to have it any other way.

Dream in White & Green

2007-06-01T12:32:00.000-07:00

She is a little short, about 3 inches and 5 feet. Shy, a sweet smile, an unglamorous boycut, simple and unaffected. Speaks only when spoken to; Capt. Pragati Patil is someone who can easily get lost in a crowd. You wouldn’t notice her in a party. In a serious discussion among more vocal or even among most people she would simply disappear. Until in a soft steady voice she says something that makes complete sense and adds absolute value to the conversation. I met her a week ago, I have spent hours listening to her and watching her at work and I have grown to admire her with each passing moment.

In bits and pieces she told me her entire story; her dreams, her aspirations, her journey and her arrival. First tentatively and later animatedly with untampered original emotion to an awestruck audience; me. “I have always wanted to be an Army officer through out school and even in college I would think that it would be the next step,” she said with unfaltering conviction as she looked back.

MBBS was over and done with. It was just another day on a hot summer afternoon that she got a call. “It was the moment I had been waiting for my entire life.” The interview was in Delhi at the DG AFMS office. By some stroke of extreme bad luck she came down with one of the worst cases of viral fever with an almost constant 104 degrees just five days short of the interview. She was on drip and had to be given anti biotics intravaneously. Both her younger brothers were on their way to becoming doctors themselves. The entire family was aginst her making the 2 day journey to Delhi. Her parents told her it cold be put off until next year. Not to be detered, Pragati decided to go ahead with it unprepared to let go of her opportunity. Together with her younger brother, she taught her youngest brother who was in the first year of MBBS how to inject anti-biotics. She dragged him with her promising her disgruntled parents that she would take care of herself. They made some curious friends on the train as he kept giving her cold compressions and anti biotics and by the time she reached Delhi the fever had subsided. The interview went off well and the DG AFMS, impressed with the girls determination told her to expect her call in November.

Pragati highly excited left home for the first time ever to become an Army officer in January 2006. Her centre was Nagpur and the moment she landed her olive adventure began. She had to get a full medical done to get commissioned. But the ENT specialist in Nagpur was off sick so she had to go to Deolali (“Deo what?, I had asked. I hadn’t even heard of such a place. Imagine how remote it must have been”, she told me. “I was born there”, I ruefully replied). Now, since she wasn’t commissioned, they could not get her a reservation but it was imperative that she leave immediately. She bought a ticket on waiting and got onto the train. After the first 45 minutes or so the TT showed up and told her he couldn’t allow a lady to travel without reservation and she must get out. Scared to get off in ‘No-man’s land’ (“I was as it is going to some no-man’s land,” she said with an apologetic smile) and indignant about being told to get out inspite of having a ticket she told the TT she would stand the whole night if she had to but she wasn’t getting out. And so Capt. Pragati stood. Thus began her journey in olive green. “I have always dreamt of wearing the uniform with the stars. I didn’t just want to be a doctor…I wanted to be a doctor nursing the wounds of soldiers of my proud nation”, she says to me. Lines like these have been said before but the honest coinviction in her voice without a hint of emotion…yet soaked in it, captured my romanticism.

Her first posting was Kamptee, a small town in Maharashtra where she was stationed as General Practitioner. They were possibly the worst 6 months of her life. She now looks back and says she learnt a lot in those 6 months…but this is exactly what any brave person says after facing an ordeal when the memory is just a memory and the pain has already been fought. She was the only female officer there. She was lonely, depressed, and harrassed, “yet I never once thought about leaving,” she says, her voice mirroring well earned pride. The senior doctor would humiliate her in front of her juniors almost everyday, highlighting and hacking mistakes and never once explaining as a fair mentor should. The nursing staff was hostile. “I had asked a nurse to come on rounds with me my first time and give me the proceedure for diagnostics but she refused point blank. They have ranks among the nursing staff as well and it is a sore point for them to have to listen to a young officer just because she is an officer. They rebel against you. I guess it wasn’t just aimed at me, I guess all new officers go through it,” Pragati explained. She took it all in stride. Her parents would call and she would lie to them about the wonderful place she was living in and how nice her colleagues were. She would almost choke on her words and there would be a constriction in her heart. There was no one to talk to, yet she was determined to find her own way as this was her dream. “I had’nt been forced into it, this was my dream and I was not going to let anything ruin it for me,” said Pragati, controlled passion in her voice. And she warmed my heart by smiling again.

Finally it was over and she was sent to training camp in Lucknow for two months. She had the time of her life there. Here she was not a doctor. In fact she forgot that she had ever been a doctor. She was just another kid who was being gruelled like hell by a physical education instructor! They went for 2 km runs in the mornings, followed by work out sessions and then games. She was among the only 10 girls on camp among 70 guys. They were told that they were ‘also men’ here in the Army, she told me with a giggle. They ran and played equally. She didn’t know if they were equally exhausted but she knew she was tired enough to sleep through class everyday without fail. They would go for day long excursions into the nearby jungle in the middle of summer with just a bottle of water each. Their aim and mission was to find the perfect spot to set up a medical camp in war, next to a water body, well away from firing, hidden from enemy exposure etc etc. She had dreamless nights of 5 hours sleep a day for those two months.

‘A minor infection, that was all it was’, she laughed and said to me. Her toe was cut and the nail was taken out to squeeze the puss out. It was the day of the passing out parade and Capt. Pragati refused to take to bed. She wore her DMS boots and ran to the Passing Out Parade, forcing herself not to wince at each step. Unfortunately she was late and there was only one spot left and she had to hold the rifle to be in that spot. Capt. Pragati was the only female officer to be holding a rifle and marching that day. She passed out on a ‘surgical foot’ as she puts it and went on to become a proud officer of the Indian Army.

She is now posted as GP in Naushera Brigade as the only female officer. I asked her how she manages to hold respect being the lone wolf. ‘It’s the way you treat yourself. If an officer is what you are, that is exactly what they will treat you as, neither lady nor man”.
She lives her life content and confident dealing with high pressure office hours with calls later than 11 some nights. I accompanied her today and watched the easy confidence with which she dealt with the men. It is tough to command respect being the only woman around and she does it with aplomb; no shouting, no acting gruff to sound tough. Just a steady soft voice asking the right questions when needed and giving the right instructions as required with dignity. And they listen and respond in silent respect. Watching her in office I felt as if a plug has neatly fit into the right socket with a soft click. She is in her place, as if she was made for the Army.

She lost a life last week as a young jawan cut his femural artery and blood replacement in her small hospital could not be done in capacity. The man was evacuated and he died in the chopper before help could reach him. She saved a life today as one jawan almost gave up due to heat exhaustion. It didn’t make up for the loss but she’s back on her feet, no denial…the pain she accepted…the job she does with a quiet passion

I always believed that there are only two kinds of doctors in this world…those that have lost patients and those who will. But, now I realise there is also a genre that will never stop. ‘I would like to be God but in spite of all the knowledge I cannot be. I can’t save the world. Sometimes it hurt a lot, but at least I can save some.’ Today, Pragati is not only a doctor but also a proud Army Officer and regardless of what many might have said…

She does have it in her.

A salute and thanks to Capt. Pragati for allowing me the privilege of writing this.

TAGGED!

2007-05-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

Tagged by pRicky...dunno why...but here are eight weird facts about me...damn didn't think there would be so many!

Rules are:

* Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.

* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.

* At the end of your post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

1). I think the Scary Dragon in Star wars III was the cutest creature I’ve ever seen.

2). I know one Para of a French song and I sing it almost everyday without fail in the shower.

3). I have been bitten and/or nipped by a dog, a horse, a duck, a squirrel and a girl.

4). I used to collect stamps when I was a kid and I’m still irrationally possessive of the meager collection.

5). I have each and every letter, note, or scrap of paper a friend has written to me since when I could start reading which was pretty early!

6). I’m emotionally defunct and every friend of mine who is in a relationship turns to me for advice. I am perennially terrified that at least the next 10 break-ups if any would be because of terrible advice from me!

7). I have awful short term memory and forget most things such as ‘where my watch is’ or ‘why I called who I called right now’ or ‘How come I am sitting in class and nobody else is here? (on a Sunday)’.

8). My nose has a tiny dent and is slightly crooked (u will know only when u look closely) which gives me mild sinusitis (a classic excuse to get out of swimming when lazy!).

I Tag the following eight to list queer facts about themselves:

In alphabetical order

Angel of Dusk
Arcane Crapper
Dumbalec
Lilithian Lady
Mad Angel
Musafir
Phoenix
Tanzy

A city and A dam(n)

2007-05-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

In the ancient world there was a city by the sea. It was on land lower than most lands and year by year the sea grew larger and taller than the city. It had been enconsed by great walls of massive stone and hardened silt and clay. The wall extended around the whole city and the sea was just its thickness away. Over the years, the walls painstakingly were built thousands of feet high. Over the years, the sea steadily kept growing taller in hope of leaping over those walls and claiming its citizens as its own.

Decades later, the sea stopped growing tall and reached almost the top but not quite. With constant observation, the citizens came to be convinced that the sea would not devour them unless…

The fear persisted…what if there came to be a hole in the wall? And so the citizens would scout the entire city day in and day out and bolster and foster its strength. You see, even when a tiny hole is made on the walls of a humungous tank, water collects itself around that hole and pushes through it with tremendous force. And so the citizens tirelessly worked on their wall.

The city is no more. I do not know the exact reason of its extinction…maybe the citizens tired…maybe the sea had fooled them and lied low for a while before leaping on them like a mythical monster…maybe they psychologically over the years had begun to think that the sea was after all their true home.

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Such a hole in such a tank creates a powerful waterfall. It is heavy and loud and the water gushes down in a fatal torrent. Dams are made on this principle and megawatts of energy is generated in this day and age. Some of it productive, some of it volatile and fatal. But sometimes there is no tank. It’s as if the walls of the water tank have suddenly disappeared and there is no tiny hole either. Just a wide open space and nothing to hold the water in. It gushes out smooth and whole and massive, directionless and unbound in energy, in a freefall.

Thus, you can be damned in and you can be damned out.

For now, very carefully the hole has been crudely cemented. Will it create stagnation? Will it generate more patient static energy in the form of this stagnant water? Or will it just remain…the effort fruitless and pointless?

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Its funny isn’t it? Most of us associate water with free. Any water body; simply the waves, the ebbing, the free flow it looks like the embodiment of free. But it’s the most bound natural element. From the smallest to the largest…why even the sea is covered by land mass on all four of its vast extremes. Since time immemorial there have been tides…high tides and low tides. Maybe it’s the sea forever pushing against the land to be let out. Relentlessly and willfully.

So maybe free isn’t quite free. Maybe free is equivalent to effort of will.

To follow the will…not because it has been willed but because you will it.

Never before, Ever-after or the road in-between...

2007-05-25T12:09:00.000-07:00

She was in love with him for four years. It was pure passion. She’d talk to me about him all the time. She would say so many things and yet there’d be a thousand other secrets gleaming beneath the shadows in her eyes that she wouldn’t share. There was this excitement lurking somewhere inside her all the time. She’d say it a thousand times. She’d call me up and say it. She’d tell me at sleepovers. She’d tell me every time that we’d meet up for coffee and gossip. Lilith’s eyes would glow and she would say ‘I love him’ to me a zillion times. She loved him because she couldn’t keep her hands off him. She loved him because he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She loved him because they played table tennis with the same passion and every time either of them would lose the other would bear the brunt of it for days. They were like raw wood and match sticks together…the flames would ignite almost instantaneously anytime, anywhere. She’s the adventurous sorts and she loved him because he promised her a tomorrow. Four years is a long time to test the endurance of any relationship and theirs could not survive it. His tomorrow was not long enough. Her sense of adventure needed fresh passion. It ended. She came to me and she wept. Many weeks later she met this guy who she tells me about all the time. The passion isn’t there in her voice or in her narratives but she says he makes me feel like I’ve never felt before. He makes me feel like am the only woman alive on the planet. He is so devoted he makes me feel completely unafraid that he’ll ever let go. She says it’ll never be like the first love again where you give everything you’ve got away but I do love him. And so I smile for her hope things go her way as long as she is happy.

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He was in love with her since 9th grade. He’d tell his friends he’s crazy about her and they’d take it as seriously as any 9th graders possibly can. The next year they started seeing each other. Those were the years of innocence. He was always one of the duffers in class. She did marvelously well and almost always topped. It didn’t seem to bother either one of them. He might have lacked academic brilliance but he always had a way with girls. Easy arrogant charm seemed to win him brownie points with almost any girl. She went away to college and he continued in the same city flirting ‘harmlessly’ according to him with every girl that favoured his eye. ‘Men always appreciate beauty’, he’d say to me with a wink. They broke up often and I was beginning to get unaffected with their constant hits and misses. Gradually because of understanding how important it is to do well in this world and how compared to her parents standards he was literally incompetent, she broke up with him with finality. I never thought it would hurt him bad. I mean I am his confidante and he did flirt around. How serious could his intentions be? But it did hurt. And I had to reconsider another stereotype you learn as you grow up. Maybe it was his ego, maybe it was because he truly loved her and maybe it was a combination of both. Jackass pursued her with staunch determination and used every rule in the book to convince her make her jump back into his closet. And she did…she’s still in there and they are happy. There are ups and downs, but then Jack and Jill dealt with them didn’t they? I don’t know how far it’ll go but I have faith and am biased towards this couple…I think am looking forward to their marriage.

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I believe in love. Maybe that’s the wrong line to start this quarter with because I don’t really know. But I’d like to believe that I believe in love. I love the thought of romance, the smell of dew drops and the glimpses of misty nights that I see on television and read in books. Even then, I have never been against arranged marriages. In fact it could turn out to be love if you give it a chance. They love each other, but there’s no romance to be seen. They’re partners for life but their every little step in life is not taken in partnership, they do not share those special warm moments often. There must have been many things they would have liked to tell each other years ago but even those underlying whispers have now completely vanished. They do not share their every woe or sadness and joy or happiness. But they have pledged to stand together until the end. In the face of what…I do not know. Maybe they are happy and I being young and idealistic am looking for a single tiny flash of love or passion or affection…I wish them all the love and happiness in every moment of their lives.

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My aunt and uncle have always been my picture of happily ever-after. They’ve been married quite a few years and have kids who’ve lived over a decade each now. There is tenderness in their every glance. There is familiarity and understanding in every nod of the head, every smile, and every spoken word from even across a room. Like she knows him and he knows her. Like they blend together in a symphony. Like they are two different instruments and the song is one. I know it sounds like a cliché but then all clichés have been proved true a million times. I always wondered what happened to the Prince and Cinderella after they got happily married. Chitti and Chittappa proved my sequel. Theirs was an arranged marriage and blossomed into everlasting love. Everlasting…I know the word seems like its been added to the dictionary simply so we know that something stands for its meaning. The word seems like the literary equivalent of the numerical infinity…undefined…unseen…yet desperately desired. Yet somewhere I believe their love is. Touchwood.

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I have always wondered what love is. When Lilith would talk to me with exuberance of it I’d think am I even capable of feeling such a feeling? I have always had this notion in my head that love is meant to be enduring and everlasting for it to be true. It shouldn’t be frivolous or taken for granted or be tried and tested at every nook and corner. Yet even though heart broken once, Lilith did find love again soon. When younger, I’d always wonder about the morals of people who’d have a change in boy friend or girl friend with every season. But since she was my friend, I accepted it without the blink of an eye. Gray shades.

And then in spite of frivolous meanderings, Jackass pursued his ‘love’ and pledged himself to her. This he said was true and that I never doubted. Yet, there had been harmless flirtations. But he does love her. Gray shades.

I had always believed the boy on the burning deck to be right in spite of the fruitlessness of his duty to his pledge. I have always believed such blind commitment to promise a major part of love if not love itself. I respected this feeling of loyalty and honour. I still do…its ingrained deep inside of me. But, somewhere there lurks a doubt that if it isn’t completely right, if it isn’t paradise on earth if forget paradise, it simply doesn’t make you just happy…does such a binding to the commitment count as everlasting. The everlasting where everything is perfect just because you are here with him or her. Does it? Gray shades

I believe in ever-after. I believe in forever. I believe in together. But, I am not completely idealistic. I also believe in compromise, in communication, in support, in ups and downs, in endurance. I wonder why we love fairytales. Is it because there is the fantasy of being whisked off your feet out of the blue? Is it because it makes it all easier to just keep dreaming? I have always believed that life is about meeting tons of nice people but that doesn’t mean you wade through them until you find your hero. But maybe I have been sticking to the road too much. Maybe you do meet tons of nice people but there are only some that ‘click’. Maybe in my staunch fantasy of being true to whoever he will be I have never given any of the ‘HIMs’ a chance! Maybe love and life is about straying off the road a little bit to meander in the fields. Maybe you’ve got to give things a chance. I always thought it was easy to trust and believe. And so I got so used to training myself not to do either that it’s hardest to now trust and believe. Maybe am right to be the way I am. Cautious. But maybe I do need a walk in the fields to give life a chance. It is scary. To have even thought this thought and gone against most of my strong convictions is scary. I wonder why it is so scary. But I’ll leave that for another day.

It isn’t like I’ve ever believed in the perfect man. I mean in the logical recesses of my mind I don’t have such a concept…there are many who make you laugh, there are many who are sophisticated, there are many who leave you precious breathtaking moments. Yet, every time my pulse would beat a little faster I’d brush it aside and say this isn’t it…why waste my time on it? My aunt said to me laughingly yesterday, ‘Never let romance pass you by’. I do not regret any of my past decisions; I’d probably still make them. You always know when something is right or wrong. But I’ll try and shed the cautiousness, the suspicious alert mind which is ready to pick up on any fraud at all times…constant vigilance!

I wonder if love is about ever-after and forever. Maybe it is just about moments…precious moments. I still hold the forever fantasy close to my heart but I guess there must be some magic in the fields as well…

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I watched Hitch again today. I love Will Smith. I love the lines. I always laugh through the movie…

This time I confess to having shed a few unnoticed tears.

Too far away

2007-05-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

I don’t think she even remembers
But I can never forget
Music warbles overhead,
Drifting down like dim snowflakes in midnight.
The violins are razors scratching aluminum underwater.
The day goes down outside.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt so here, so mercilessly now
Time becomes vacuum
Memories glow, then fade, draw forward and then recede like waves.

It would be pointless to explain.
You could never understand, I could never understand.
You’ve never held the husk of her body
Even as the soul lingers between us passages of colour
She in black and white.
You’ve never pried your fingers from her hands.
You’ve never learned the way an ECG screams in that most final silence,
How the gravity of the Earth itself seems to grow and yawn then.

I could never comprehend the satisfaction one could feel destroying themselves
But then I could never understand, I never tried hard enough
And now I’ve run miles
Too far away, selfish in my own unchained melody
Too far away to touch her
Too far away to promise love
Too far away to inspire hope

Too far away.

Fear. I then delve in its deep mists.
And yet again I wonder about my own soul
Not hers, but my own.
I wonder what would happen if she won.
I wonder if it is a matter of winnig or losing.
I wonder what such a moment would mean
If I let the last breaths slip away.
I wonder if at all am even a player.
But I beg her to let me play the game just so I can watch her
Just so I know it isn’t over yet.
But now am too far away.

Too far away.

I have heard cheesy lines.
I have heard of being forgiving and benevolent.
But I never had to be those
For I love her and I chose.
I tell her everyday that I love her
I love her more today than yesterday
But less than tomorrow.

It is eternal.
But then nothing lasts forever.

She can fly.
Such is her spirit.
She has life in her every breath,
In her every story, in her every act.
This too shall be defeated.

I say a fervent prayer
I hope for herculean strength
I wish I could hold her hand
I know she doesn’t need it
But then again callous as I am,
Tis’ my soul that I care about
I think I need it,
But am too far away.

He watches over her every night.
He’s a lamp, he’s a glow of strength
He’ll stand forever strong
He’ll never ask for my support nor my song
He’s torn I know
For he wants me there yet he doesn’t
But he’ll stand by her forever

Silent nights,
As words come undone
I say a little prayer for you
And hope I’ll do right.
But for now,
Am too far away.

Too far away.

A beautiful mind

2007-05-10T18:12:00.000-07:00

I had a really bad thought today...a completely insensitive, horrendous thought. I thought maybe its not so bad being a schrizophrenic. I thought for a small guilty moment that maybe I am schirophrenic...then everything would be a figment of my imagination. Nothing would be real. Then its not so scary because it 'is not'.

But then the movie ended and I was simply, callously sitting in a real room, unaffected and unmoved. Literally.

Life is like that

2007-05-07T15:57:00.000-07:00

I needed to clear my head. I wasn't thinking a single thought. My mind was blank but it was feeling dense and dull and heavy. I did instinctively what I'd usually do in such a situation. I without thinking put on my shoes, my sweatshirt and walked out into the cold night air. It was 11 pm. I walked past the old blocks and the undergrads were drinking and throwing yells out of their windows. They were noisy and the clanging of glass and loud music at regular intervals jarred my ear drums as I walked past block after block. Yet it was like back ground music. I didnt quite register them. I didnt quite acknowledge their presence. Like I said my mind was dense and dull.

I walked into the Northwick Park opening and here the wind was colder and suddenly everything was louder. The thick green bushes on the side of the narrow dimly lit path were creepy. It built slowly, like a small gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the bushes and kept imagining a sudden hand or some other gross super natural entity coming flying at me. I had this nigging feeling at the back of my neck that someone was following me but I was too scared to look behind so I just started walking briskly. A sudden cyclist whizzed past me and I jumped out of my skin. Even before I could get my breath under control a branch of the tree on my left started creaking. It sounded like the creaking of an old wooden door. I swear it did. The branch was loose and the slight breeze was making it creak. Even with that logical reasoning I couldn't quell the goose bumps...the escalating fear.

And then I got irritated. I mean this is my walk. I am supposed to be relaxing in the cool breeze and be gaining some moony perspective. I stopped abruptly at the clearing ahead and forced myself to stare fixatedly at the bushes with wierdly spaced out gaps in them. The first few moments were terrifying but then nothing happened. I forced my breathing to calm and slowly turned my back to the bushes to look out at the dark park...at the stars in the sky...at the faint dim outline of the moon...at the sudden whizzing of a fast train with sparkling lights...at the vast expanse above me...pitch dark in places and still navy blue in others...I took a deep breath and let the night air fill my lungs. I stopped there and looked all around for about five minutes. My fear had dissipated and I don't think I had ever seen such a beautiful night. I turned around and slowly walked back home. I smiled at the creaking tree and willed myself to walk past it even more slowly than slow. It felt good to dare myself. I suddenly didn't feel like crying anymore. I was choked but not that bad.

It was significant this walk. I think life is like that.

2007-05-05T17:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in spite of knowing what the right decision is it becomes very difficult to adhere to what the mind knows. You wander aimlessly, wanderously, listfully hoping your logic and gut instinct would be wrong knowing all the while that they are right but yet resisting because untill your heart is ready to believe what your mind already knows the two power centres of your body do not allow the proper prosecution and implementation of that right decision.

It takes just a small stroke of a sword, a tiny knock of a hammer or simply the right mix of words to make that sudden gear shift a block into place in your heart for it to listen to the mind. A little disrespect, a little disregard is all it takes for that gear to shift. It is extremely unnerving because instead of mountains and thunderstorms the indication is from perhaps the smallest and most insignificant of insults or injuries. But it is like a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle that suddely fell into place and set the gear rolling.

The implementation of that right decision then does not necessarily become easy. Infact it becomes much harder but then the only catalyst that ensures success is the will. The will once conviced does not take defeat. It does not understand defeat. It becomes almost robotic immune to both logic and emotion. It is like a programmed defence mechanism instilled in the body to take over when most required. And nothing can change or move it from its path. The heart hurts, the mind throbs and hammers but the will ensures ultimate triumph.

It is time to beat the odds once more. Bring on the pain.

It's true

2007-05-04T15:29:00.000-07:00

The place where the green grass merges with the blue sky
The nights when the moon shimmers full behind clouds white
Warm dinners with sparkling bright lights
Whispering winds urging you to fly
In bounds and leaps for fantasies unseen
And pleasures umpteen
Hands touch, eyes meet
My heart soars for this vision in greed
So true it seems this tantalizing dream

Maybe I'm brainless
Maybe I'm wise
But it’s got me seeing
Through different eyes
Somehow I've fallen Under its spell
And somehow I'm feeling
It's up that I fell

Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart

And though I know I may know
I don't care
Just for this moment
As long as it’s mine
‘Come be how you want to’, I whisper
‘And see how bright we shine’

Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are.

For the love of the game

2007-05-03T19:38:00.000-07:00

Swoosh. She stood straight and looked at the small spec of white moving steadily through the sky. Her eyes followed it with utmost concentration and she watched its descent from the sky till it landed on a faraway green and came to sudden stop. She knew exactly where it had fallen. She never missed it in flight where even most professionals would have missed it once or twice. ‘Brilliant!’ said Sam, shaking his head at her as if to say there was absolutely no doubt about that shot. She immediately picked up her golf bag and swiftly began to walk towards hole 5. Sam followed close behind with Ross walking silently by.

“C’mon guys a bit faster”, yelled Dee.
“Yeah she’d obviously be enthusiastic…she’s gonna make it 5 under par if she gets it in with two putts!”
“Your just jealous Ross, she’s way better than you at your own game,” said Sam with a laugh.
“She’s way better than most at every game!” Ross tossed back at him with a grin.

People usually stand in every position possible and take about fifteen minutes to get ready for each putt or swing in golf. They’d bend left and tilt right and bend over and sit on the ground and act as if they are literally memorising the dimensions of the earth before every shot. With great flourish and with an air of utmost expertise they’d look at the ball and then the flag hole, then back at the ball and then at the imaginary line between the ball and the flag hole and lightly tap the ball with just the right amount of force required to send the ball home or so they would claim later on over chilled beer or Scotch on the rocks. And yet most would miss the target by many frustrating and infuriating inches. Dee was one of the quickest golfers you would have seen around. She briskly walked up to the ball, lightly laid the putter next to it focussed on the flag hole for about 30 seconds and gave it a tap. It rolled easily across the smooth cut grass and neatly fell into the flag hole with a smack.

“Pure fluke!” smirked Ross while giving her a friendly shove.
“You jealous pig!” yelled Dee turning around to shove her back.
“You can’t get me!” said Ross with a grin, dodged her and began running.
“Always have, always will” and Dee dashed after her like a kid.
Sam laughed at the way Dee got her so quickly and rolled over with her on the grass. He laughed at the way she always got her. He laughed at the way she always got caught in spite of claiming great agility. He laughed at the gay exuberance and gusto for living that they had managed to hold on to even after the worst blows life had meted out to them.
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Sam loved his sister and he had hated her at the same time. She is and always had been one of the most competitive people one could meet. Everything was a challenge to her. She could not handle defeat. She would try and try harder and sweat and slog to make sure she was the best. Always. She had been better than him at everything. Everything. He had always had to live under her shadow. As a kid he had resented his little sister imagining her competitiveness to be directed at him for greater parental attention. But as he had grown up he had realised her compulsiveness came from within directed at simply winning everything in life and he had grown to admire her spirit. Had Sam himself not been an extremely intelligent fellow excelling in academics and the one sport he loved he would have grown up as a man with severe insecurities and a major inferiority complex.
He had had ample opportunity to have acquired one as well. Dee and Sam had started training for swimming at an early age. He had been 9 and she 6. Their mother in a way had been a slave driver and the schedule had been rigorous. By the time he had hit his teens they were both part of the Detroit state swim team. Training was twice a day four hours in the morning and two every evening. Their lives had begun to revolve around swimming and Sam had begun to tire of the tough schedule. He had begun to buckle under the pressure and he had never truly enjoyed the sport too much.

Kids at school could be heard yelling and shouting sometimes in glee, sometimes in frustration, sometimes in anger and sometimes in ecstasy. He would watch them run, dodge, knock each other down, jump and then he would watch them score. The mass hugs; yells and pats on the back would follow. All of his state swimming victories put together did not seem as glorious as these basketball wins in the school basketball court seemed. He would sit and watch them because he would be too tired from all the swimming to join them. He would watch them and envy the camaraderie and pure joy in the game and wish he had the guts to join them. Then one fateful day he walked up to his fellow classmates on court and asked if he could join. That day shaped his entire life, his personality, and his relationships for years to come.
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He had never sucked at anything that bad. He was so awful at the game he had made everyone laugh till they cried at his pathetic attempts to shoot. He had not missed the basket by inches or feet but by miles. He just couldn’t understand it. I mean he was strong and had strength in his arms from all that swimming then why the hell couldn’t he shoot? And he had sweated. Like really sweated not just little sweat from jogging etc. He had sweated profusely and his shirt was damp and his exhaustion was not sweet like after swimming but his throat was a little constricted and he wanted to drink tons of cold water. And he did not have to walk back to class alone but with a bunch of boys who just were not quitting making fun of him. He felt embarrassed. He felt inadequate. He felt unsure in that crowd. He didn’t like the feeling one bit.

He was back on the court that day, and the next and the day after that. He was addicted to the dribbling, the chase, the dodging, fooling the opponent and shooting and shooting again till he had enough to boast about for that day. He was getting good. He was getting fast. His moves were getting unpredictable. He was getting addicted. He had begun to get slower and slower in the swimming training sessions. Almost everyday the coach had to push him to the back of the sequence line because he had begun to hold up the entire line due to exhaustion. He began slacking. He began creating excuses. For the first time in years he took about a minute in a 100-metre race at a regional swim meet. A minute is almost eons in swimming. His career as a swimmer was over if he didn’t buck up now.

His mom nagged him day in and day out. He had never lost in such a horrible a manner ever before.
“Look at Dee. Look how dedicated she is. Don’t you want to win?” She would holler at him every opportunity she got. He tried reasoning with her.
“She likes swimming mama. I never really enjoyed it as much. And I don’t have time nor the energy to live life after beyond it.”
It went on for a few months and his performance never got better. In fact it got worse. He seemed to be lacking energy throughout no matter how much of energy boosting malt his mom put in his milk.
“After all the time and effort I’ve expended taking you both to the pool everyday and sitting with you and cheering you on. Is this how you repay me?”
“Mom you’ve done a lot and I do appreciate it. But I don’t like swimming much.”
“You just don’t want to try. You don’t want to give things your best shot like your sister.”
That hurt. He loved Dee but he was tired of trying to measure up. I mean he was the elder one for godssakes.
“Mom I’ve won a lot. You almost have a trunk full of medals that I’ve won for you. This isn’t about me this is about you winning. Its like we’re machines and you get to prove that you were super mom,” he yelled.

He left swimming that year. Basketball became his life. Mom never asked him to win anything after that. She was never over excited when he won or topped anything after that, nor was she overly disappointed when he lost or did badly. Dee became the focus of her life. She drove Dee like as though she were a machine and Dee went with it. Swimming became Dee’s life. She had always wanted to tell Sam that she was proud of him, that she was glad he had found a sport he liked but since she had always been in awe of him she never did. They interacted at the dinner table like kids in most families do but never got close. Her rigorous schedule continued. He continued with his newly found passion.

That summer he played in the first ever inter-house match and his team won. It was a small match but it was a greater victory for him than any of the swimming ones had been. He was part of the Bulls team and they were against the Eagles who had won for the last two consecutive years. He had never played with as much spirit; it was reflected in his every move, his every dodge, and his every shoot. He was scoring more than any of the other opponents. He was up against Marco who had been the best player in school for the last two years. There were two minutes to full time. Roby from Bulls had passed the ball to him and he was immediately surrounded by three of the opponent players. At the edge of the court he continued dribbling the ball shielding it with his body at a diagonal to the players, looking for an opening. Marco made a move towards him and finding the opening; in a single instant Sam had passed the ball to Bob. They were still at centre court and Bob almost immediate passed it back to him. Marco again covered Sam almost immediately then. The guy was excellent and knew which way he was going to move every time. Sam was forced to have his back to Marco and was once again being cornered at the edge of the court. He in that moment made a quick, instinctual decision, flipped around and shot from right where he was from outside the D. It was almost a thundering silence in the court for those few stretching moments as the ball flew through the air. And then there was pandemonium. All hell broke lose. Sam had scored and they had won 53-51. It was tremendous. The entire school was in an uproar. And through all the yells and slaps on the back Sam thought he could hear a faint chanting sam,,sam..Sam..SAM..Sam..SAM…sam. He knew he would always hear that chanting when he was old and deaf and alone. He would hear it and feel the thrill again of that first match. After that there was no stopping him. The game became his life.
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By the age of sixteen Dee became a national swimmer and was representing the State of Michigan. She was one of the fastest one could see around. She was beating records left, right and centre. With each race she, it seemed she was getting quicker. Dee loved the water and she was getting used to winning. She had drive and even though her mother took her to the pool everyday and sat there till the training was done this kind of dedication was hard to achieve unless one had innate inner drive. For her mom it was pride beyond reason at her daughter’s successes. She was most conceited about the fact that the other swimmers took drugs and steroids during training to be faster but Dee was this quick simply on her nutritious diet and energy malt mixes. She would beam with pride at each of Dee’s victories as if they were her own. Sam’s accomplishments at basketball would not go unnoticed by her but they would always lack the lustre that Dee’s had.

Dee would make it a point to congratulate her brother at his every win and pat his back and say a sympathising word at his every failure. They had a light rapport and they never still had time to interact. But during the few weekends that both would be at home they would play carom or foosball or table tennis and enjoy a few harmless games in good spirit. Both had the flair for sportsmanship and found it easier to just play than talk. That made thing uncomfortable for both. Any bitterness that Sam had over his mothers fanaticism over Dee was more or less nullified by his fathers balanced outlook and equal encouragement of both children. Sam was a little casual and carefree and never really held against his mother but a few remnants of a bitter taste always remain.

The summer that Dee graduated from High School was the summer that their lives changed for better or for worse. Sam was graduating college and had bagged a great job with a chemical enterprise. He had passed out with honours and had received a great farewell as the best captain the basketball team that Wharton had ever had. Dee had gotten admission into Berkeley purely on her record as a national swimmer. They had decided to go on a family vacation for two weeks to California. Rosaline or Ross for short was coming along. If there was one common thing that both Sam and Dee loved was Ross. She was their best friend. It was amazing how she fit into both their lives. She was the only one Sam would talk to and confide in. She was the only one Dee would talk to confide in. Ross was never best in anything. She was clumsy at almost anything she touched. But she had a cheerful disposition and had this uncanny capability of being able to mould herself to anyone’s state of mind so as to be just rightly compassionate and understanding. Whilst the siblings played and competed she read books and fantasised about the surreal and was the easiest person to get along with.

They bonded in a way that summer because of her. She was the go between. Both wanted to spend time with her and before they knew it they were all three sitting together almost all the time playing cards and talking. Talking about friends, school and college. Talking about their respective sports. Dee talked to Sam how she sometimes craved a normal life. She had had none unlike him who had enjoyed the double advantage of being popular and having tons of friends and also playing and excelling at his favourite sport. He understood and he sympathised. And was not over empathetic like some other people who would gasp and sigh at her so called life.
“My God you don’t go to movies?”
“Gosh you’ve never had a sleep over in your life?”
“What??? You did not go for that party?”
“My God! Poor thing your mom really pushes you!”
“No. I love it myself. She helps me remain pushed,” Dee would answer with a thin smile.
Sam understood Dee’s craving for a missed life. But he also understood her love of the game and her need to be best at it.”
Ross understood both of them and added a little recreation and silly lightness to the summer break Brother sister bonded.

And then it happened. The mighty blow.

Neither of them quite remembered how it happened. One minute they were driving and laughing over how silly Ross was about something and their Dad was looking in the rear view mirror and laughing along…the road was empty and wide…laughter was filling the air…suddenly the sound of screeching tyres filled the air…the flash of a carrier was seen…none of them registered and then blackness.

Luckily both parents had come away with minor scratches. Apparently the carrier had come from the side and had banged against the side of the car’s back. Ross had a head injury with internal bleeding. Dee had broken a few ribs and hurt her stomach muscles had been torn from the inside. Sam had hurt his left kneecap.

It had all hurt where it hurts the most.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wounds had healed. Their effects could have lasted a lifetime if the siblings had not turned to each other at the opportune moment. Dee obviously could not swim anymore as her stomach muscles could not take the stress and Sam could not play anymore. In fact he had it much worse he had a distinctive limp. He was no longer the strong, independent tall basketball player. He had a limp and the passion of his life had been stolen from him in the midst of laughter.

The anguish, the bitterness built slowly spreading like venom in their hearts, their minds and their lives. Mom obviously only lamented the loss of her daughters career. Sam’s leg was a great loss to her as a mom as well. But nothing was balanced. Dee was bitter because the constant nagging of her mother and her lamenting about swimming made her own loss loom larger than ever in her minds eye. She resented the fact that her mom only thought of her as a swimmer and not a person. Sam resented the fact that his mother could never appreciate his passion the void that it was now. Both grew bitter. Both snapped at their mother, years of resentment pouring out like a waterfall stopped for too long. The father tried to intervene but the emotional hurt had been buried for too long and the mother too old to now change her views nor her person was too hurt, indignant and enraged at her children’s ingratitude to make amends herself.

Ross made the tides soothe over. She had lost partial vision and vision was her life. She who only read and dreamed could do nothing without clear sight. Yet she was the same, always cheerful, always listening to them rave and rant. Slowly their raving and ranting dimmed and both siblings spent their time with Ross. Again it was the three of them laughing and talking. None ventured into what they would do further in life. For a while they only talked about nothing. Ross filled them with hope. She kept saying its not over yet. You have a whole world of sports and activities to explore. She with calm and her usual blind optimism instilled in them a slow confidence in their abilities, in their own will and in the fact that they were born fighters.

Dee’s passivity helped them get over the pain of their snatched passions. They resumed life. Dee could not go to Berkeley anymore but she did go to UCE California and had a chance to make friends and finally do things that she had never done in her life before. Sam worked and earned money and both still played TT or foosball over the weekends. Mom was slowly forgiven. Love was regained. Life was beautiful.

Only passion was missing.
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On the weekend of Sam’s thirtieth birthday, Dee and Sam went to visit dad and mom. Both had excelled in life, at their jobs and were successful. Both parents were extremely proud of their children. But there was this underlying restlessness about both children that dad wanted to ease but could do nothing about except grieve.

Sunday afternoon they decided to accompany dad on his weekly round of golf.

There on the green the magic happened again…

They had taken a putter each and were trying to putt for fun. It started as friendly competition, became a matter of minor pride and then slowly became a slow obsession. That week both siblings spent everyday at the golf course competing with each other for real. Both were slow. Both were obsessive and focussed. Both wanted to beat the other. Both were natural at it. They had no time to spend with each other all weekend. The only time they met was at dinnertime. Both parents were disgruntled at being neglected like this. Dad embraced his children like they had come to him after years when they were leaving. He knew he had lost them to yet another game…

Sam and Dee were back.

I

2007-04-30T01:05:00.001-07:00

I have been going crazy. No, I have been driving myself crazy. I talk in my head non-stop. Its been an affliction for as far back as I can remember. And with each passing statement and question it becomes harder to come up with answers. You see, one-sided conversations are really difficult because sometimes when the answer is 'not hidden deep inside you' it becomes a real hindrance to your peace of mind to keep asking the same questions over and over again. There are always crests and troughs. I have realised this about myself and with bitterness have accepted that I am not very good with the troughs. Troughs are of various kinds and i am extremely susceptible to the external ones as they almost immediately shake the fine balance of my inner being. I do not have the illusion of being a strong person because I am not...the stress shows, it spills off the sides and starts entering others lives. This I have always hated...it is unfair and extremely selfish to let the spill overflow onto anothers space. It reminds me how much more there is to learn about strength, peace, calm, wisdom and standing tall. It reminds me how much more I have to learn before I can even think about living up to the expectations of loved ones, before I can think of taking their weight and supporting them...before I can start feeling sorry for myself. Yes I do feel sorry for myself sometimes. I admit to extreme weakness and I wish I was not so self centered. I feel like simply giving up and allowing the nigging choking feeling at the back of my throat to take over. I feel like burrying my head in the pillow and crying for hours together. But for some reason I am scared of this feeling. I am scared of letting it take over. I am scared of the onslaught being so strong that I may not be able to stop. I am scared of then jus sitting there by that pillow and never being able to do all those things that I must. So I stop myself just in time and tell myself to get on with it...thats the way it should be right? But the constriction in the throat persists. Maybe it is just a cold I am not taking care of. Sometimes it amazes me how such little things can imbalance my zen. Like right now everything seems astray. I cant seem to think of a future, its like probing a mindless pit when I begin to think of my future prospects, a job, the loan, life and responsibility. Then the college work and domesticity of rents, money storage, etc. These things seem like minute peas in the sea of problems that people have. I agree they are minute peas and that my main worry is people. Peolple I care about. People I would do anything to stand by or atleast say I would (only time will tell) People I call my friends, my parents all theirs become mine. I hate it when I can do nothing to ease their worry, when I can do nothing to sooth their pain. It leaves me feeling helpless and more importantly useless. There the I comes in again. i don't know how everything becomes about the I. I apologise for it and I fight it. But since I care for them I naturally feel I must do something about it. It is futile. They don't understand and you don't understand; which hurts more because you excuse those that you love and push yourself harder to understand them. It is your failing if you don't. It is your failing that even after knowing them so well you can't understand, you can't calm tempests. I wish I could. Nothing else would matter. I wish I could change everything that has happened and hurt them and set it right. I wish I could just say the right words and make it all go away. I wish I could after all these years learn and know the right things to do to make it better. I wish I was more understanding. I wish I was more sympathetic. I wish I had a magic wand. Naah am a non dreamy realistic dry person...who am I trying to kid?? I wish they could see the love and support in my eyes. I wish I had such strength in me that they would not have to have such doubts, thoughts, dark desires and fears. I wish I could embalm them. I wish I was indifferent. I wish I wasn't so self-centered.

----------------------------------------------------------------
Escapist. I have called myself that many times. It isn't without reason. No matter how awful a feeling or thing to happen. No matter how hurt or broken, I would always sleep off (literally) at the peak point of misery and somehow get up a little more positive, fresh, optimistic and I think a little numb and thick skinned the next day. I could never put the feeling into words but today quite by accident almost innocently like just for me I heard a friend put it in words. Tij while ranting about his miseries simply said, 'I looked into the mirror and thought i have two options; I can I either be sad or I can be happy. I chose to be happy.' I silently whispered the last line under my breath in chorus with him. It seems simple and mundane enough but its true. Just that off late I've been wondering how long till the answer might change. It scared me...the possibility that I might drown in self pity enough to not make the right choice always...that at some point I might want the pillow more than to stand up and love and support my loved ones. I wish I was indifferent. I wish I wasn't weakness itself. I wish I wasn't so self centered.

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Tomorrow will be another day. And for as long as I live there shall always be a tomorrow. I shall not be afraid untill nightfall and then I will think of tomorrow.

I know not why

2007-04-18T08:30:00.000-07:00

I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
Not for love,
Not for life
Not for glory, nor honour
Not for a moments fleeting meeting with my lover
Not for forgiveness, nor for pleasure
Not for the world,
Not for you, Nor I

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
I stopped never
For what I understood never
For what I was told never

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
I stood tall and strong
I loved with all my might
I learnt loyalty, I practised
But every night, I sit alone
With tears falling from my eyes

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
Now even though alone,
I refuse to bow down to betrayal
I refuse to learn to lie
I refuse to be scarred by the world cruel
I refuse to disbelieve in mankind’s soul
But every now and then,
I look around in quiet desperation
For eyes wiser, who’ll be my answer
And lead my spirit to restoration

And yet,
I tried and I tried
I struggled and I pressed
I pushed and I pulled
I mulled and I pondered
I wandered and I wavered
I fought and I cried
I begged and I prayed…
Seeking, hoping, wishing,
In lonesome battle,
I still know not why

I must

2007-04-16T06:32:00.001-07:00

Blessed with human faculties
Doomed in surging memories
Linger I, b'ween the past and present
A tug of war at every crescent
An anthem stronger, moments slip
Connecting todays memory with yester
Stiffled in the nuances of understanding
A question in every answer
The space enlarges, vast and vague
A chance given at every turn
But to become a slow burn
A reminder of old choices, a mourn.
Never to question the vast vagueness
Only every action mine
Trudging to keep pace, to see, to stand by
Lines black and white I drew
Only murkier did the worldly gray grew
Never lost in the dark of the world
But to drown in tempests within
Of morals I obey, of principal I sketched
Never to question is loyalty worth dying for?
Is the word worth the guillotine?
Is love as divine as I proclaim?
Is it all worth my dime?
Or do I waste my time?

I must learn to let go

Innocence Shattered

2007-04-13T04:13:00.000-07:00

Her laughter was music to his ears. It warmed his heart and made him forget all things bad. They were walking down a lane in the countryside. The birds were chirping. The sun was shining, its golden rays bouncing off her soft blond hair. They walked hand in hand oblivious to the covert smiles that came their way. One couldn’t help but smile at the warm, tender way they looked and listened to each other attentively. They were arguing about which cottage looked the most beautiful, the kind of house they would live in, the number of children they would have, the number of dogs they would have. She loved dogs; in fact she loved all animals. He had never been fond of animals but her simple joy when she played with one of the furry four legged creatures had slowly infused into his heart and he had begun to pet dogs for a moment grimacing for show in front of her though secretly loving it. She looked at him honestly, openly laying her heart and her thoughts bare for him to see. He loved her open trust and protectively wrapped his arms around her while crossing the road inwardly promising himself that he would protect her from cynicism forever.

They sauntered on, Angela telling him stories that made her eyes dance gaily, while John was thinking your mine and life is beautiful. The couple got distracted because of a slight commotion up ahead. A group of men were arguing, discussing loudly. They were standing around something in a semi-circle. Angela began walking towards them to see what it was about and John followed close behind. They couldn’t see what the men were pointing at. She began skirting the group and reached the far side to have a look. There were two men inside the semi-circle. Both had small Budweiser’s in their hands, both were yelling at each other and looking at something on the ground. One of them began waving his arm agitatedly, exhibiting the small revolver in his hand.

‘What’s going on?’ Angela asked him.
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t look good. Let’s get out of here.’ John replied, while taking a hold of her hand.
‘Wait. Let’s see, what’s that…?’ She slipped her hand out of his grip and started walking ahead closer to the two men, into the semi-circle.
As they got closer, sounds of clanking, growling, a half bark caught their attention but the two men were still blocking from view what was on the ground.
And then she saw it. An Alsatian, its leg caught in a barb wire fence. The wire was completely entangled and wound around its right hind leg which was oozing blood. There was a small pool of blood around it. The dog was desperately trying to pull against the wire and with each pull it whimpered and took two steps back in agony. Each time that one of the men tried to take a step towards it, the dog snarled and bared its teeth. It looked ferocious with saliva dripping down the front of its face.

‘C’mon Mark do it’ yelled one man.
‘Maybe I should wait a bit more. The ungrateful mongrel…fed it for so long and it’s snarling at me now. Teach it a lesson.’ Replied Mark semi-drunk, but still holding the gun steadily aimed at the dog.
‘It’s gonna bite someone, look at it…so aggressive!’
‘It’s never been that way…unpredictable mongrels,’ said Mark beginning to take aim.

‘Stop! Wait! He’s hurt! He wouldn’t bite otherwise!’ Before John could even react, Angela had dashed forward and was between men and dog.
‘You don’t know him lass. Go on your way!’ yelled Mark’s partner.
‘He just said the dog wasn’t like that. Can’t you see he’s in pain? You can’t just shoot him for nothing! He hasn’t bitten anybody yet has he?’
‘Yeah yet. So who’s gonna get him outta there for us to make sure? You huh lass?’ Both men laughed.
‘Angela. ANGELA! Come back here,’ yelled John.
She didn’t reply. She simply walked over to about a feet away from the dog and knelt down. John thought his breath had suspended. He couldn’t even speak for fear of alarming the dog, for fear of what might happen to her.

She sat there and softly began to talk to the dog.
‘Good boy. You’re the cutest dog aren’t you? You have beautiful eyes…,’ she kept on with sweet nothings in a monotone.
The Alsatian continued growling and eyed her with suspicion. Slowly she edged towards him. The dog warily kept snarling but it didn’t make any attempts to get at her as it had done with the men. She continued looking into its eyes and told the dog it would be alright. It was almost as if the animal understood. She kneeled her way diagonally behind him so the dog could still see her. She had never been so afraid. The Alsatian began to sense her slight hesitance, her nervousness. It moved a little restlessly and bared its teeth once more. She had noticed where the wire had begun to entangle and had mentally figured she had to tug just twice to unwind it. She reached forward and gave it a quick twisted tug in an anti clockwise direction and the wire came down two loops. A loud bark, a snarl and the dog had flipped around, its shackles up ready to bite her but she’d jumped back just in time.

‘That’s enough. Come back Angela,’ John said in a shaky voice.
Dog and woman stared at each other. She didn’t let her steady stare waver. Tears were falling down her cheeks as she recovered from her fallen position slowly so as to not alarm the dog again. She knelt down again and continued to talk softly to the dog. Sweet nothings. The dog was agitated now. It couldn’t understand whether to trust or not. The wound was bleeding profusely and it couldn’t stay standing. She knew just one more tug and it would be off. She creeped forward again on her fours and in another quick dash tugged the wire, the whole thing came off. The dog howled and charged as she made a quick retreat backwards on her hands and knees. It could run, it felt free. She was petrified and silent terror was written all across her face. Four paces ahead and it collapsed in front of her whimpering. As if in slow motion she moved towards it and stroked its head and the dog simply let her pet him. John took his first breath. He almost staggered to her and roughly hauled her up and hugged her. They began talking at once. He, shaking her and shouting at her at the top of his lungs, and her, telling the men through the tears in her eyes that they could take the dog to a vet and that would he wouldn’t bite anyone now.

The men stood still in shock and just kept standing there staring as the couple collected themselves and began to walk away as if in a daze. The entire experience was just beginning to sink in and she was feeling overwhelmed. The scene, the gun, the thought of it dying, the blood, the ferocity in its eyes, her fear, her stupidity, it all began to hit her in waves. She was just about to tell John that she was sorry but she was glad because it would not die. She was ok…it was ok. She opened her mouth to speak and a gunshot went off, loud and explosive in the silence of the afternoon. It all happened in a flash. She screamed and flipped around. The men stood over the dead Alsatian with smirks on their faces. She tried to run towards it, but John wouldn’t let her.
‘Let me go. LET ME GO.’ But he wouldn’t. She fought him with all her might, flaying her arms and feet at him but he was stronger. Wildly she tried to push him off and the men looked at them from the yard laughing. He slapped her. Her struggles stopped and she sat there limp, sprawled on the ground in his arms with tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t understand why they had done it. She asked him why repeatedly in a soft monotone as he dragged her to her feet and began walking her away. Few minutes passed and he just held her and told her to forget about it. She stopped her rhetoric. He tilted her face upwards to and he knew he had lost her, a very vital part of her. He couldn’t see that blind trust, faith and openness in her face. He could see nothing, only a closed blank expression. He couldn't read her eyes anymore. She wasn’t with him anymore. He had lost her to the world.

Blogging: The Why's

2007-04-10T04:38:00.000-07:00

Why do I blog? Why do I pen down thoughts? Why do I assume there is much to be expressed? Why do I look at these thoughts in surprise like I’ve seen, thought them for the first time? Why am I addicted to this incessant posting?

I remember starting out. I remember resisting with all that I had. I just could not digest the idea of putting my thoughts down in a public forum for all to see. It did feel like standing naked in a room full of people (this is a borrowed line). In a way, it’s worse than standing naked in a room full of people. You can close your eyes and imagine that the people don’t exist. Even if you do acknowledge the fact that they do, their vision can only go skin deep. That in comparison thus, makes standing naked in a room full of people an easier task to me (lets not discuss it in isolation, that’s a different thing all together).

Another reason why the idea of blogging did not settle easily with me was because of the digital medium. It felt oddly like a personal and an impersonal space at the same time. I mean for me the internet was mainly e-mails for personal interaction and you don’t really discuss existence via mails. And the only other time that you discuss life’s various queries is when you are in one of those rare and odd philosophical moods (with me these are often and yes I admit to lunacy) and a rather close friend happens to be in the vicinity and unfortunately has to bear the brunt of your bizarre questioning and reasoning (most would argue that I have none!).

So I started writing like it was a new art to me all together. In a way it was. I hadn’t written in ages. I mean I hadn’t written what I would like to write in ages. Between Journalism school and Journalism in real I had honestly forgotten how to put down my point of view down on paper. By my point of view I don’t mean just the two sides of the coin and the diplomatic in-between, but the various tangential thoughts and issues that I would have with a situation, circumstance or incident. Those tangents are your thoughts. And somewhere in the last three years I had stopped paying attention to them. I think I had forgotten to have them (mom would argue having them again was an extremely bad thing and brought me to the end of my glorious career as a journalist, but I honestly don’t think I had one looming ahead of me).

Now, when I did begin to blog, it was as if I didn’t have the vocabulary to write even half a sentence that could have the right import that I wanted to convey (I still don’t but am getting used to it now!!). It felt rustic. It felt like I shouldn’t even try for lack of talent. Mind you I did believe writing was a talent that could not be acquired. And then every time I’d finish a post and look at it in dissatisfaction the only thing that would give me a boost unto writing another would be the few kind encouraging comments that a friend or two would leave behind. This egged me on and I found the interaction fun. Since it was a new hobby and since after 21 years of existence I had discovered that I could think (even if like a 2+1=3 year old, it was a discovery nonetheless!), I kept at it with an eager gusto.

Now this whole commenting culture was a contradiction in itself (I love creating dilemmas for myself, like someone once said I think I feed off them). Two issues followed. One was that I began because of the encouraging comments, but then again it was like an invasion of privacy. You can’t really stem who you want to enter into this mindless haven that you are creating (well practically you can always screen who can leave a comment but the point is not about others reading the comments left behind but of you yourself reading them and knowing that this is out there for all to read, question, disregard and know it whats in your head). So, on the one hand I had a hang up about everybody reading and leaving comments but on the other hand I was almost feeding off the comments that people left. It oddly urges the writing spirit. I couldn’t decide what my problem was. But the constant writing and reading over time I think made my spirit brazen and I got over it. I still don’t have an answer to my dilemma but it no longer bothers me. Hah time the best friend of the fickle human mind!

The second issue is about ownership. I have never considered myself a possessive human being, at least not for something as lame and intangible as thoughts. See its one thing for you to write and for people to leave comments. But it’s entirely another ballgame if people begin to question your thoughts and force counter arguments on you. While having a verbal discussion it is different. In a way it disappears into space after it is over and we have had our arguments. But on paper it is ominous in a way. You can’t escape it. You can’t have random thoughts and confuse yourself and get away with your half arguments and let it drop. On paper it stares at you in your face. It is proof of what you think and you have to weigh what the other person’s point of view is and you have to admit and acknowledge where you have gone wrong and how there is room for the other individual’s point of view to exist. On paper, your mistakes in judgement, values, thoughts and even spellings are there for both you and the world to see and thus also makes it eminent for you to accept them. It makes you mad at times, it makes you defensive at times but it also makes you absolutely sure of what thoughts and values you would definitely defend no matter what.

So, there are two sides to this coin and there’s no escaping it. The mistakes and narrow world views that you have about various issues you learn to accept and swallow your pride. On the other hand many values and principles that you think are not wholly defined in your head but, when put on paper and questioned by others bring forth intense feelings of protectiveness which reinforce your value system and start making the little ‘me’s’ that would eventually define you.

I think the writing helps me sift and sieve. It helps in realising what things are important to me and what after having written seem frivolous and silly. I think I’m still grappling with letting myself go completely in my text. Its tough to share all of ‘you’ but the more that you write, the more you realise that the more of your real self you put in your writing the more impact the writing has, the better the writer you are. But, then I guess it also comes down to prioritising as to what you want. Do you want to be a great writer or is your privacy more important to you?

Another aspect blogging threw up for me was discretion. Trust me I have never been the master of discretion (hell if you ask my friends they'd tell you I probably don't know that the word exists!). I either say what I think or don't say it at all. Blogging has kind of opened up this new window of expression. It feels out of charactor to mince words, or say what you want to in not so direct a manner so as to camouflage it and leave it in between the lines for others to find or miss entirely. But it is highly exciting and in a way solves the problem of feeling exposed and vulnerable (Again why one should feel vulnerable if ones thoughts are out in the open is an issue for another post). But this again does not answer the above question and does leave you dissatisfied (at this point if you feel the purpose of this post is to thoroughly confuse you, I apologise sincerely).

I was told that I’ll change a lot by blogging and that it’ll make a difference to who I am. I don’t know if it has but oddly it gave me a lot of things…a sense of possession, a little of my lost faith back, a little confidence, a great deal of joy, some tremendous venting, new friends who I respect for their talent, a penseive (trust me I need it!), a place am no longer afraid to go…that urges me to fly, and a little bit of pride.

I thank all those who have taken the time out to read my loony posts.

I’ll be forever grateful to DQ for immense patience and perseverance shown. It wasn’t necessary and it still made a whole world of a difference to me. But then again DQ doesn’t always ‘do things out of necessity unlike some people’.

Love you Farishta for reading, writing, and praising my feeble attempts in spite of being the artist of finery yourself.

PS- My next post should be about promising myself to stop being such an annoying sentimentalist!!

blue engraving

2007-04-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

I play with the feather tip
the hand moves of its own accord
across the page,
the ink weaves its course
it flows with graceful fluidity
and with each stroke a new story unfolds
thoughts disconnected spray on the white
in beautiful blue engraving
contemplations luminous come to life.

Just random strings of words
I grope to make full sentences
not a single strand whole
but but with memories manyfold
Across time they travel
only to be beaten by the ink blue
and put down on this page long due.
Of past victories and future failures
of trials of blazing glory and damning defeats

for every swift stroke of the feather
a new understanding blooms
the blue shimmers enlightenment
as penned words endow wisdom
carvings random they soothe
many a tempests of despair
it flows out amorphous
like a river trailing down a mountain side
like magic the calm flows
from finger tips to temple.

In glorious surrender embraces an artist
the exaltation infused into his veins
from the feather tip that words rains
watching the world a blue
from a window isolate
lost in the hues of colours he weaves
forgotten is the world, only his thoughts he seives.
he lives within my story
I watch him smile at me through the window on my white
With ink blue I create his world, his life
In beautiful blue engraving
contemplations luminous come to life

The Indian Stall

2007-04-04T08:24:00.000-07:00

Day One

'Hi uncle, I'll have a Kit-kat please.'
'45 pence'
'Here you go'
'Thanks. Have a good day'.

Day Five

'Hi uncle, one Kit-Kat please.'
'45 pence'
'Here, I have the exact change,' I said with a smile.
'Thanks. Have a good day,' he replied with a polite smile.

Day Fifteen

'Kit-Kat Uncle!'
'Same time always. Have fun!'
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Next Month, Day One

'Uncle how’s aunty? The shifting must be tiring you both out.'
'Oh aunty is exhausted. What to do...have to do everything by ourselves here,' while passing the kit-kat to me.
'I know it must be crazy. No domestic help. How do you manage? Would you like any help?' I asked simply while doling out the change.
'Nahi bachche. Enjoy the kit-kat!'

Day Fifteen

'Uncle you have me addicted! I can’t walk past your stall without buying a Kit-kat anymore', I exclaimed, already giving him the money.
'Well it makes you stop and say hi!'
'I hope aunty is well now. At least the shifting is done so she will be able to get some rest.'
'Yes. She's come down with a viral. So I stay here all day. The stall needs to be manned', he said all but smiling.
'Hope she gets well soon. Let me know if you need help with anything.'
'Haan bachche. Enjoy the Kit-kat!
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Month Three, Day Five

‘You don’t want the Kit-Kat today?’ He shouted across the platform.
‘My train is here. I don’t have change.’
‘That’s okay. Give it to me tomorrow, he ran up to me and shoved it into my hands.
‘Uhh. Are you sure? Umm Thank you,’ I stuttered while getting into the train.

I was amazed. It was like being back in India, where you strike a certain rapport with the canteen guy or the colony ice-cream vendor. The same trust. The same rustic Indian PR system. I kept thinking of the words hammered into my head by Dad ever since I was five, “Never take anything from strangers.” It made me wary of Uncle. I returned the money the same evening, but the Kit-kat buying continued and so did the daily dose of chitchat
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Month Three, Day Twenty

'What’s wrong with you?' S said in exasperation while spreading the bed-sheet.
'He asked for help. No actually I offered. I've been talking to him for over two months now. He's a nice guy.'
'Ok. First of all there's no such thing as a nice guy. Second of all he's someone who owns a stall at a railway station. Even though you speak to him, he is a stranger. I mean how old are you??’
'I know S. But he is nice and they really don't know many people. And it is tough setting up the house single-handedly. And he’s an Indian.’
‘He’s been living in this freaking country for thirteen years! Don’t tell me he knows no one else! And so what if he’s an Indian? Most Indians are sleaze balls! I think your being extremely stupid! And you keep talking to these strangers, you ask for trouble.’

That hurt. It was true. But, it was below the belt.

‘Fine. Have it your way. I’m going to help them (by this time I was righteously stubborn and it wasn’t about helping him). I can see a nice person when I meet one.’

Month Three, Day 21

S and I follow Uncle off the sidewalk on Wembley Street silently. A cold war had been declared (among girls it means a lot of ignoring and making dirty faces).

A very usual Brit house on Park drive. He led us to the side of the house and we followed him up a narrow flight of stairs. It looked very much like an old house in Coimbatore or some place in a smaller South Indian town from this vintage point; like a small, flat white box. He opened the wooden door, held it ajar and motioned for us to walk in. We both did and then he walked in after us and banged the door closed. The light was shut out with the banging of the door. In that one moment I could tell for a fact that we were both scared to death! Alright I could only tell then that I got shit scared and that I was thinking S was right after all, but she later confessed to having had palpitations as well. Before either of us could give in to our fear and yell at the top of our lungs he switched on the lights and opened this other door beside the front door but perpendicular to it in such a way that had the front door been open this could not have been opened.

Phew the flood of relief that always follows with logical reasoning rushed in. We smiled our first smiles of the day at each other. Mine quickly turned to triumphant and we continued the cold war. A mad afternoon of bending and picking up couches and sofas together, arranging them around the room, opening out wall to wall rugs (trust me they are extremely heavy), setting up side tables and cabinets, manoeuvring a cot from the living room into the bedroom (this one turned the cold war into a bloodbath of yells and shouts in frustration) and sweating in London ensued! Pure labour, heavy breathing, hot flushes and broken backs, we sighed unanimously. It had been exhausting. It had been harrowing. It had been just slightly fun (S would not admit to more even later). It had been therapy. Yes, therapy. It’s weird how you can bond over just working hard physically. The joint effort, the joint exertion and then sitting in silence in the room of labour creates a certain kind of camaraderie. He gave us a box of chocolates while we were leaving. All the way back S kept grumbling about how the box had been a saving grace and that the reason he got us to do it was because he didn’t want to pay anyone to do it. S was right of course. Logically I had to agree with her of course. We had wasted our time and energy for nothing of course. But I couldn’t say that to her of course! No it wasn’t because of the cold war or because I was being egoistic (which I was of course) but because I know S and I know she was glad we had done it and because I was glad as well.
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Don’t get me wrong. I can’t call uncle my friend. I still only talk to him for a few minutes a day, just a few polite questions back and forth. But it feels good to say hello to him at the station. I can’t explain it. He isn’t a part of my life but in a way he is. When I leave London, he might be one of the first things/experiences/people that I might forget about the place. But what the entire circumstance taught us I guess I’ll take with me. I can’t quite put a finger on what it was exactly. Just a few disconnected thoughts. He is an Indian. ‘Enjoy the Kit-kat’. ‘Never take anything from strangers’. ‘Don’t close your heart and mind to getting to know strangers. You might miss some nice people.’ Some extremely nice, genuine kind acts can take you aback at railway platforms. Life is not all good. But then again, life is not all bad. Maybe someday I'll have the words to describe the feeling.
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For all those waiting to give me a lecture, don’t worry I’ve given myself several. It happens rarely. I don’t regret it. I promise I won’t make talking to people on buses, trains a habit.
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Thanks S. You don’t know it, but I wouldn’t have gone if you hadn’t come that day.

Moments in the sun

2007-03-28T01:30:00.000-07:00

Tis' beautiful a sight,
to see the world white.
In the sleet and the rain
songs of beauty you gain.
And yet the spirit restless
aspires evermore in excess,
of warmth boundless.

With a song in your heart
you awake one fine day,
only to be joined in melody
by chirping birds gay.
As you gaze into the sky,
peeks the sun, initially coy.
And the world leaps in joy...
as if covered in golden alloy.

To run wild in a garden green,
amidst flowers and colours
as if in a far away dream.
soaking in a maelstorm of sensations,
nature's smells in varied translations.
Joy to be expressed in unabandoned exertion.
a mixture of sweat, smiles and satisfaction

Oh Summer! Bring on the exaltation!

To be a Man

2007-03-26T04:52:00.000-07:00

It was five in the morning. He slammed the front door and stepped out immediately to feel the crisp slap of the cold. The jarr did not help calm his temper. He welcomed its cold sting as fresh pain. It aided his self pity and self righteous anger. He began walking briskly down the road. He walked with a purpose but he had nowhere to go. He did not even keep an eye on the turns he took. He was lost not only in this world but in his own self. He could not get the various arguments out of his head. They plunged him into deep resentment at his life, his friends, his family, and his thwarted ambitions. He deemed it all unfair and walked with the purpose of getting away, of abandoning all those he loved and yet hated, all those who supported him yet choked him. He hated living a life for all of them. He hated being responsible all the time. "For what? Why? Why should I? I don't have to. Why did this have to happen to me? I didn't deserve it. Do I? No, I don't! He shouted silently into the coldness".

He had blindly walked onto Parliament Street. Had he been in a better mood, he would have taken a deep breath and appreciated the soothing beauty of the Rashtrapati Bhavan. But, not today. Not for the last few days. Not since last Saturday. He had forgotten the word ‘beauty’ in just these last few days. A week and bitterness had eaten into his young spirit. His entire life had been upturned. In the space of a minute he had been hit by the full import of the meaning of emotions like pain, death, responsibility, strength, courage, rage, self pity, helplessness, anger and the deepest emptiest feeling of immense loss. The loss of his friend, his companion, his mentor, his shoulder, his drive, his only pillar…his father.

They had brought him in and covered him with a white sheet. The family had not had the slightest inkling that this could happen. The first moment when he had heard of the news and seen his father’s body he had just stood still, like a rock. The men had thought he was a strong kid. But he had just frozen. He was completely numb from inside, absolutely still. And then in slow motion the reality of what happened speared through him like tiny explosions. The pain was so immense; it was almost like the numbness. From somewhere beyond his consciousness he had seen his mother rush towards the body and fall on the ground beside it crying, begging her husband to open his eyes just once. The five minutes that he had stood still before enveloping his mother in his arms had felt like eternity. An eternity he would always live with, an eternity he would die with. These initial hours after the death of his father; hours of pain, lament, and anguish were the slowest of his life. After that the week had passed away in a fast blur of actions, decisions and mechanical tasks. His feelings were choked and he had no outlet. He felt like he could not breathe. It was the shortest week of his life. It was the longest week of his life. He had never understood so much, he had never emerged more confused, more lost.

Everything came back to him on this walk. Every moment of betrayal and loneliness was heightened by the chillness of the morning air. He was angry. Angry at the way his father had died. Angry at the civilian funeral. Angry at his friends for being there, yet not being there. Angry at his mother for asking him to give up his life. Angry at his younger brother for just existing and adding to his burden. Angry at God for having cut short his life by sixty years. It was unfair. Tears pricked at his eyes and he roughly wiped his eyes dry.

The body of his father had been like an overwhelming presence that had filled their small one room house. It had everything this house. It had a small cot on one side, a small square of an area where you could do the cooking, with a stove in another corner, piles of clothes and shawls on a rack high up on the wall and books everywhere on the bed. It smelt musty and there was one 60 watt bulb hanging by a wire in the centre of the room from the ceiling. They had all lived there; his mother, his brother, him and his father whenever he was on leave. It had been enough. He had been a good kid. He had studied in these conditions without a complaint and had always managed be the among the handful of students topping the class. He had made up his mind to get out of this slum and take his family with him. Cynicism had not yet tarnished his drive. He had dreamt of becoming a software engineer and working for a company like Wipro someday. It wasn’t a dream for him just a reality for the future, so sure of it was he. And so was his father… is father who had taken all these dreams along with him.

His anger suddenly dissipated as anguish and pain for his father filled his heart. His father had always been a staunch army man. He had recently retired from the army and begun work as a construction worker to keep them going in an expensive city like Delhi. When in the Army, he had been away most of the year and had been strong, ever smiling and full of love and loyalty for the country when he returned on leave. Even now after retirement, the man would have gladly died for the country with a smile on his face. Unknowingly tears dripped down his cheeks as he thought of the injustice of it all. Just because he had not died in war, just because he had not been shot down or did not die in a mine blast he had not been bid farewell with a salute. He had had an ordinary funeral and had been denied the honour that he deserved for having served the Army for so many of his years. It hurt like hell to have to accept the facts of life, to let go of the glorious perceptions that he had of honour.

So many things hurt and for so many reasons, he could not even begin to understand them. None of his friends had come home on the day he had learnt the news. They had not come the next day either. He had done everything on his own. He had arranged his father’s funeral and wiped the tears of his grieving mother on his own. But, they had turned up for the funeral and offered him words of support. Their excuse had been that they wanted to give him his solitude to grieve for his father but none had come when he had needed them most. They insisted that they would stand by him and support him in every way possible. But, he was already too betrayed by the brutal blow of life to understand or to show any kind of mercy. In that one moment he had distanced himself from it all.

Then, one by one the blows had come. Before he could even deal with the loss of his father, he had realised that his brother was still in school and had to be educated. His mother had to be supported. He would have to take up the full responsibility of the house. He had not even finished his engineering. It was this morning that his mother had asked him give up his dream, his ambition to take up a job as a construction worker to support the family. It was this morning that she had squashed every bit of life out of him. It was not like he had not seen it coming. But it was this morning that his deepest fears had been put into words. He was not just afraid of letting his dreams go and living the life of any other labourer. He was afraid of measuring up, of being the strong responsible person that his father had been, of being able to handle life’s injustices, of providing for his mother and brother, of becoming a man.

Without realising it he had slowed his pace considerably and the anger was all gone. He had unknowingly walked back to the slum area, to his house. The sun was beginning to peek from behind the slum and he could feel the first touch of its warmth. He had no more tears left in him to shed and he oddly felt exhausted; not in the body but in his soul. His mother stepped out of their one room and upon seeing him, made a feeble attempt to smile. The courage in that weary face was all it took. In that one moment he decided to let go of the dreams and make new ones. He decided that he would try and be a man. He decided he would give anything to put a few more of those beautiful and strong smiles on his mothers face. He decided he would work hard wherever he had to and take the new curve life had created for him. He decided he would still store those dreams for a later day but for today he would do what he had to now. He decided to wait for tomorrow. He acknowledged that he would still perhaps live moments of bitterness, anger and helplessness but he would stand for those who loved him because they would stand for him. He decided that this was what his father would have done.

Class & Beyond

2007-03-21T07:10:00.000-07:00

We always wonder where we are going. Our dreams, ambitions and desires change every moment. We learn to handle our disappointments by changing our dreams with every failure. Sometimes we think we have found our calling and then give it our best shot single-mindedly. If then things don't work out the way we want them to, we shrug off the hurt and say "that's life". Even then we don’t give up and there is always a goal to work towards. Somewhere along the way most of us realise that doing amazingly well, becoming successful and rich, being appreciated as the best in what we do does not make up the entire contentment package. Being loved by friends and family, loving them back and being able to share the beauty of one's life experiences with those loved ones at the same level is just as important. Nonetheless we do always wonder whether we will someday be rich and successful, whether someday in a social gathering people would talk about our achievements, whether friends would look at us with pride and awe because of what we have become and where we have come.

There are moments when in between the hanging out, going to school together, competing, ragging, showing off, sharing and growing up, once in while we sit in groups and wonder where we’ll all be 20 years down the line. We have certain stereotypes in our minds. The class toppers, the studious types studying for IIT and few others who with focus decide early on to become doctors, engineers or astronauts will always in our minds do well and attain fame. We even assume that the few without much ambition but who conscientiously work hard in a never ending fashion will get somewhere. And then there are those few bright ones, those who do excellently in extra curricular activities; winning most debates and declarations, dancing for audiences at every opportunity, showing extraordinary panache in sports. These we all assume will do great things in life if only they aren’t so reckless and fool hardy. There are also always some invisible ones in class who none of us as kids on our ignorant higher pedestals give any credit to nor pay any attention to. And so on and so forth, we like seers confidently predict and assume and presume the future of our friends.

And then there are some like Josi who cannot help but make you smile even now when you look back and think of them. Always giggling at the silliest of things and her laughter was so infectious. She was girly heaven to be around. I used to be petrified of whispering anything to her in class; she had no sense of decorum and would giggle uncontrollably until we were thrown out of the class. No amount of assignments or mean deadlines from the strictest of teachers could get her to sit down and study. It simply did not matter to her. I would always be amazed at her ability to be this carefree. She would have this constant look of mischief on her face and was forever fixing up everyone in class. Some of them actually managed to come through. The only two things that would truly get her to sit down and pay attention to what you were saying were boys (and that too if it was fun stuff about them being cute, anything more serious and she would begin to yawn) and shopping. Ooooh yeah shopping. You could literally see her start drooling once the word was uttered. She loved colours! From shaded greens to ribbed blacks, red trousers to fuchsia pinks (she introduced me to the colour and I couldn’t be more thankful). She’d drive you nuts if you went looking for clothes with her. You would be forced to try on almost every bit of clothing in every alternate shop on Commercial Street and for a person like me who considers shopping a necessary once in 2 years ‘cannot avoid so lets do it as quickly and painlessly as possible’ task it was an ordeal worse than shopping with mom (which is highly embarrassing trust me)! While we would be breaking our heads over discussions on entrance exams and what to next Josi would calmly say ‘lets see what happens’. She couldn’t be bothered with maths or biology or Arts or even English for that matter. Her only true love was love and clothes. Anything she said beyond that realm was never taken seriously by any of the classmates. No one thought she would do anything great but she did make us laugh a lot and fond of her we were. She didn’t figure in the future predictions of the rich and the famous but there were forever contemplations on how soon she would get married.

She called this morning. She has never sounded this hyper, excited, out of breath and happy. Hell who am I kidding? She always sounds like all these things but it was awesome to hear her voice again! Between all the excited jabbering and bits and pieces of gossip, I gathered that she was working and was doing bloody well. Our Josi had become a Wedding Planner!! It was quite unbelievable for a moment actually. Wedding planning in India…the world had come a long way. For me it was something that happened only in the rich, wild wild west or in the movies of the wild wild west. The entire phenomenon is awesome. The whole gamut of ostentatious pseudo rich middle class Indians spending lavishly on their weddings had opened a whole new market for people who were born to make these events a huge success (my take on these weddings is a matter for another post all together). Josi was working under Geeta Samuels who is one of the most acclaimed wedding planners around. It is one of the most popular and exciting new occupations in Delhi where extensive weddings are becoming a current fashion trend and people have the money to spend on such societal luxuries. A wedding Planner is looked to with much respect and many would aspire to be one today, not just for the money (and trust me there’s plenty of it here) but for the excitement and fun it offers.

Josi had found her calling and I couldn’t help but absorb the happiness and glee from her voice. Surprises oh surprises for all those who had dismissed her match making skills and taste for colours as silly. She had actually become the first of us to begin a career and not just a career but a lifetime of doing what she loved doing. Everyone has a place. There is no definition of talent or ability or area of success. It feels wonderful to know she got to where she belongs and life did not throttle the carefree enthusiasm out of her. I wonder how many more of the predictions will fail, but am glad that this one did.
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Lilith called a little later in the day to announce she got a job as a reporter with the Indian Express. Calls it her dream job...saw the dream with her a few years ago. In school we'd all assumed she'd grow up to be one of the best surgeons in the country following in her parents footsteps.
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Thats another prediction proved wrong. I love it!

Epiphany

2007-03-16T04:41:00.000-07:00

There is a sort of squeamishness teamed with dizziness that comes with anxiety. Sometimes, in spite of knowing what the outcome will be one cannot help being extremely strung up about the possessively, obsessively, consistently hoped for desired result. The wait up to the declared result of the test can drive you to a breaking point of being suspended from a thin wire in mid air, dangling just within reach of that outcome. You can see it but its still not in your hand. Eventually you know it will be but right now its playing mind games with you. The doubt that in spite of knowing that it will be and yet being at the mercy of nature's superior unpredictability of mysteriously changing results at the nth minute sits on your head and heart instigating severe symptoms of insomnia, anorexia and nausea. You count the passing minutes and the tension builds subconsciously because it is too much for the sanity of your fragile conscious mind. In denial your conscious mind attributes the symptoms to change of weather and ignores the existence of the subconscious. Life goes on as it is or you try to over normalise it in an extra effort to trivialise the anxiety. And then comes the moment. The moment of truth...like the day of reckoning. Your heartbeat stops and in suspended breath you wait to hear the outcome...

When it comes, you suspect there is a vacume in your head because of the held breath and you heard wrong. In disbelief, you ask for it to be repeated over and over again. The funny part is, that instead of being over enthused and overjoyed that you almost outshone Nostradamus in predicting what the result will be, you feel this odd, all encompasing, over whelming dizziness at the expected result and bend over trying to let the blood rush to your head willing yourself not to throw up. Waves of sickness consume you and it is only then that you realise how anxious you were. In weak, wondrous personal epiphany you comprehend the true meaning of absolute relief.

Even victors are by victory undone.
- John Drydon

Then what are you and I?

2007-03-14T09:22:00.001-07:00

To be able to
Yet be unable to…

Locked all alone in the old house, she sat huddled in a corner on the cold stone floor. Thin wisps of clothing covered her young, healthy body. Yet despite the youth she shivered uncontrollably. In sudden movements she kept clutching at what was in her hand. There was no fear in her actions, nor in her misty eyes…just a deep wistfulness, an even deeper longing. She sat next to the window and watched her old friends. Friends she had shared everything with…friends who had been confidantes of her every thought, dream, fantasy, emotion, ambition and desire. Through the glass window, she stared at the sun, at its golden glow flooding the morning skies. She imagined feeling its warmth seep through every pore of her body. She played with it in her hands unknowingly. She imagined being embraced by warm gusts of wind, running through the green meadow with her skirts flying. She could almost feel the breeze lift her skirts playfully. She closed her eyes and so close to the warmth was she that she in her minds eye actually felt the light fluttery caresses of the butterflies, she actually heard the secrets of the chirping birds, she actually lay down on the sunflowers swaying lightly under the blue sky. She could just open the window and be enveloped into the comforting world she loved. She had walked into the house on her own accord. With each passing moment the cold had seeped further and further into her bones. She kept tossing it in the air and catching it. Yet her heart hadn’t forgotten the warmth. Everytime she sat by the window, she touched the cold panes…willing the great warm sun to melt it down so she would be freed. The cold and the warmth contradicted. She could never understand whether she shivered because she was cold or because she was not in the warmth. It was so close…the golden, the green, the blue. It beckoned her, it lured her, and it brought her down on her knees in temptation. She moved it from one hand to the other. So deep was her craving to be out there, to be held in the comfort of that embrace, to be ensconsed in its protective warmth that she almost gave in and forgot all vows, all the promises she had made when she entered the house. She stopped playing with it and almost hastily, desperately reached out to the window and began to insert the key into the lock. She had to get out. She had to breathe; she had to get away from the bone deep chill. She had to give in to something stronger, larger, something that would stand forever. She had to surrender. She fumbled with the lock and the key fell down from her hands and clanged on the floor. It was only a split second, it felt like she had stood staring at the key for eternity. She knew she couldn’t open the window. The keys weren’t hers, they belonged to the house and to the house she had given her word. This happened once in a while, when she would forget that she had no ownership. But then she would jar out of her reverie and smile at herself, the cold walls around her, the window and what lay yonder. Suddenly the cold would disappear; the warmth would remain in her heart. Smiling, slowly shakily she picked up the keys and placed them next to window sill. They couldn’t tempt her anymore. One last time she wistfully brushed her hand across the windowsill, fleetingly touching the keys and breathing in a memory of the meadow. She would be out there someday, but not today.

To be able to
Yet be unable to…

Pensieve

2007-03-08T11:32:00.000-08:00

No matter how condescending it sounds, ignorance is always bliss.

Life never allows you to bury your head in the ground like an ostrich, it blows away the sand in a gale.

You are always stronger than you think.

No matter how strong you are, you will always be vulnerable.

After every night the sun rises again but, nightfall is always around the corner. Never forget that.

A brave man is brave just five minutes longer than the rest. Sometimes even that is not enough.

They say life is short, live it...but, sometimes for some it is just too long.

Immortal souls are all mortals except they have unflinching self belief whereas the rest of us don't.

The most obvious sign of happiness is laughter. Sometimes in the midst of laughter it hurts to even smile.

Some hear, some listen, some understand, some sympathise, some support. In spite of all this, some are helpless.

The man who said, 'it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all' was blissful in ignorance until the gale blew the sand away.

You never wake up on the wrong side of the bed. You just sleep in a foul mood.

'The truth is out there'. Some of us spend lifetimes searching for it...some of us understand early that ticking time is the truth.

Our only weakness is not that we love. Our only weakness is that we do not know how to let go.

The wisest thing a drawf ever said was, 'Eat, drink and make merry for tomorrow ye shall die.'

For some bizzarre reason, we always only remember our mothers smiling. I wonder why?

Hope is a funny thing. Without hope a person gives in to death. Isn't hope then a synonym for life? Is living without hope a synonym for death?

We know our apprehensions are tosh. Yet we fear. But, we wouldn't fear if it wasn't for the gale. Not everyone has seen the gale. But, then humans are funny beings...they communicate that fear.

Is it wrong to fear? Is it good to hope? Is it wrong to sound hopeful in fear? Is that the same thing as fearful hope?

I love long walks under the trees. Does that make me an escapist?

2007-03-07T04:09:00.000-08:00

A completed sentence...a missing part of an unfinished thought...I woke up with the words on my lips,

Life isn't about falling...its about flying.

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At one time I used to worship these lines...

"Begginings are kind of scary,
endings pretty sad but,
its the middle that counts...
the part where you give it your very best"

...now they're the crassest lines I've ever heard.

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Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
the future's not ours to see
que sera sera
When I was a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
What will me future be?
Que sera sera

I never did ask her if I'd be alive.

Under the trees

2007-03-02T07:04:00.000-08:00

I've always had this subconscious fascination for the breeze and winds. In my every imagination the breeze has played some sort of role. It comes in somehow or the other. I've been wondering why something in all my posts is so repetitive. Now I have it. I think my fascination was because it gives the feeling of another being or existence on another plane. It is as if the voices or whispers are from somewhere else, yet from within…the feeling that I exist on another plane as well as on this earth and inside my head. Like my head isn't all that you can see defined under the tough skull (and it is tough; proof being my umpteen number of head injuries). Like beyond that in a metaphysical space it extends for miles and miles and even I can't see the boundaries of it. The breeze gives a stamp of justification to my sudden loftiness when I'm out for a walk. It beckons, tempts and tantalises the other mind within my head to fly haphazardly through the mist. I always ask funny questions when am out for walks under trees (Don't snort Musafir!). I love the walks. I never quite manage to answer those questions, only to go back home with more. Maybe am a sucker for confusion.

Lured by the breeze (there it’s back again) I went on another such walk yesterday. I don’t know where the thought came from but it was as if it had been waiting for me to go for walk to pounce on me! Why is the majority so afraid of the minority? Why is it always so threatened by it? I mean isn’t this a natural question to ask when it is said that only the word of the majority works (keeping aside obvious exceptions)? Take the case of trans-sexuals. They don’t even constitute 0.5% of the world’s population. They are biologically neither here nor there. We know it is merely a discrepancy and the species cannot move forward in this way. Yet they are ostracised by every race be it by the whites (no doubts there!), the blacks or the Asians. Maybe it is because of the fear of what man cannot understand. Maybe it is because they aren’t part of the so called ‘normal’ majority. But then again so what? How do they threaten your world apart from your subconscious instinct that this is an abnormal deviance and this is not what ‘man’ is supposed to be? Apart from the bizarre, irrational fear that all of mankind could end up being Trans at some point because of this 0.5% of the population; why else would they be shunned?

Too many thought processes and reasons to be explored here. So, my unintelligent, fickle mind jumped to the other end of the spectrum. Imagine being a teenager and at an age wherein you consciously begin to understand sexuality and coming to realise that you don’t fit in anywhere. Imagine not knowing what you are. Imagine grappling with the most basic ‘What am I?’ question of all which is decided for most of us when we are born! Imagine having to deal with this confounding question without being given space to do so in peace. Imagine trying to understand your place in this world while all the time being told that you have none. I wonder how you have the clarity of thought to pierce through such a fog and make a life and such a decision. And such a simple decision it seems to be of whether to be man or woman. We have trouble accepting a simple fact that all of us have an underlying subconscious homosexual streak in us. At least we know that if we were to have a homosexual partner our like would either be a male or a female! I can’t even begin to understand the pain of such an existential angst.

The funny part is in spite of asking all these questions I don’t think I feel any pity or empathy for them. Like am asking all these questions and I am removed. It is as if I ask these questions only out of curiosity. They are only thoughts and not emotions. Should I be ashamed for not feeling any sort of pain? Am I not part of this world? Do I not share in its pain and the issues that are part of my existence?

I again flittered off on a tangent. I do not really feel bad when horrible things happen. I am not one of the most empathetic persons one could meet. I did feel disillusioned by the way stories are done in journalism today. When I did not go onto studying medicine I pacified myself that Journalism is the only profession that will help me gratify the same needs, intentions. A means of helping people and making a difference. Hah big words! Am not idealistic (alright alright not a blind idealist at least)! I always knew that’s not the way it works. What you see is never what you get and also sometimes what you see is blatantly what you get. Both leave a bitter taste. A journalist is supposed to be a dry removed human being and just do a story for its facts (more so today because of the speed and time factor). He isn’t supposed to empathise and become emotionally moved by the tragedies of life. In fact the word tragedy isn’t supposed to be in his vocabulary at all. A rape must not matter to him. Wounded soldiers shouldn’t matter to him. Grieving families should not affect him. Bombed citizens should just be a story. All this must be recorded in the best ever frame of shots and most hard hitting of words. All this should be first page material and all this should be portrayed effectively enough to be put on prime time 8 pm news. These are just events that happen and he has to record them. Why then does it feel like this isn’t a definition for a human being? Why does it feel like this is a definition for a journalist whose body composition is chemicals alone and is a robotic being from Pluto? I don’t have a problem with him being a hard shell and doing his job objectively without letting his emotions mislead him. I have the highest regard for such men and such an ideology put to practice or even an attempt of it being put into practice. But, I do have a problem with the fact that the intention behind all of this is not to make a difference or to bring out the truth for the world to see but, it is simply just to be part of a profession where you’re striving to be the best in your job simply to climb the ladder and be the on the top. I would say striving for both is an amazing self goal but just for professional gratification? For some reason this doesn’t sit well with me. Not in this field. There are certain things that you do for a different reason. These are the professions that uphold the honour of men. The defence forces, the doctors, the journalists. They do not have a right to de-humanise themselves. The corporate corruption and the two-faced credulity of men in the race to make more money is acceptable in business, engineering, management, in every other profession but not in Journalism. By acceptable I mean it does not feel like an outright blatant crime against humanity. But here it feels like sacrilege. It hurts. It tears apart every belief that you have in the race, in its salvation.

I agree and for my own self preservation vehemently believe that there are still men and women in this profession who pursue it for the right reasons and grapple with the day to day disappointments, hurts and frustrations of following their ideal and meeting road-blocks and half accomplished tasks at every step. I agree that they have to put up with the management and its opposition to the kind of stories they would want to do or the way they would want to treat such stories. But I did not meet many and it hurt too much to have to succumb to the will of management just because I am an insignificant graduate. It hurt too much that I will have to succumb for many years to come. It hurt too much to think that for every one battle that I might win against them in a year I would lose a thousand. It sometimes feels like I chickened out. It sometimes feels like I should have stuck because each one of those rare battles won would have been worth it. But at that time I could not bear to think of the amount of blasphemy’s I’d have to commit just for that one victory. The number of dissatisfactory stories I’d have to live with feeling that I did not do justice to them. I decided to do management in the same field...another stupidly idealistic move. I fell hook, line and sinker for the ‘if you can’t beat the system, join the system’ line. But, the majority works everywhere. I figured the only way you can make a difference is with power. I know this sounds like am a Nietzsche follower but then it is a small nonetheless potent fact of this world. I sometimes wonder if given a chance I’d change my mind and go back to my dream of being a reporter. But I know I have no regrets. I know I couldn’t have continued the farce. I applaud those brave people I know who will strive and I perhaps feel the brush of guilt that I did not stick through it. But I know that I don’t regret it. I wonder what difference I’ll make or whether I’ll make any at all. But I somehow believe that I’ve given myself a fair chance.

Wondering why I made the statement about not being an empathetic person two paras ago? Because I am not. It does not really hurt that bad. Most of the time I think I think of these things simply because I have a brain (most would disagree). Because asking questions is a just another instinct we are born with. Sometimes I think that I do not get that badly affected by what I see then what right did I have to let journalism go?

I’ve been here six months now. I don’t miss home and friends. I mean I do miss them but it’s not like a craving or that I think of them often. I feel that slight guilt then again. I mean how thick skinned am I? I know I’ve been contradicting myself through out. But the fact of the matter is that I really am an aloof removed person. Then how can I say that things hurt me or even talk about morals or ideals?

Lilithian Lady and Musafir....in memory of our many a existential discussions under the trees. I miss talking to you. I wish you would leave me alone in peace.

Prude at her contradicting best.

Touch me not

2007-02-26T07:18:00.000-08:00

“There are new words now that excuse everybody. Give me the good old days of heroes and villains, the people you can bravo or hiss. There was a truth to them that all the slick credulity of today cannot touch.”

Betty Davis, The Lonely Life, 1962

It shines brighter than anything,
Yet thin wisps of cloud cover it
You can see its yellow radiance,
Yet the winds blow in the cold
Surrounded in trusted comraderie are you,
Yet at every moment honesty eludes you
A wholesome vision shows you the world,
Yet at every corner a shadow draws blinds
Walking with eyes wide open,
Yet you pitch into the blackness
Every moment you trust
Every moment you doubt what you see
Suffocated in familiar crowds
The crux hovers in mysterious orbs
A hand reaching out to believe
A slap in the face for every step in trust
The misty fog you try to blot…
Your every breath screams
'touch me not'.

Ripples in the water

2007-02-23T16:47:00.000-08:00

Who do I fool?
Not you...only I.
Why do I try,
tis' I who live in denial.
Today, like every other day
I wake up empty and frightened.
Today, unlike every other day
I stop to listen
the voice, strings of familiarity pull me towards it
not the voice of sloth, nor of lethargy
nor of human exhaustion
just an old voice I once used to trust
don't open the door to the study and begin reading
The voice is mine
why then do I not trust its heed?
Why then do I doubt the wisdom in its deed?
For years I hadn't heard it
for years the study had diminished its sounds
but today, unlike every other day
it bound me in the repetition of its bleed
don't open the door to the study and begin reading,
take down a musical instrument,
take forward a piece of chess in the morrow,
take, build with a brick stone,
let the beauty we love be what we do,
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Pop a 'T'

2007-02-20T12:40:00.000-08:00

Its amazing how this happens only on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Its amazing how this never happens on any other day of the week. I have classes only on these two 'T' days. At about 2 pm for some inexplicable reason I feel immensely and inexorably sleepy. In fact, I literally sleep walk to class. I yawn my way into class and plonk myself on a chair which I strategically place behind the tallest guy in class and settle down in a comfortable position to sleep for the next 3 hours. Eyes half closed I look around at my classmates all in various states of lethargy ranging from sitting and staring ahead with a vacant, blank expression, doodling on the desk, yawning behind a book, yawning openly and loudly looking directly at the professor, leaning forward drowsily almost ready to fall off the chair, sleeping silently with the head on the desk and sleeping while snoring loudly ensconcing the class in a dull, comforting background hum. Everyday I notice just before I fall asleep that the only person bright awake and alert is Zane. She keeps tossing her pretty blonde head this way and that and smiles at our rather shy and abashed professor with an intensity that could hypnotise him into being her puppy right there in class. I don’t think she does it with any ulterior motive but being as pretty and rich as she is (a German media magnate’s one and only daughter), she probably learnt how to do that before she said the words ‘papa’ for the first time. I think or at least I used to think she was ill or had a health problem because routinely she would come to class and have a medicine before our very own ‘Professor Binns’ began with his monotonous rhetoric about leadership and why none of us would ever make good leaders (can’t blame us for feeling sleepy now can you?).

So, as usual today as I settled to plonk myself behind M for the next three hours a very low, sexy husky voice asked me if I was alright. (Hell forget a guy I think I was ready to swoon at her feet to hear the low drawl again!)
Me: I’m fine.
Zane: But you look terribly sleepy.
Me: Yeah I know…just nudge me if he says anything important.
Zane: It doesn’t matter what he says…you have to look alert to be in his good books.
Me: Yes, I know it’s impolite to him. Your right I’ll try to keep my eyes open. Sigh just poke me if he says anything important anyway.
(I hear the crackle of plastic)
Zane: Here pop a ‘T’
Me: A ‘T’?
Zane: ha ha feel more awake
Me: (with a smile) no no I don’t need any pills. Am not sick, just sleepy that’s all.
Zane: (continued charming laughter) exactly you’ll ‘feel more awake’
This time she said the phrase with subtle emphasis and a meaningfull glance at me, whose meaning was obviously lost on me.
Me: ha ha you mean the pills will keep me awake huh? (harmless joke on my part)
Zane: Haven’t you heard of the ‘T’?? Pro Plus tablets? Gosh! Ofcourse they’ll help you stay awake! (stated condescendingly)
Me: Naah think I’ll manage (now am totally awake baby!!)
So, ummm what do the pills contain?
Zane: Tablets not pills. The ‘T’ d’huh. Nothing just 50 mg caffeine.
Me: But you just had coffee.
Zane: Yeah but this is concentrated, more effective.
Me: Hey the work load just sounds crazy…don’t worry you’ll manage it. Why take the tablets?
Zane: Gosh babe! It isn’t drugs! I don’t take it because of the workload. Humph…I don’t even have to perform if I don’t want to.
Me: Why then?
Zane: Well I can’t just afford to look like a sleepy disinterested person!! It adds to the beauty…makes me look fresh and forever bright ha ha (the laugh was getting on my nerves now and so was the voice). And I just hate getting up in the morning. How the hell do you think I manage to get to class, leave alone sit through it?

At this point ‘Professor Binns’ began talking and blend into the background music made by R’s snoring. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a kind of shock. Shock isn’t the correct word. I felt strangely thrown off, flabbergasted and confused and disgusted and amazed by what she’d told me. Its not like I haven’t had friends who got into drugs. And it wasn’t like I had not heard of students taking pills to do well. But those were medical students or students studying law or another such daunting subject which would require constant hard work and dedicated slavery. She was in no way hard pressed for money. She lived life in style and luxury and did not have to worry about how to live it. She did not have to worry about the nitty gritties of grocery shopping, of cooking, of paying bills no such domestic burdens. She was not a creature over worked and starved for rest and time. But, she believed in the concept of a ‘T’ being her motivator, her alarm clock, her beautician and her popularity agent. It was as simple as that for her. It was as if she just needed to spend her money on something. She drinks regularly and she doesn’t use anti depressants or any other drugs because the ‘T’ wouldn’t work otherwise. She does not consider the ‘T’ a drug. It’s as normal and mundanely a part of her life as brushing her teeth and eating papaya in the morning is. She is neither a highly stressed student who needed to stay awake in order to do or die, nor is she a kid who was drunk 24/7 and needed the tablet to stay alive during class. She is just another rich mans daughter who needs a ‘T’ to get through a normal day.

I am still in a kind of shock. No its isn't shock. It is disgust and pity at the way the meaning of life has changed for kids today. They don't need to make an effort to live it, taste the freshness of it. They just need to pop a 'T' and that will keep them fresh all day. This happens every 'T' day. I now stay awake in class no matter how drearily dragging 'Professor Binns' becomes. I feel sorry for Zane every 'T' day.

Tis funny

2007-02-18T03:40:00.000-08:00

I agree tis a tempest
Tis all but self created...
tis funny how we wish upon a star
and wonder what we are
tis the truth we all know
tis the truth we hide from
Tis funny as we know what we are
Tis funny how we never remember
that we knew all along.

Tis funny how we slowly cave,
tilt and become slave
Tis funny how we know right from the start
tis wasn't for us, tis wasn't really our crave
Tis funny how always we then
try to our souls save.
Tis funny how we let it happen
Tis funny how we never remember
that we knew all along.

Tis not the end of the world
tis no big deal either...
tis just another minute chip to your armour
Tis you'll take in stride
Tis unnecessary, the self inflicted hurt
Tis funny to not feel regret yet
And dare youself to recoup
Tis to smile inspite, tis a self bet
Tis funny how we never remember
that we knew all along.

Together forever...

2007-02-14T03:20:00.001-08:00

She woke up groggy. The sun had not come up yet but early morn had spread a faint light. She could see it through the open window. It oddly looked like dusk. Dawn looks like dusk in Delhi. Had it not been for the chirping of the birds and the tingling freshness of dew and daybreak she would have been disoriented. She yawned and stretched out her hand to feel the other side of the bed. Empty…only rumpled sheets…like always. She had stopped expecting to find him there, beside her to say good morning, a long time ago. Yet she spread her hands to check if he was there every morning. It had become a habit. She always woke up early like today around 6 am. Yet he always seemed to get up much earlier. The same thoughts ran through her mind like everyday as she slowly got out of bed, went to the bathroom and got ready for the day.
‘Is it so necessary?’
‘He isn’t young anymore, why the obsession to go everyday?’
‘Why can’t he go at a reasonable hour like 6 am?’
‘Can’t he wait to say good morning to me?’
‘Crazy old stubborn fool!’

She walked into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards for her special light tea. The kettle was boiling; she added milk while her mind of its own accord drifted back to the early days. She would get up in the morning, all fresh and sprightly, efficiently make the right mix of cardamom tea and eagerly wait for him to get back from his game of squash. Then he would walk in, the sunshine of her life. The manly stench of sweat never bothered her in those years. Everything about him was perfect. He would pick up the newspaper, lounge himself on a sofa, take deep sips of his tea and ponder over the issues of the world. She had always been a hygiene freak. She was born that way. To allow him to sit on that couch in those sweaty clothes, without much nagging was a great sacrifice for her. He always used to rumple the paper after reading it and this annoyed her a little. She’d complain about it and he would awkwardly make a small effort to put the pages right, but the paper would still look shabby. She used to find him so endearing.

‘Ah time flies’ she thought, while making tea for herself. She now made his tea only when he had returned, had taken a shower and had asked for his tea. She couldn’t understand why after all these years he couldn’t remember anything. She couldn’t understand why he would insist on sitting on that chair after his morning walk every single morning. She couldn’t understand how he could leave his wet towel lying on the bed after bath everyday. She couldn’t understand why he never told her something was delicious when he liked it. She couldn’t understand how after reminding him a zillion times he would never put water in his plate when he left it in the sink. She couldn’t understand why after explaining to him over and over again he would invite people for dinner without consulting with her. She couldn’t understand why he never told her she looked beautiful. He would only care about his electronic children, his TV, his computer, his radio, his car. He would clean them and howl like a wounded child if even a scratch fell upon them. She couldn’t understand why he never felt that way about other things in the house, why he could never put away a crystal decorative item in its place if it had been displaced. How did these things miss his sight? He couldn’t understand why she was always grumbling and ranting about the same things everyday.

She remembered as a college student how she had dreamed of marrying a suave, sophisticated man like Amitabh Bachchan in Silsila after a whirpool romance. She remembered her father telling her of this man in the Army who he thought would be a good match for her. She remembered meeting him for the first time…she remembered an almost forgotten excitement as she had looked at him covertly through beneath her lashes. She remembered his cheerful smile. It was open and friendly and did not have a bit of sophisticated mystery like her hero from Silsila had. She remembered agreeing to marry him. She remembered him telling her that they would have a good life together. She remembered him taking out a cigarette and smoking the first day after marriage. Even in disgusted shock she had found him endearing. She remembered him being a strong man. She remembered him throwing the cigarette down and even after all these years she did not remember him having touched another one thereafter. He had never said that he had done it for her; he didn’t know how to say these things. But, then she had found him endearing and the missing words she overlooked. There were only missing words now and their life had become a routine. She looked out of window and thought ‘he’ll be here in a bit and then rush to work…sigh.’

She had had romantic dreams of candlelight and flowers. She loved the hint of luxury. But, he never had that kind of class. He never took her for those romantic dinners and hand held walks by the river. He never said mushy words in her ear in soft melody. He never brought her flowers. He was a practical man. But she remembered how he had laughed and always shyly appreciated her every piece of art. She remembered how he used to take her on the bike to a neighbouring town to watch a movie in dingy theatres and then eat samosa channa. She remembered how he would tell his friends that she was the best cook in the world. She remembered how he would once in a rare blue moon buy her some jewellery and brusquely shove it in her hands. She remembered how she had never liked his taste but would smile at his show of affection.

‘I wonder what is taking him so long. Not like it matters he loves his walks, dumbbells and golf course more than me,’ she said to herself as she stretched her aching legs out on the chair before her. She had suffered from arthritis for over ten years. He asked her how her foot was everyday but she felt like it was more like a tape recorded question. He never appreciated what she did…how she ran the house, kept his entire life in order, hosted his friends and worked in spite of her foot. They had been through umpteen number of house shifts, lived in dramatically dangerous conditions having to put up with leaking roofs, seeping walls, fungus, snakes, leeches and things she had never even dreamed of. She had lived alone in separated accommodations for stretches of two to three years and never told him that this was new and difficult for her. The man had never appreciated her sacrifice and adjustments. But she also remembered how he had taught her to drive, had never raised his voice and had always had the immensity of self respect in himself as a human being to accede that she was a better driver than him. She remembered playing badminton with him, the thrill of competition and being treated as an equal. She remembered solving crosswords together and laughing over the easy deceptive hints. She remembered how he had encouraged her to follow her every ambition in life. He had not been mushy but he had been fair and fun and stimulating.

She looked up at the wall and happened to see the old frame of theirs with their wedding snaps and familiar words printed across.. Something inside her shifted and she smiled as she finished her tea. She decided to break the routine. She decided to again make him tea and wait for him to come in...Just as she had mixed the right concoction of cardamom and tea leaves, he walked in. The sunshine of her life…with greying hair but still cheerful and bright and fit and practical. He smiled and took the tea cup from her hands like it was not something that had been done after years and casually picked up the newspaper. ‘I was hoping you would make it for me today,’ he said while he skirted the sofa, pulled out a garden chair and sat down on it. He smiled and said, ‘see I didn’t forget.’ He had smiled the smile that had melted her heart those twenty years ago…that had always made him so endearing.

She looked up at the frame and read those familiar words once again with tears in her eyes.

'A part of you has grown in me…
And so you see…Its you and me…
Together forever…and never apart…
Maybe in distance…but never in heart!'

I breathed

2007-02-12T17:47:00.000-08:00

I took a deep breath
I planned to hold it for as long as I could...
could feel my heartbeat
louder, each beat pronounced.
seconds passed
it felt like eternity
the thudding grew harder
it was as if my entire being consisted of nothing but the heart
it slammed against my chest
the urge to give in
to take a breath was immense
I could feel the blood drain from my limbs
feet, hands all clammy
my body begged for release...
unknown, tears seeped down my cheeks
The massive internal struggle
almost made me forget...
one breath was what would be my only saviour
drumming in my ears, my temples
thud Thud THUD
i dind't even feel my knees begin to buckle, to give way
my body engulfed in weakness
everything was clogged
black and spashes of red were all i could see
I couldn't take it anymore...
everything was begginnig to fade,
grey....black...blank
nothing.

suddenly a flash of blinding light...
my eyes seared under its harsh bite
my mouth on its own accord opened
gasp...choke...splutter...
it rushed in
great amounts of it
water not air...
i drank tons of it,
it tasted like some salty anti-septic...
it was disgusting...
it was manna from heaven!
I took deep gasping breaths
I couldn't get enough of it
I felt free, i felt liberated
I felt like it was my first breath.
And it was...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I am terrified of heights. I have always been a little wary of water as well. This is what those 30 seconds felt like when I jumped off a 3 metre board for the first time. It felt like I was never going to re-surface. He made me do it. He made me walk onto the board and told me to jump. I made it worse for myself. I kept staring at the water and the fear kept building. I don't know how I jumped. Its just that I couldn't have climbed down the ladder, he wouldn't have let me. I hated him at that moment. I think the wind forced me, it pushed me. 30 seconds later I felt the head rush....the exhilaration...the gratitude. I never thanked him. I do now.

I miss swimming.

Wonder years

2007-02-10T11:12:00.001-08:00

'Do you have siblings?', has always been the most popular question to ask a child in social gatherings.
'No. I am the only child.' I'd reply with a polite smile mentally wishing I could record it as it was possibly the umpteenth time I'd been asked that question in one night.
'Oh so you are a single kid?', would respond a middle aged, semi drunk gentleman thinking he'd made the most imaginative comeback!
'No. I am an only child. I've never felt single,' I'd quip with another polite laugh.
'hmmm so you must be very pampared?' he'd continue oblivious to my obvious boredom.
'ha ha no not really,' would come my prompt indignant and embarrassed reply.

I have never been pampered. I have never been given everything I ever asked for at the drop of a pin. I have never been allowed night after night of going out and having fun. I have never been allowed to laze around in bed and get 5 extra hours of sleep. I have never been allowed to order around the helpers we had at home. I have always walked the one or two extra kilometers to school or college. I have never bought things impulsively swayed by whims. I have always had a bath before going to school no matter how cold, no matter how dark. I have always finished whatever was put on my plate whether I liked it or not. I have never been allowed to use sickness as an excuse to miss an exam or even classes. I have never been allowed to go back on my word. I would always have to go meet a friend even when I didn't want to if I had promised I would. Such were the laws that governed my life as a kid. I would always get indignant and embarrassed when asked if I were pampered.

When I was in class 2 my dad very religiously would look at my time-table and pack my bag for me every morning. Routinely, once a week I'd admonish him for forgetting a vital notebook. Today, on some days when I get up late and run for class I occassionally forget a book or my access card in my urgency. I can't simply call up home and ask mom to get it for me, I walk back home just to retrieve what I forgot. All my life most of the larger than life writings and drawings on charts (which means basically the entire chart) were always done by my mom. Today, by some stroke of luck I end up designing all the charts in group presentations. Whenever I used to forget to take my towel with me to bath, one shout and my mom would magically apparate from anywhere with one. Now, my room has to regularly suffer a few uncomfortable puddles. When I'd come back home after a day in college I'd try to convince mom that noodles is a much more wholesome meal than dal chawal and sabzi. Now when I come back home from another unproductive day, I have to motivate myself to make the same dal chawal....and it does taste yummy. The house was always stocked, never had to stop and think about it twice...I wonder how and when my parents found the time to make sure we never ran out of basic commodities which in those days included special moisturiser and night cream as well. Now at the blink of an eye I seem to run out of necessary wares and have to go grocery shopping almost every two days! When I had fever I'd be made to sleep comfortably and given vegetable soup. Now I not only have to make the soup myself I also have to get up and check whos at the door at at the sound of a knock because nobody else is there to do it. When chocolate pastry was bought, I'd always be given the biggest and maximum number of pieces in spite of the fact that my dad loves them equally and probably has a much bigger appetite. he'd walk me to school sometimes and we'd talk about what I wanted to do next in life. I'd frown throughout a rare day of shopping for household goods with mom and she'd still be interested and smiling through my often, painfully long and indecisive sprees for clothes shopping. They'd remember every little detail of what my preferences are and I would by default almost always forget little requests like turn off the lights when you leave the room. Every movie we'd watch would be of my choice. Every night I'd listen to music at the highest volume and sing loudly ignorant of my parents who would patiently try to listen to their soap over my defeaning sounds.

An only child I am, but not single. Loved, adored, indulged have I been since as far as I can remember.

'Lend me old years and I'll sing you songs....I will try not to sing out aloud.'

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Now, I can't wait for someone to ask me whether I was pampered. No wait... someone did ask me a few days ago...

'Absolutely and thoroughly', was my reply.

Is she?

2007-02-07T03:09:00.000-08:00

Twinkle, sprinkle, sparkle
A silvery haze
A dazzling daze
A tickle, a poke, a wink
A tantalising tease
she tugged at your heart strings
and brought you to the brink...
her eyes lit up with mischevious magic
'they love me' she knew with devious logic!

'Sigh, the naughty minx!'
said the hazelnut who was
smiles, laughs, quirks
coloured in hazy hues
not at all a sparkly muse...
hot or cold, mostly warm
she was to most asunder,
could not even tantalise a dunder
was scared of thunder!
enchanted was she by all she saw
with magic she'd only flounder...
loved silvery hazes and dazzling dazes,
but only to live in mazes!

In her head lived the sparkly tease...
while she flocked, one among the geese.
Tis' the truth, she knew content
the urge to ticke lay latent
Oh she is Wendy, what the hell!
Never to be Tinker Bell.

Beyond Newton's laws?

2007-02-05T04:31:00.000-08:00

'Nobody is indispensable'

This reaction from my father I found extremely unnecessary when I was excitedly regaling to him a moment of appreciation from my boss, my first boss. I still remember the statement. I don't exactly remember the context for its utterance but I do remember the words and the tone. No, it was not admonishing in nature and his voice held a hint of pride in it. A hint but, I nonetheless remember it. But there was something more, something subtle in its deliverance. It had gravity to it. The underlying tone of these softly spoken measured words was 'remember this’. In my tiny insignificant moment of triumph, I did not stop and ponder over the words and took them as another set of sermons from a father. In obvious oblivion I missed their import.

Exams are about performance. The joy behind every game played is to have the spirit to win and give the opponent their toughest fight. The exhilaration that comes with fighting fair and square…the justice of both players knowing it and being in it for the same reason; to play, to give it their best for the moment and know that they tried, inevitably to be followed by the sweet sweep of satisfaction. It is healthy this urge to compete. A job is about loving the tasks facing you and knowing you will endeavour to rise to the situation. Failure and success are only the corollaries. Competition is basic to survival. It makes you feel alive. It is supposed to be your most potent aphrodisiac. It makes each day worth living.

Side effects. Every thought, every phenomenon, every action has side effects. This according to me is the most important translation of Newton’s third law of motion. The most major one is human insecurity. Can I? Will I? How will I be able to? Could I do it better? Should I even try (I mean he is so good)? I do not think we were born with these insecurities. A baby moves forward from crawling, to baby steps and baby totters to baby walk and baby talk, all with a smile. We gather and store these insecurities as we grow older and see other babies of our size doing cart wheels (imagine that!) and other such brilliant feats. We underestimate the value and beauty of some of our own little feats and learn to question our abilities at all stages all our lives. In a way self doubt is good. It eggs you on and makes you want to do better and fly higher and give yourself one more chance. But bigger doses of it lead to malfunctioning of sorts.

Fear. Different people relate to the term differently. I do not want to sound drastic, but I perceive it in every mind that walks past me, its stench in every breath I take. Insecurities do not just hit when faced with a new task anymore. They are a constant. Everyone seems to be living with them today. The competition to do well, to succeed, to earn money or to just exist is extreme. Man faces it in each of his waking moments. You cannot be having a low day anymore, a day when you just aren’t feeling as bright as usual. There are thousands waiting to grab your job. Thousands who do not believe in playing fair, thousands whose circumstances have forced them into forgetting the rules of ethos, thousands with probably better ideas than you. What if I cannot think of something different and brilliant tomorrow? What if I am not as efficient tomorrow and my work is slightly shoddy? What if my colleague understands this new software recently installed more easily and effectively than me? One cannot rest. One cannot believe in a secure world because there is none. One cannot hope to rely on past laurels.

The law of constant performance prevails.

There is talent everywhere. People find their calling and excel in various different fields. You need to be good to be on top, to get anywhere. But what happens to those who are not naturally gifted?

‘Nothing comes to me naturally’, has forever been my woe. I can never just touch something, learn it and then be able to do magic with it. There isn’t one thing that people can blindly turn and say ‘oh ask Prude she’ll know’ or ‘oh ask Prude she does it amazingly’. It makes you wonder if you’ll ever measure up and be somebody markedly different.

Then you realise that you cannot waste the precious little time you have on the insignificant disaster that took place at the time of your birth when God forgot to give you the gift of some special ability. You need to understand that nobody can push you forward if you do not wish to move. You need to look beneath the few rocks and try to understand your relative strengths.

‘There is no substitute for hard work’.
I realised that my sincerity and hard work is all that I have to offer. One needs to understand one’s own limitations, while at the same time pushing one’s limits. Talent is something to be proud of and envied yes. But the small acquired abilities attained through hard work are to be cherished and loved fiercely and kept on the mantelpiece of one’s life as symbols of great pride. Self encouragement - it eggs you on more. Am not talking optimism here but careful evaluation of one’s abilities, dealing with what does not come naturally and trying hard to spend each moment in productively learning as much as possible.

I call it fortifying oneself.
It is like carving a statue out of stone i.e. carving your own self slowly and painstakingly. With each little thing learnt, you chip away at the stone and shape it. It is about looking up, stumbling, applying some ointment, learning from those who do not stumble and from those others who do and shaping yourself the best way you can. It isn't about how perfect the statue is in the end. Hell, it may not look remotely like a stutue, but it was made by you. Your efforts went into it. Learn to appreciate them. It is about investment. It is about the satisfaction of toil and acceptance.

I am what I am.
I cannot be you who sings amazingly well, writes splendidly, has brilliant mathematical processes, orates like a God, creates magic with photographs and pictures and engineers beautiful craft. But I can work with what I have, add determination and hard work to my being and try to be good at all those things. It might be harder for me, but that will not deter me from trying.

Daddy says, ‘Nobody is indispensable’ but his tone says, ‘for the time that you have you can make yourself invaluable’.

Night breeze

2007-02-03T10:51:00.000-08:00

In still moments it happens...
out of the window...
leaves just out of reach rustle,
wafts of wind softly swirl around you,
play with your tresses
earthy aromas assail your consciousness
in the stillness you hear a faint song
it beckons.
dreams deep within leap and play with the breeze
the coolness blends with the heat of your skin,
you lean towards the tantalising teasing...
a tingling warmth spreads through your being
every fleeting touch of the warm draft,
every whisper of life,
every scent of the earth
hightens your senses.
The song more familiar now
comes from far away over some hills
it catches a symphony burried deep
unhesitant your soul dances
you smile within you
awaiting the hand
whose caress lighter than the breeze
whose whisper a kiss
whose scent an intoxication
just then the night air whispers a little secret
a secret you believe hypnotised, seduced
you smile within you
your heart tells you
your kiss, your whisper, your intoxication
will be waiting...
the next time you open the window.
in still moments it happens...
you smile within you
in defiant yet inevitable surrender
you embrace the promise of the night.

Internet Interludes

2007-02-02T02:20:00.000-08:00

The courting ritual is as old as the sands of time.
All living beings danced to its tunes.
The apes did it, we followed suit.
It used to be love across the salt desert,
it still is except now it is across another crystalline expanse..
The digital expanse.
They never did listen, but
he said, she said.
They still don't listen because
he typed, she typed.
They said love is blind...
it still is...damn the band width!!
The effects she had on him,
She used to make him colour blind!
She still does…
‘Hi’, he typed.
‘Hi’, she replied…and he began to see purple hues.
I wonder why?
The chase still continues…
It used to be a game of cat and mouse,
Now it’s a ‘mousey’ power struggle…oh how they clicked!
She used to gauge his interest by the number of times he came by,
The barter system vanished, money appeared, she then gauged by what he could buy.
But the intellectuals created this forum where minds could meet and flourish...
His interest she now measures by the frequency of his mails…sigh.
His love was expressed when he ran full speed to meet her, hold her.
His love he now expresses by the fury with which he types, sends her ‘smileys’.
Behind every successful man used to be his woman.
The tradition still continues…
All the furious typing made him 30 seconds faster than anyone else at work!
The pain of separation still plagues the lovers…
Had she not met him, hugged him, kissed him, smelt him for even a day,
She would pine away and build her love sickness to the level of a small pox…
Now, if she doesn’t see the typed words ‘hugs’, ‘love you’, ‘:)’ for a day…
She sacrifices her hours on the net and ignores her inbox!
Like tidal waves, all relationships have highs and lows.
Few last forever, most die with the season, with the pull of the moon.
And now, his mails no longer flood the inbox.
With a sigh she puts the episode aside,
And nurses a broken heart and keyboard, wanders into the chat room and waits for her next ‘surfer’ to come along.
Looks were never important to lovers. They still aren't...
Now the senses don’t matter either. ‘I don’t really need to know what he feels like, what he smells like, what his voice sounds like'.
It is an intellectual world. Yes it is. The minds must connect, tis’ the most important of all. And what a ‘connection’ it was!
Men are from mars and women from Venus it was claimed.
They never could understand each others minds,
They still don’t. She assumed she was net-dating superman’s great grandson…
In reality he was just another ordinary guy working for a bank.
Nope nothing drastic.
Not like he was Jack the Ripper or the Nut-cracker…
But that’s not the point…
The point is that in this world, identities cannot be pin-pointed
The world used to be full of heart breaks and cheats…
It still is…
He lies, she lies…
Maybe they don’t.
But how will they ever know?
Trust used to be the basis of every relationship…
It still is…except now they can never start trusting.
And thus dudes,
Goes the story of the internet interludes.

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Disclaimer: The author is not a complete cynic and does know of some very dear friends who did make it out of the virtual world and are now living happily ever after.

Footprints in the snow

2007-01-24T02:41:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you wake up with a feeling of disappointment and sometimes you sit up with a jolt on the bed wondering how you got magically transported to neverland. I was fast asleep, warm, warm, snug, cozy and...
'Yeh sadish hai boondo ki...dekho naa..'
'Hello'
'Pavitraaaaa....Its snowing! Its snowing in London! Come down fast'.
After a mad scramble to put on decent clothes (I had the good sense to wear some inners), grab my spectacles and keys, I dashed out and into the lift, put on my shoes in exactly 30 seconds (that’s a record for me) and was out in the open. The open which was a spread of white. The open where snowflakes were cascading down. The open which was fresh and crisp and pristine. The open where my friends were going ballistic in pure delight and exaltation.
Hugs. S and T assaulted me. 'Its snowing', they sang and danced. We laughed. Thawck. Pri got me in the back. Tij was jumping around like a four year old. Thwack, ThWack! Pri and I both got him! High-fis followed. After protesting like a baby, Laxy came down anyway only to become the victim. S got him atleast ten times. We couldn't stop laughing. He made up for his embarrassment by saying he was playing the gentleman. I've come to realise that doesn't help men too much these days, though I am not going to rib Laxy about it too much because I was second in line. Twice on the back by Tij, once down the neck, thwack in the face...pri got one (knew he would) and it went on and on till I lost count. Aloof, pRicky maintained that nothing could touch him. I think he believes it as well. Thwack! Tij got him! The excitement was infectious. Shri laughed for the first time like a child since coming to London. The joy and exuberance was endearing. It is one of those rare moments when you look at your friends and suddenly feel warm and protective. Small, big, slashed, wiped, criss-crossed, there were footprints everywhere. Footprints in the snow. Our footprints. ‘Your wish came true’, said pRicky. All I could do was smile and nod. It wasn’t the snow, I had seen snow before. It hadn’t been a wish to see snow this winter. I had reconciled with the fact that the winter wasn’t cold enough and it might not bring on the white flakes. It was serendipity. To sleep with the world looking normal, expecting just that and to wake up to flakes was beautiful. To have an old dream realised was beautiful. Like miracles that suddenly change something inside you. That things, beautiful things, small insignificant things could happen out of the blue. That dreams can come true. It makes you smile. It makes that small corner of your heart peep out and hope. Its like a signed writ that says ‘Go on, keep dreaming’. For a moment it makes you believe.

Dreams’ coming true is what life is all about.

This post was supposed to be funny and descriptive. I ended up philosophising yet again. I wonder if it is a phase or if I am going to be wacko for the rest of my life.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Its freezing this morning. Am fully protected under four thick layers of clothing, including 2 pairs of socks and 2 pairs of gloves. I feel stuffed, constricted, restricted and I know I am going to crib about it for the rest of the day.

I haven’t felt this satisfied in ages.

2007-01-22T03:06:00.000-08:00

The room an expression of joy
carefree laughter, puns cracked all intended
buzz of life and activity
lost in the enjoyment of the moment...
a sudden jolt
a reminder...
a tug to pull you back.
All sound a buzz around you..
The face still smiles but you're not in the room anymore.
Is it deserved...the laughter, the illusionary joy?
Was it meant to be yours or is it on loan?
Is it borrowed? Do you owe?
The crowd no longer familiar
more like an intruder.
Maybe you are the intruder...
The intruder who laughs on borrowed time.

The walk...

2007-01-22T02:37:00.000-08:00

Its supposed to have an end...the road.
It keeps winding...
makes people believe it is leading them to some place.
They follow the twists and turns
blindly, passively, hopefully
the hope to find the end...
reason is attributed to the walk.
In forever search for what they call the truth...
They don't stop, they cannot stop
for its time that is moving not the road.
Its time thats leading them.
They talk of holding time still in their hands...
but still moments change, eternity fades, scenes alter
in flashes faces become familiar...
in flashes they become a blur.
one moment it is all important, the next it is gone
They still follow the road
blindly, purposefully, hopefully
In search of that truth
for time in its pace has shown them many betrayals
Funny word betrayals...makes them forget the word constant.
Constant is what they look for all their lives...
so, they follow the road in search of what they call the truth.
Inside they all know...
Inside they all refuse to acknowledge, believe
that constant will never be,
for its time that guides their walk
And not the road.
They still follow the road
blindly, passionately, faithfully
Such is the courage of man...
Most might disagree...
But tis' my definition of courage.

When 'Wind' comes a 'Knocking'...

2007-01-19T05:37:00.001-08:00

Tug. Pull. Push. Drag. Thud. Groan.
Left...Right...no left. Why am I moving left when I want to go right? Drag.
Stop it.
no NO.
I don't want to go in that direction.
You BRUTE!
Yes I speak to the wind. No rather shout, curse and fight with all my might. If it was a person in my mind it would be a 6’7” tall, hefty guy with a gruff voice who is just knocking you around simply because
1) either he enjoys it,
2) has nothing to do or
3) because he is a bullying brute!

But, sometimes rarely when he is in a highly benevolent mood he gives you a propelling push in the direction you are moving in (this is rare but I mentioned it because I am a fair person). And sometimes when he is in too generous a mood he propels you in your desired direction so hard you wonder what hit you. Thud. This time it was the road. And in a puddle at that. Drenched, dripping wet and bruised. This is the only time when you are thankful about not having bought that sexy Swede coat! That is how I arrived at my ‘oh so posh’ and sophisticated office which is always adorned with damsels in silk stockings and boots. Feeling drab is one thing (you are a poor international student and you pacify yourself by saying you’ll make it up by buying yourself a shop and a spa 10 years down the line), but feeling drab and drenched at the same time while soiling the office ‘matt’ flooring is quite another.

Thus I started my day a little annoyed, feeling a tad bit sorry for myself. I hate feeling like a push-over and the wind does just that to me! Grrr! Maybe I should buy a raincoat (nay no money to waste), maybe I should complain to dad about the brute (but then he’d just tell me to deal with it as usual, “fend for yourself” he’d say in a baritone), maybe I should pray to the wind God…

Tring Tring
“Hello”
“I can’t….there’s a gaping hole…puff….pant…it just droped….I…”
“Yabba?....you ok? What’s happening?”
“ My door….huff….its terrible….he barged in…pant….tell her I’ll come…late….but I’ll..puff….make it”
Now I was scared. My highly imaginative mind had already imagined a very colourful attack on my colleague by a fugitive.
“Relax. Tell me what happened. Who barged? You want me to call the police?” (Blimey whats the number for the cops in this country?? I know the one for the US and India…)
“No cops…I can’t….you are not going to BELIVE this!”
“What?” (Now I was getting a bit impatient).
“Ha ha…sob…sob….gasp….my door! The moment I opened it today it blew off its hinges! It came out in my hands and I almost flew with it! There is a hole in my house!”
‘More like an open doorway’ I thought.

So we talked, more like she ranted and sobbed and raved and I spoke in a monotone for 15 minutes using the words ‘listen to me’ and ‘calm down’ with increasing frequency.

Finally we agreed on a plan of action wherein I’d cover for her when the boss asks and she would Call the carpenters, call the insurance company, call her mom (we fought about that one…she tried to con me into doing it, but after today mornings incident I wasn’t going to be pushed around! No actually I said no because her mom would think something had happened to her….I mean am not that callous!), pay the bills, take some pills to keep calm (she’s not a drug addict, just traumatic!) and then come to work.

The rest of the day was just like any other normal day (though I did remain damp for most of it….not a nice feeling!) Ha ha ha….I laughed at regular intervals in the tube (people were staring at me but I think that was because they were jealous). It was there in the tube, on the way back that I realised I’d truly moved away from home. The wind havoc was actually nothing. I mean I am an army officer’s kid and we have seen much worse. Leaking roofs (as in downpour in the house), flooded rooms (knee deep with earthworms in the rainy season….yuck!), so on and so forth. But then every time these things had happened you never had to worry about how to fix the roof or how to drain the house. You just had to put up with the discomfort/inconvenience, laugh about it and take it as an adventure. But now, suddenly tomorrow if my door comes off its hinges I’ll have to think of the entire How’s and where’s and still continue to smile through it and take it as an adventure. They are the small things in life but my parents did them so well and I never realised it.

Kudus to Yabba.
A salute to Mom and Dad.
‘Whatever’ to the wind.

A hope that I will be able to live up to situations in the same way.

Exposed!!

2007-01-15T05:54:00.000-08:00

eeeeeeeeh

And everyone immediately shuts out sound by pressing their ears as tightly as possible!

I've always been the loudest in every group (by default I end up among all soft spoken people....groan!) :) Not complaining...Its my adopted trademark now. I mean if you can't fight em' you might as well join em'!!
Am majorly digressing here. So, big groups...talking a whole load and making a fool of myself is something I've become an ace at. What I know for a fact undoubtedly is that singing is something I've always done in the private confines of the bathroom and singing is something I've never been good at and that singing is something I've always wistfully wished I could do and that singing is the one thing I would NEVER do in a crowd.
'Sing' they would say and I would cringe!
'Sing' would come the demand I'd think 'I disappear'.
'Sing' I'd hear and I'd run for cover...
All the while wondering how in the world people, even those who particularly aren't good at it do so with an uncaring gusto in a CROWD. Yes crowd here is the operative word.
And so, my newly adopted family at Harrow ordered 'Sing'
and I did.
I do know that I missed notes and I do know my voice shook and I do know that i was terrified.
But I also do know I sang.
Its an insignificant thing. I feel like laughing out loud. But, I never did imagine I'd ever get over this one inhibition.
Its silly, but I feel liberated.

Thanks Devilz. I believe we've already risen.

Enigma mine

2007-01-15T05:07:00.000-08:00

We meet
sometimes often, at times fleetingly
we know each other
I have seen a glmpse of the shadow
maybe more...
maybe i've seen the whole
maybe i've imagined all the meetings
maybe there's nothing more to discover
But then the glimpses...
where do they come from?
They seem to know more about me
They seem to guess whats on my mind
even before I think of the words,
They seem to seethe even before I burn,
They seem to dance before I hear the rhythm,
They seem to know the essence before I catch the smell
They seem to know know my every nuance
They smile when I ask if they really do.
They smile when I ask if I know them...
In a faraway dream I feel as if I do,
when I wake up I wonder when I'll see them next...
Even before I complete the thought,
They brush past me.
They know me, do I know them?
They are all around me
They are inside me
They are me...the shadows.
When will I know me?

Extra-ordinary

2007-01-14T13:54:00.000-08:00

'The heights by great men,
reached and kept,
were not attained by sudden flight.
But, they while their companions slept...
were toiling upwards in the night.'

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

when I have work to do...I spend my precious time in between palpitations worrying about how in the world I'll get it all done.

When I do sit down to work...I feel tired and sleepy.

When I decide to take a break and enjoy...I spoil half my fun by thinking about the work I have to do.

When I do my work and focus...I fell like time is running out and even a propellor with the speed of light will not help me keep pace.

When I have an extra hour to work...I procastinate.

Irresponsible. Irrepressible. Unfocussed. Indifferent. Unabashed.

How extra-ordinary I am.

Then why the hell am I not toiling??

(Dinner with friends in 5...lecture someone??)

Solitary moments

2007-01-12T18:46:00.000-08:00

You watch the lone moments,
from beneath your eyelashes
you want to reach out...
but you wouldn't intrude.

Thoughts run wild
they make the loneliness last longer...
for once you feel wiser,
you wish to explain that tis' all in vain.

the pain you know will assuage in a while
you still wish you could instantly ease it...
but for once you feel wiser,
you let it be...for enlightenment is very personal

You want to reach out...
but you wouldn't intrude.
you silently wish the pain away
and let it walk in solitary moments.

2007-01-09T01:02:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you wake up with an extreme sense of disappointment.

It isn't something you immediately expected and didn't get. You haven't consciously thought about it for all this time...and it isn't very important. But it still brings disapointment.

It's like the shattering of an old dream.

I woke up this morning feeling warm and snug. That's supposed to be comforting right? But it wasn't comforting. It was just too warm for a cold january morning in London.

I woke up disappointed because when I brushed the curtain aside to have a peek at the world....I didn't see a spec of white anywhere. I woke up disappointed because I had dreamt of a vast sea of white stretched out before me yesterday.

Sigh. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. Maybe it was time to accept the facts about global warming. Maybe my dream didn't come true because the ice cream I had mmmm had last night was chocolate and not vanilla.

Unearthly charges!

2007-01-05T06:54:00.000-08:00

I thought its just me…but New Year brings with it a weird charge in the air. You feel like someone you are not. Or maybe a very minor you comes forth and creates havoc by wanting to share place with the major you. (Maybe it’s the lunar equations…I mean it was full moon a few days ago wasn’t it?) Because of the rush of the moment you feel like you have to look ahead and at the same time something in you resists and insists on looking back and then they pull each other and you stumble. And then you are walking unsteady for a few days. And at the same time there’s a third you that lingers around the corner…the one that hides and stands in the shadows and points fingers at you with an amused expression, telling you that you are acting abnormal…the out of body experience. Its like inside you a space suddenly became larger or gets more constrained and the rest of you is trying to adjust to the change while YOU i.e. the real you is actually outside your body wondering what the hell is wrong with you!!

Ha ha maybe I should just stop here and wish the world a Happy New Year.

LIFE

2007-01-05T06:25:00.000-08:00

Today, tomorrow
Yesterday, day before
All the same
All different.
All together, all separate.
A little new, a little old
A little forward, a little backward
It’s never unidirectional…LIFE.

Never have time to waste!!

2007-01-05T06:22:00.000-08:00

Pain.

What is pain?

Does it even exist?

Which is worse physical pain or mental anguish?

Why is pain a source of sympathy and concern?

Why is it considered a part of the dark side of life?

Is pain different for different people in the same and in different situations?

Who defined pain?

What is intense pain?

Is the most extreme form of pain the numbness you reach after a point or is it in the moments of climax when you’re in the throes of agony when every pin prick feels like a bullet puncture?

Is the pain over and gone once the numbness has been reached or is that beginning of a new crescendo? Or is it then just an essence of what was?

Once hurt can one ever be completely free of pain?

Is it normal to feel pain in the deep recesses of your mind once the hurt has healed?

Is it abnormal to feel it?

If it is normal, why do humans always try to cleanse away their pain?

If every lesson in life is meant to be learnt and we must carry with us their essence, why do humans make the futile efforts of trying to get rid of the dull throb?

Is pain a constant?

Is happiness a constant?

If happiness isn’t a constant and pain isn’t a constant and each lesson in happiness leaves its mark then why shouldn’t each lesson in pain leave its mark?

Is the mark necessarily a wound or is it just an honest acknowledgement of the lesson, the moment?

If the chaos theory is true and I believe it is, then in every moment of joy there is sadness, sedateness, thoughtfulness, euphoria, pain, understanding, confusion and every moment of pain there is joy, euphoria, sadness, sedateness, thoughtfulness, understanding, confusion. Then does pain in isolation as a feeling exist?

Does happiness in isolation as a feeling exist?

Then what is the big deal about having either?

What is the big deal about having neither?

Isn’t it all a part of existence? Your existence, my existence, everyone’s existence, anyone’s existence?

The cycle of pain, happiness, joy, sorrow that you or I go through today, won’t everyone else go through it at one point or the other?

What is the big deal about feelings if they are so enmeshed and so much a part of our everyday lives?

When it comes to living, why is acceptance the hardest for any human being in spite of knowing the truth?

Why am I asking all these questions?

A moment in the middle...

2007-01-02T00:52:00.000-08:00

A lot of new years come and pass. The next year blends in very smoothly into our lives and all it signifies for most of us is a good must have party. January 1 is just like any other day, the holidays are over, your routine falls back into place and you live life the same way. But some New Years are different from others. Sometimes you cross a year where you just turned 21, where you just entered a whole new unknown mysterious era of your life. Sometimes you cross a year where a whole lifetime has passed, where so much has happened. Not in terms of just events but in terms of lessons you've learnt and those that have changed you as a person. The coming of 2007 was one such New Year. It was momentous when the clock struck 12. We were standing on London Bridge, the fire works were going off, everything was lighted, the cars were rolling down in slow motion, people were hugging each other and many snaps were being taken and amidst all that a wierd kind of silence and stillness was enveloping me. Time had frozen in no mans land. Thoughts unbidden were coursing my mind, flipping at the speed of lightening, some of the days gone by and some of the days to come and yet it all felt like I am in a place where the force of gravity is considerably small...everything was fast yet wierdly slow, everything was huge yet wierdly minute.

Life had changed drastically. One moment I was living with my parents in Delhi, taking my dogs for a walk, gossiping with friends, complaining that my London applications were taking so long to come through and the next minute I was here on London Bridge wishing a whole bunch of new friends all the happiness in the world. New bonds had been formed, a new routine was being lived in a whole new country, new plans were to be made none of which would touch your previous life directly. It was symbolic, the most hard hitting symbol ever of all things NEW to come. It was scary, exciting, thrilling and petrifying all at the same time.

And along with the realisation of a new dawn was the remembrance and spreading warmth of the all the lessons learnt recently in the past year...understanding the level of faith and belief your parents can have in you to take your word for it and allow you to embark on such a journey, revelling in the strength of love you and your friends have in spite of the distances and the growing differences in life, realising that you can live life alone, make new friends and take adult decisions in the smoothest transition of your life. Realising that there are no ups without downs, there is no happiness without a bit of sadness, that there is no triumph without the bitter taste of loss and failure and that all of this contributes to making you more wholesome.

And then there were major events in 2006. We moved house, our dogs got separated, we graduated from college (that did happen phew!), worked in a 'proper' job for the first time, my first salary got stolen in a blue line (small event but seriously learnt the value of money from this one). I understood for the first time what determination and wanting something is while applying and researching and knowing for the first time with conviction that I 'wanted' something...I wanted to study in England (was the longest event of my life), Last street play in College, winning the first prize in LSR...the excitement in triumphant build up, last lunch with friends, buying my first cell phone, last noodle soup with Neha, digging in a bag of treasures with Neh and Tanu in Nehru Park, Saying bye to Pulkit in South-Ex without words, the joy of planning with mom Joile's expected puppies, not being able to share with her the loss of that precious dream, the silent gratefulness to the greatest parents who have taught me everything I know by letting me go free.

So I barged into the new year,
with a smile and a tear.
its been a jump, a bound, a leap,
and I will my promises keep.
So, heres to living life sincerely
with the aim of
laying down the world at my mom and dads feet,
loving and supporting my friends untill beat,
and a dedicated hope to learning lifes lessons fair
and having the strength to live it the only way I dare.
To be honest, strong, faithful,
to be true to those in my life and to life itself.
To carry forward all that I have learnt
to embrace with open arms the others to come.

Welcome 2007.

Inexplicable

2006-12-30T13:56:00.000-08:00

Its a build up.
You don't know where it came from. You never expected it.
You know it is deviant from normal because you haven't much experienced it before.
It surprises you. It takes over so suddenly, leaving you completely defenceless because you never saw it coming...this feeling of restless agitation.
You know the reason somewhere deep down below, but you can't quite put your finger on it.
Or maybe you don't want to acknowledge it.
You know its nothing tangible.
You know small worries from your daily ministrations would never cause this upheaval.
Its something you've known will come along and sweep you away in its tide.
You've tried to fight it for quite sometime but it does take over finally.
It irritates you more...the fact that you as usual cannot control it.
That it takes over and becomes overt.
That you show obvious signs of it by snapping at those around you, those who it does not involve. Those innocent bystanders who befriend you.
The fact that you reach a breaking point irritates you.
Is that all I am made of?
The question makes it even more harder.
It does not allow you to fully throw yourself in the whirlwind and get it over with.
Its a battle. Its a battle where for once you want the agitated whirlwind to win.
But you cannot allow it to. Your principles interfere.
I wonder what better they have ever done for you...these principles?
Nonetheless, with subdued breaths...you let better judgement win and the storm subsides.
In control agin. You know you will be fine and tomorrow will be another day.
You logically know that it was momentary irrational weakness.
You regret having let those who befriend you take the brunt of it,
but you are thankful.
You know it has passed. You made it.
But somewhere the inexplicable fear persists that the storm might come again.
Bigger and larger than before.
You should have let it overcome you so that it would have been gone.
But you squash that thought.
You regain your spirit and think tomorrow will be another day.

Couldn't stop smiling...

2006-12-29T01:20:00.000-08:00

A bunch of friends,
in a strange new land...
carefree spirits,
no worries at hand...
a skip, a jump and a song,
anticipation for tonight's fun...
It will be held,
It will last long.

Welcomed from the cold...
into four hearts warm.
They came in like a swarm,
immediately to be embraced by hearts of gold.

A little gossip, leg pulling and mud-slinging
smiles, sighs and laughter galore!
A christmas tree, red and green...
yellow light on a table ladden with kind intentions...
breaths held in suspension,
all ensconsed in the warm glow of awe
If I didn't know better, I'd call it romantic...
But I do suspect,
it was the nearest definition of perfect!

So they ate, drank and made merry..
and almost by folly,
forgot all their responsibilities of life's ferry,
The moments they captured in snaps jolly,
the gladness they locked in content hearts
forever...

A bunch of friends ,
in a strange new land...
carefree spirits,
no worries at hand...
a skip, a jump and a song,
a new gift in their pockets...
a beautiful memory,
a hope for new songs to be sung...
a smile on their lips...
and one inside.

The Professional Vicious Circle

2006-12-27T06:24:00.000-08:00

Mr. So-an-so: So what is your daughter doing?
Dad: Masters in Media Management
Mr. So-an-so: Aha so, they have begun to have such courses in India?
Dad: She is studying in London.
Mr. So-an-so: The opportunities children have these days. Such specialisation! In our times management itself was one of the greatest specialisations.
Dad: Yes, now they have management in every field…media, hospitality, medicine…specific to almost every industry.
Mr. So-an-so: Lucky children! Such diverse talents can be tapped into today. So much choice. Such skilled labour the world will enjoy…

Opportunities galore! It’s a whole new world for the youth of today. How tremendously times have changed from the traditional professions of medicine and engineering. Now, even management is becoming a career of the past. Specificities have become the trend of the day. How good can you be at that one minute, narrowed down task? Today, even being a graphics designer is too broad a gambit to be in. New professions are coming up at the rate of birth of children in India. Day before yesterday I met a web grid caricature specialist. No, he can not be called an animations guy because apparently animations can be done outside of grids as well as in the multi-media. Hence, the surmise that perhaps there is a specialist who does animations in grids for multi-media products, one who does animations for multi-media products but does not work on grids, one who does animations only for gaming products and so on and so forth.

What is the one thing you are good at? What is the one thing you can do better than most? What is the one thing you are most interested in? Gone are those days when companies appreciated an all-round person. The style of resumes has changed. The shorter, the better. Bullets. Bullets are the key to everything. ‘Tell me what you got’ is the mantra of the moment. The extras matter, but who are we kidding? Does it really matter whether we did amazingly in debates in school, won medals in basketball, exhibited good leadership qualities? Nope it doesn’t. All that matters is that one skill. Narrow it down. Be specific. Have direction. Many will argue that multi talents are still appreciated. I won’t deny that they are. They are appreciated only if they can be overtly used in the particular profession. (I am not criticising the current trend. I am merely making observations).

And so we march out into various avenues…some into media management (which I have a feeling will be too broad soon…I mean there is TV, internet, multi-media, radio, blah blah), some into investigative journalism (mind you Journalism is way too broad a subject in the 21st century), some will become nose cell surgeons, some will reduce to keyboard servicemen from computer servicemen. Such are the specialisations of today’s time. Thousands of opportunities. Thousands of jobs. Skilled is important.

But in this search for specificity, extreme talent and unparalleled skill are we slowly moving into the arena of unskilled? Are we instead of progressing slowly degenerating? I am working for an absence management firm that makes a record of all absentees in its client companies, sends memos to the managers of these companies that such and such employee has been absent for so many number of days therefore he must be disciplined. This minute division of Human resource management which in itself is a specialisation is today being out-sourced under the pretext of the money the company loses paying absent employees’ sick leave. It does not take into account the excess money being spent on keeping this new company running. It does not require too much skill to do this job other than keen observation, detailed record keeping and iniatiative. Such things have become specifics now. So many such professions are coming up. How skilled are they?

We have been trying to deal with disguised unemployment in the farms in India for years; where 7-8 sons of a farmer till one small little farm and their labour, skill and talent goes waste. Jobs in the commercial industry were looked towards to solve this problem. But without us knowing it the tentacles of disguised unemployment are creeping their way into our skilled corporate worlds.

We have moved in a cycle from the beginning of time from unskilled to skilled to unskilled again. It is yet another vicious circle. History repeats itself. But maybe that is perhaps because the slates are never completely wiped clean.

The Colour of Money?

2006-12-22T04:35:00.000-08:00

The one thing that all my friends and I were really looking forward to gaining from my trip to the UK was a clearer answer to the question of racism.

We had read in over a hundred books, the discrimination against races due to colour of their skin. The victory of the whites over the blacks and browns, through the centuries, in all jurisdictions of life. Be it, occupation, marriage, law, education, societal class and status.

We had read of Martin Luther King’s ‘dream’, Abrahim Lincoln’s war against apartheid, Gandhi’s struggle to unite class and dissipate myths of skin and many such tales of history. In all eagerness, I wanted to witness and discover for myself the cause for racism, to record the evidence of it.

It is the 21st century in London, one of the most cosmopolitan, multi-cultural, multi-lingual cities in the world and I am studying in one of its respected universities, one amongst the immensely eclectic mix of students. We live in the halls. We are of varied colours, we speak varied tongues, we have varied notions of life as it should and should not be lived. I see racism…but a different kind of racism. I see discrimination…but a different kind of discrimination.

The colour of skin seems to be absolutely unnoticed. In the everyday scenes of life we do not encounter any racist issues. We all accept each other as educated human beings and exchange ideas. But yes, when we talk about the world at large and of our image as a race internationally, do the differences arise. We talk about developed nations and under developed nations, we talk about economic stability and political power. We talk about the strength of the United States and the power of the Europeen Union. We talk about how the focus of industrial growth is shifting to Asia. We talk about strengths and weaknesses, of advantages and disadvantages, of upper hands and underdogs but, we do not talk about the colour of the skin.

It makes me wonder. Has the definition of racism changed over the years, or has it always been the same? Is it about the colour of the skin or is it about the colour of money? Is racism better described as division on the basis of skin or on the basis of economic power?

Pathetic me...

2006-12-22T03:51:00.000-08:00

It happens to most,
Not many escape it,
Some suffer it stronger,
some fight it better,
Some adamantly squash it
others, unaffected brush it away without the slightest effort
Some like me struggle within its storm...
wondering in awe at the at indifferent lot.
All the same,
It happens to most,
not many escape it...
the Wrath of indecision.

The legendary tug of war
Torn between the pull
Who’s stronger?
The will or the har’t?
The constant conflict..
To give in…
To twirl in the swirl of fun n frolick?
To resist…
To burn the flame of the midnight oil?
Tis’ only at this time…
Tis’ only at this hour…
Tis’ only now that both refuse to fuse
You see, it’s the seasonal ruse!

Oh let the better man win…
Either har’t or will,
Neither will be sin…
But let’s escape the indecision!
To be merry, without strings…
To be sombre, without strings…

I hate the holiday season…
I don’t love anytime more!
All coins have two sides…
Wish mine had just one!

Alice in Wonderland: Yr 2006!! PART II

2006-12-15T15:54:00.000-08:00

While Alice struggled to catch her breath (which gave Rabbit a reason to smirk even more) and the car zigzagged through the inner lanes of Harrow, both Savvos the driver (who is also a greek guy with the perfect profile…she couldn’t believe she’d just met one of them!) and Martha the co-passenger (middle-aged woman with a reddish orange curly mop on her head wearing a similar coloured gypsy dress…she couldn’t believe she was meeting one of them either….both fell perfectly in the pages of books she’d read) introduced themselves and bombarded Alice with questions all of which she couldn’t answer as she was still trying to catch her breath much to the delight of Rabbit who immediately came to the rescue and answered all the questions for her (not because he was being helpful but because he is superfast and knows everything!).They reached their destination and as is always the men left to park the car and the women walked over to the house. ‘The food is upstairs’ yelled a short disoriented English man with a sweet smile as Martha and Alice walked past him without so much of a handshake. Alice would have liked to stop and say Hi but she just followed the gypsy feeling suddenly abandoned by Rabbit. So, they barged into the kitchen loaded their plates with lasagne, some sort of vegetable stew and chilli curry and started cramming the food into their mouths at breakneck speed. Nay, Alice is way too polite and ladylike to do that (ignore Rabbit’s guffaw here). She did stuff her plate with a whole load of food though (I mean she is a poor international student in the world’s most expensive city isn’t she?). Plate in hand, as she walked into the living room, the first thought that passed through Alice’s mind was ‘Oh my God, it’s the London Opera’. She was assailed by a chorus of greetings ‘hi’, ‘Hi’, ‘hI’, ‘HI’, ‘Hie’……’hi’, ‘hy’ (I cannot do anymore permutations and combinations of this two letter word…I have a few limitations as a writer). The seating arrangement was circular. There were people of all colours (white, yellow, brown and black) and ages. It looked like one of those counselling groups. Alice plonked herself next to a white haired man who was the only person in the room without a plate (he must either have great will power or an extremely strict dietician or wife, she thought to herself). Silence followed and stretched. All that could be heard was occasional sighs and regular munching. After the sudden cacophony of hi’s, this was unnerving. ‘Gosh Rabbit truly believes I need psychopathic counselling’, thought poor Alice. ‘So, where are you from?’ asked James’s wife Frances. And thus began the first conversation of the afternoon. Everyone started halted talks with one another before the symphony began again. ‘hi’, ‘Hey’, ‘Heya Rabbit’, ‘ho’ ‘Hi’, ‘hI’, ‘hie’….Rabbit was back!! Its amazing how popular Rabbit was among this diverse group inspite of being the ‘larger than thou’ person that he is. They all actually loved him!! The welcome was apparent. After that everything was alright. Conversation picked up and knowing that Rabbit hadn’t left her in some sort of ‘madness resolution group’, Alice threw herself into enjoying her surroundings and mixing with fellow colours. Its surprising how similar people from different part of the world really are. For one they would all go anywhere for free food and for another they loved talking about food. So, there was Alice in her elements talking nineteen to a dozen as if she were Penelope Cruz from ‘Woman on top’ about Indian recipes hoping against hope Rabbit wouldn’t hear a word of what she was saying. You see, in spite of all his short comings, he’s a master chef! (groan).

The first few minutes had seemed to drag but, the next two hours flew so quickly! Everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. There was buzz of conversation. Sudden bursts of loud laughter, sounds of breaking crockery and amateur tunes from the piano from time to time stood out in the buzz. But even they seemed to somehow blend. A guy from Jamaica exhibited a typically Indian sense of humour, a sixteen year old high school kid shared the same interest in books as Alice, a girl from china rehearsed some forgotten piano notes with her, Savvos from Greece shared similar theories about epistemology in spite of the cultural difference, an English woman surprisingly seemed to know more about making excellent mutter paneer than her (though this I think is because Rabbit must have let her in on some trade secrets)! It’s surprising how a bunch of people put into a room in a foreign country; all from different lands and cultures can so easily mix and match and blend and bond. There is something about circles. Alice always used to laugh and think to herself ‘what a waste of time these counseling sessions must be. Everyone uncomfortable, forced to talk. How can it resolve problems?’ But you can so easily open up to strangers and let things slip that you otherwise would never have let yourself says. But I think there’s something more that makes the colour of skin and age wither away into nothingness in a foreign place. It is like some sort of comraderie, some sort of brethren. It is like there is an unwritten, subconscious agreement. It says, we all come from different places, we all know different homes, we all speak different languages, we all have different names for vegetables and relatives, but we are all first and foremost men and women who have come under various circumstances to follow our dreams. We all understand dreams. ‘There is something about circles’, thought Alice, ‘they make you feel at home’. POP!

Rabbit: C’mon grab your coat and lets go. Farewells and sincere promises to meet again followed. And once more the symphonies ‘bi’, ‘bye’, ‘buy’ ‘BYE’, ‘Bi’, ‘bI’….’bbye’ (there aren’t many permutations and combinations for three letter words either)!

We were greeted by chilly air and the beginnings of a shower. But for once Alice was too content to crib (which is a good thing because Rabbit needs the least amount of an excuse to start lecturing…not that Alice cribs often! What?? Its true). They hit crossroads. So, was it a left or a right? Alice definitely thought it was a left. Obviously Rabbit was not one to listen to her keen sense of direction (she does have one….no matter what Rabbit says….you’ll have to agree with her because I have the copyright to this story!) So they went right. And they walked uphill against the cold wind.
Alice: Are you sure you know the way?
Rabbit: Ofcourse I do.
Alice: Do you want to ask someone…?
Rabbit: Just follow me. And she did like a lamb (which is very rare for Alice, Rabbit should be eternally grateful).
They walked in silence. They breathed in fresh air; they took in the sights of rows and rows of tiny cottages. They sang. Oh yeah they did.

Rabbit: Yaaron dosti badi hi hassen….
Alice: Yeh naa ho toh…kya phir bolo…
They aren’t the world’s best singers. In fact they aren’t very good singers. Let me put this more plainly, neither of them has any tune sense whatsoever! (Rabbit might disagree but the truth is the truth!) But they still sang. Old songs, bizarre songs. It didn’t matter…they were songs. Like circles, there is also always something about afternoons like these…where the wind blows, the rain falls but you don’t care, you still sing.

Crossroads again. They had come back full circle from where they started. Not all circles have a good feeling about them and this was one of those. And then the banter, the ruse, the arguing, the war on whose sense of directionality is better began. Alice won. They this time took Alice’s chosen path which took them right up to their doorsteps. (Though to be fair to Rabbit it wasn’t because her sense of direction was any good; she had chosen the path based on merely inky pinky ponky. As an author I would definitely say Rabbit won, but Alice is becoming quite a stubborn character!)

Alice, Rabbit: Neela aasman so gaya…
They could see the sun setting behind the chimney tops.
Alice: Chim chimney chim chimney chimchim chimey…look up at the rooftops. Have you seen mary poppins.
Rabbit: Do it!
Alice (confused): Do what?
Rabbit: Click your heels.
Ha ha ha laughter. Pure innocent unadulterated laughter at the simplest thing that always without fail makes you happy. Jumping up high in air. They tried to best each other. Of course here Rabbit won hands down (I mean he is a Rabbit for Gods sakes and he is also six feet tall!)

Thus, they walked, rather hopped, skipped and jumped (don’t forget the singing) back to the University. It was then that Alice realized why she’d enjoyed every moment so thoroughly…She hadn’t for even a second thought about her assignments waiting to be completed, her job, things to be planned, nothing. All she had done was, gone out with a friend and lived every moment to what it was without any badgering thoughts. Her daddy had always told her ‘live every moment to the fullest. Play with your entire spirit when you play and study with complete concentration when you study, but don’t cheat on either activity.’ It’s amazing how many of daddy’s wise words she had neglected and overlooked over the years. It’s amazing how many she was remembering in these few months. Full circles.

She walked into her room and turned on the comp she with a smile,

Page 1. Google mail.

Mom: how was your day?
Alice: Wonderful
Mom: What did you eat for lunch?
Alice: Carrots.

Like I said there is something about circles....wonderful!

Alice in wonderland: Yr 2006!! PART I

2006-12-11T06:37:00.000-08:00

Alice sat on her blue chair with her legs on the table rolling her eyes at the laptop screen. Multi- tasking is such a difficult undertaking. Her mom obviously doesn't agree with her. And why should she? She in her lifetime has answered and kept happy at the same time a man shouting at the top of his lungs about his golf sticks being dirty (her husband), a girl yelling from the bath for a towel, the man friday rhetorically repeating questions on what groceries should be bought and an unreasonable and absolutely spoilt dog barking for...err not food just her attention (adorable lab she is!!). But this isn't a story about supermom and her terrible family. This is a story about the girl with her legs on the table.

Alice moved to England two months ago to do her Masters in Arts from the University of Westminster. As you can see she came from a very loving family. She assumed she will miss them very much. But in actuality she didn't miss them much at all. Nay, it wasn't because she is unattached but because her loving supermom thanks to the digital age still efficiently manages to remain a major part of her life. Yes the magic of google mail!

Laptop screen:

Page 1: Assignmnent 3.
Media is a dynamic industry as it exists in a dual market...

(write write write phew)

Page 2: Google mail.
mom: What are you doing?
When did u get up?
what time did you have breakfast?
What did you have for breakfast?

(N.B- supermom types as fast as she does other things!)

Alice: Toast with mushroom

Page 3: Google UK.
BBC is a non profit organisation. It is the first and only Public broadcasting system in....

(read read read phew)

Page 2: mom: what time did you eat it?
Are you eating healthy?
Do you chew properly?
How fast do you chew?

Alice: Mommy!

Yeah am eating healthy!

POP! Rabbit: Ok wear ur shoes and pick up a coat!

Lunch with old folks. Nothing fishy. They are just white.

And we are late!!

Page 4: Copyright Act 1957

The Indian copyright law is a very general one and has been designed to...

(cram cram cram phew)

Page 2: mom: Why don't you anwer my questions?

Why are you so disinterested?

Alice: Am listening mamma...

(sigh I should have been born a boy)

Rabbit: Come on we are late!!

Alice: I cant have to study!

(why doesn't he jus leave me alone?)

Alice: Should i go for lunch with rabbit??

mom: Who's Rabbit?

Is he a boy?

Alice: Neighbour. White couple called us. I neeed to go now!!

Mom: Be carefull. Don talk to strangers. Be careful with rabbits, ask what it is before u eat anything, take an umbrella with you. Daddy's saying take a gun with you...

Alice: K mom bbye!! Will fill u in later!

Even before Alice signs off...

knock, Knock, KNOCK!!

Rabbit: "We are LATE!! Don't know why girls take so long to get dressed...Grrrr"

Chaos. Alice flies out of pyjamas. Grabs a tee and pair of jeans. Tug. pull. push. Uggh the Tee gets stuck on her head.

Alice: "Abhm combhingh"

Rabbit: "Move it!"

Door flies open. Actually door opens. Rabbit jumps back in surprise. Alice flies out.

Rabbit: "Don't stop running till you hit the tube station!"

They ran. They flew. Atleast Alice felt like they were flying. She hadn't run in ages!! It felt amazing the cold, crisp air. She felt like a school girl again. She could almost imagine her piggy tails in red ribbons flying behind her! She was getting out of breath. Rabbit was too fast. No it wasn't because he is a real rabbit. And it wasn't because he was a boy! It certainly wasn't because Alice was unfit. (Hey this is her story. You have to believe her). It was only because Rabbit was 6 feet tall and had longer legs! She was beggining to feel the constriction in her throat. "Come on! Don't stop. Just another 100 yards. You'll miss the car," yelled Rabbit!! Alice wasn't about to be left behind after this marathon!! A spurt of energy and she was almost keeping pace. (Rabbit will tell you otherwise, but like I said this is Alice's story!). He jumped into the car. The man behind the wheels revved up the engine. Alice made it just in time and flew into the car as it took off!! (Yes I have just recently seen the latest bond film!)

(to be continued)

Stand by me...

2006-12-10T12:39:00.000-08:00

We set goals. We have dreams and ambitions. We have visions of where life is taking us. We adopt ideals of being strong, focussed, rational, logical, optimistic no matter what. We take a subconscious oath to do whatever it takes to stick to our chosen paths. Be it being successful in our chosen careers, a loving spouse, a generous parent, a supportive friend or an idealistic human being.

Little do we cater for life's unpredictable twists. We pledge to be rational and logical but in our wildest imaginations we don't dream of things going drastically wrong. We don't believe sudden bombshells or dramatic tragedies could be part of our life stories. It can't happen to me. It happens somewhere to people. It is reality, I empathise but it isn't my reality. But things do happen. Things that are out of our control. Things that we can do little to stop or change. Things that make out heartbeats stop for a moment...or many moments.

People die. A friend realises they have an incurable disease, Another loses the soulmate and love of a lifetime, someone close to your heart cries in anguish of having been raped by the one man they ever loved, a person you respect for his vision and focus has to give up his dreams and ambitions for a familial duty. Some cry, some rave and rant, some build up walls it would take years to erode and some stoicly take it in silence with a smile on their faces.

No matter what the manner of endurance, all ultimately learn to take what life doles out to them in their stride. They have to. 'Life goes on', it is said. It is the natural corollary to survival. But then the thought persists...'Why?' Why did it have happen? Why do they have to undergo the test? Why should it hurt? I told myself it doesn't matter. Am not bothered. Its ok.

Daddy always said, 'lie to the world if you have to, but never be foolish enough to lie to yourself'. I had forgotton those words. Pricky repeated them to me today. A tear rolled down my cheek as i thought 'it does matter'. The fact that these things do happen was not the cause for my woe. But the fact that I could do nothing to change or help them hurt me. It was the feeling of helplessness that hurt.

Then I realised that everyone learns the lessons of life. They must to survive. I can't stop the people I love from getting hurt but I can definitely give them the courage to stand up straight, give them the hope to see beyond the despair, Give them my unwavering faith, be strong for them when they need the strength the most. I can definitely do that. It looked like a mountanious task a few hours ago but, weighed against how much I love them it was nothing.

'Darling, darling stand...stand by me'.

'I will', my heart whispered.

VALENTINE'S DAY

2006-12-08T19:00:00.000-08:00

(Before I begin I'd like to give you a little context. I've been asked by a very close and annoying friend to write about Valentine's day without using the words Cupid, flowers, hearts, love, February, roses and Valentine's Day itself!!)

This is one day when I see mist and haze everywhere. Not in the air but in the eyes of people. I see through their eyes a world of fantasy and dreams with ‘happily ever after’ written all over them, of romantic conquests long fought and won and of many more romantic adventures yet to come. It is only on this day that I see even the most practical and conservative of them dream unhesitant, almost heroically of lives lived in pure joy with a long desired but not understood craving of being held and cherished by an almost godlike figure who personifies their very concept of the perfect ‘man’ or ‘woman’.

Pure, unrivalled hope fills their hearts, blinding them to the tug of reason and common sense. They for once allow themselves to see and believe the impossible and convince themselves without much effort that...it can be…It will find me…it exists…I will find my soul mate and then nothing else will touch me.

With clouds in their eyes and a certain bounce to their gait they thus go about their daily chores oblivious to those around them, expecting that certain magic to happen at any moment...like now…or just after I finish this write-up…or just when I walk around that bend. They smile those secret smiles, like they know some beautiful secret foretold only to them.

So easily have people over the centuries caught on to the myth of this little Greek God with his special bow and arrows that work wonders and simply spring soul mates out of thin air to take home and adore…of this miracle that is just waiting to happen….of a beautiful boon that is given to them as a gift from god. So easily have people believed in the ‘phenomenon’ of ‘love at first sight’ that they no longer know what it means to take a deeper look.

They expect this romantic vision of a human who will understand them so perfectly that they don’t even have to take the effort of understanding themselves. Their expectations are so wild and unreasonable that they expect this soul mate to know everything about them from the moment their eyes meet from across the room. They believe that this person will find for them that great feeling of euphoria and meaning that life is supposed to have.

Soon their cloud clears and they don’t understand why they weren’t understood and why their once soul mate turned into such a disappointment....But, time heals or rather it makes them forget. They once again wait for that special day made especially for lovers by that tiny Greek god and once again there is mist in their eyes…………..and repeated are the sharp shards of disappointment that prick them. but, then again....time heals. It is then that you hear people around you bitterly call this the karmic circle of life where nothing is in their hands and they call themselves the ‘victims of life’.

Little do they understand that all this happiness and romantic euphoria is in their hands. Only when they decide to claim their lives as their own…. when they realize that all their moments in life are decided by choices that they make…that the kind of soul mate to hold and keep does not come from some gods arrows but from their own understanding of their desires, capabilities and objectives…will the haze begin to lift.

It is only with this self-realization that this HOPE will be rightly mirrored in clear and focused eyes that are ready to take a deeper look and make their own happiness. Only then will the world be ready to truly accept the ‘circle of life’ with true contentent.