Musings

A Hairy Tale

2010-06-27T01:15:00.002+05:30

‘Nooooooooo!’ I heard my neighbour’s kid Arun bawl from the end of the street. ‘Man, that kid has some lung power,’ I mused. ‘I won’t go, I won’t, I won’t!’ I brought the book closer to my face and continued to read. Louder screams ensued, similar to those heard from victims of slow and painful torture. Recognising a lost case, I shut my book and went out into the street.

‘Asha? Is everything okay?’ I yelled, spotting her walking angrily outside her house.
‘My son’s screaming his lungs out! Let his father deal with him for a bit.’
‘But, what happened?’
Uma and Nita had joined us by now. Clearly, Arun’s powerful vocal chords were gaining the recognition they deserved.
‘Is Arun okay, Asha? It isn’t right to beat children up, you know. If he isn’t behaving, you can make him do lines. Children’s rights, you know, are…’ began Uma. It had the potential of an award-winning speech on Children’s Rights, fit for the UN. Thankfully, Asha butted in.
‘No, no,’ she said, waving her hands impatiently. ‘Arun refuses to cut his hair. It’s growing past his ears and he doesn’t let anyone touch his head.’
I hid a giggle. Aloud, I said, ‘Perhaps, he’s afraid the barber will hurt him. Why don’t you ask the barber to promise him he won’t?’
‘I’ve tried it all! I’ve gone to the barber’s every Sunday for the past two weeks but he bawls like crazy! Now the barber shoos me away since he’s afraid Arun might scare away the other customers.’
‘Hahaha,’ laughed Uma.

‘Noooooooo!’ screamed Arun from inside the house.
‘Bolmande*, bolmande!’ yelled Amit.
‘Ammaaaa, he called me “bolmande”,’ whimpered Arun.
‘Bolmande, bolmande!’ yelled Amit, again, doing a war-dance around Arun.
‘Amit!’ said Asha, her tone indicating dire consequences were the dance to continue. Taking the hint, Arun sidled away, after making a final face at Amit.

*bald pate

‘Asha, his hair is so long, you could plait and tie ribbons to them,’ giggled Nita.
‘Shush, ‘I said. ‘Perhaps you can tell him that you’ll give him an ice-cream if he gets a hair-cut?’
‘You know, I wonder, I really wonder ….’ said Uma, trailing away so that mystery hung in the air. For once, I didn’t want to say, ‘what’ and I let her dramatic pause continue.

‘What?’ I asked after a while, unable to bear the suspense.
‘He has always been a little girlish. He doesn’t play a lot with the other boys and now, this…’ she finished.
‘That’s not fair, Uma. He’s too young for you to say that!’ said Asha, nettled.
‘So?’ I asked, not understanding the dejected nod and the ‘tsk’ that went around.
‘So? There could be a problem, don’t you see? Girlish boys could turn, you-know…’said Uma, nodding her head knowingly.

Heatedly, I began, ‘you know, Uma, you should learn to be more open-minded. If indeed, there’s a ‘problem’, as you put it… (blah, blah, homosexuality, Section 377, some more blah)

‘Umm, has anyone asked him why he’s so scared to go?’ interrupted Nita.
Three adults stared at each other, the feeling of foolishness inching forward slowly.
‘I assumed he was being silly… Like when he has to take a bath and refuses to?’ said Asha.

‘Arun, hey, come here,’ I yelled.
Asha picked him up and asked, ‘Why’re you scared of the barber?’
With eyes full of horror, he pointed at his father watering the garden.
‘Did he shout at you? Did he hit you? Tell me, Arun,’ said Asha anxiously.
‘Amit told me that if I went for a haircut, my hair would never grow back,’

‘Just like Dad’s,’ he added, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at his father’s hairless head.

I want to write but I can’t

2009-06-11T10:13:00.001+05:30

I want to write but I can’t.
I want to write about the dazzling sun and the softest rain, but I can’t.
About a pleased smile, the tilt of the head and the wink of an eye.
The whispering of the leaves, of your hand in mine.
Of the softness of the sand, or the warmth in your eyes, I can’t.
Of hues and colours, of dark and light, I can’t.
Of autumn leaves in a gale, the breathlessness of a dance with you; I can’t.
Of love and romance, of all things poetic; I can’t.
About your soothing presence, the storm of music; I can’t.
About the tiniest sliver of hope; that whiff of promise, I can’t.
Of the sweetness of sleep, or of me against your shoulder, I can’t.
Of hopeless hope, of all things imaginary and unknown, I can’t.
Of words and metaphors, you and I, I can’t.

Random

2008-12-26T15:44:00.002+05:30

I love swivel chairs. Especially when you can play dashing cars with them.

I am very very confused with what I want to 'become'. Why can't we have a course that lets us study computer science and English?

Bubble wrap is good. It's even better when 3 people are pulling at it from all ends, trying to see who can burst the most bubbles.

I need to write. More.

Cake is the best thing God gave us. I don't discriminate. Plum, fruit, vanilla, strawberry, I welcome them all with an open mouth.

9 hours is a lot of time. I wonder how people manage to have a social life while they're working.

Knowing the local language is a very powerful thing. Only realised that when I visited a home for differently abled people yesterday. Seeing determination to live under tough conditions is a good reality check.

It's necessary to be a little frivolous. And pick up things just because they're pretty. Or do things to add a little colour to your home or office. Makes all the difference.

I dream too much. Must put in a minimal effort to atleast set the ball rolling.

A decorated Christmas tree is terribly pretty. And yes, it brings cake with it.

Journal

2008-11-13T22:20:00.002+05:30

September 1^st

Hey, it’s me, your friendly neighbourhood journal. I have lived in this shop, unimaginatively called ‘Book land’ for most of my life, until yesterday when I was bought for the measly price of 20 bucks. I am not so cheap, I say! When I was printed and bound at United Press, I was Queen of all the journals. Priced the highest amidst cheap, yellow papered ones, I sported a maroon cover made of the softest velvet. I took pleasure in looking down on the common diaries (it would be an insult to my kind to call them journals) until a nincompoop of a kid thought it would be hilarious to stick a wad of gum on me. Ugh, the icky sensation has never quite left me.

Ouch, that’s a jolt. It looks like my owner enjoys a bumpy ride. Also-

September 2^nd

I don’t think I like JK very much. He is loud, crude and dropped me with a bang yesterday, making me fall face down on gravel. I had reckoned that I was going to be gifted to a teenager who would finish me by agonising over his lady love’s misdemeanours. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. In fact, his latest entry was so thrilling that it sent shivers down my cardboard spine.

September 2^nd (he wrote in curly, loopy letters),

(contd.)I passed her on the road yesterday. As beautiful and vulnerable as a fresh lily, she daintily crossed the street when she saw me. I kept following. She suddenly seemed to feel very cold. Haha! She pulled at her coat like it would magically grow in length and her feet hurried to reach the end of the road. I felt bored to follow her further as always so I just pointed at her and laughed loudly. ‘Maniac,’ she called me. They all did. I liked that. I haven’t decided how to finish her off. Yet. It has to be different than the others. Will think about it tomorrow.

Bye,

I was right! JK is indeed a shady character. The many days I spent in the book shop, crushed underneath the heavy handwriting analysis book hasn’t been in vain. I shiver every time he lifts his coffee cup, sure that he’s going to empty the hot contents over me. Shudder.

September 5^th

JK has decided to give me a miss today. It’s almost midnight and he hasn’t turned towards me yet. He has been like this for a couple of days now and my pages are feeling restless. They had gotten used to the daily exercise of sliding over one another. Also, the curiosity is just threatening to engulf me! Sigh.

September 5^th

It’s over. Her curly hair lies loose at my feet, her lips cold as ice. It’s over.

Murderer! I’m his next victim. Hot coffee. Aaaaah!

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

November 6^th, Daily Times.

First time writer, JK causes a sensation with his first book, ‘The Shoulder of Ice.’ Turn to page 5 for an exclusive interview.

This was an entry for the Live Journal Flash Fiction competition. Nope, I didn't qualify...

Current Affairs

2008-11-13T00:46:00.001+05:30

Congratulations to Obama! History has certainly been made. And what a victory speech that was! Quite awe-inspring, I must say. And yes, hopefully, he will live up to all the expectations that people have pinned to him. The true test of the President starts when the victory speeches are over, you see!

On one hand, while we see people openly accepting a black President, intolerance is growing too. There are some things that surprise you and the recent illegalisation of gay marriages in California has been one of them. Apparently, giving the same rights to homosexual partnerships as married couples is good enough and hence, not allowing them to get married is not a violation of rights. Denying marriage is not a violation, I hear!

The argument that supported it was that children are being robbed of their innocence by being taught about gay marriages. According to a video I watched, “My son came home from school and asked me, ‘Mom, our teacher told me boys can marry each other.’” And the mother was scared for her child’s innocence. But you know what, when children learn about straight marriages they do wonder from time to time how children are born. But do we ban straight marriages saying, ‘Oh, kids might learn of sex too soon'? It doesn’t happen that way. Questions are innocently answered and children innocently accept them. I fail to see the difference between gay and straight marriages in that matter. In fact, if children grew up learning that there’s nothing strange in gay marriage, they are more likely to be tolerant and not perform hate-crimes.

It’s just sad. While Section 377 of the IPC continues to shame India, I always thought the USA was less narrow minded. I am confused.

Two to Tango

2008-10-04T22:48:00.002+05:30

Anju kicked a stone out of her way. She looked from the corner of her eye to see where it had fallen. It had veered off course and now she couldn’t be bothered to try and kick it. She gave a small sigh of irritation and walked on. Her iPod played the soothing ‘Joy of Life’ by Kenny G, but her mind was in a tumultuous state. Possibly, the fact that her right earphone wasn’t working must have added to her general frustration. She tweaked the right earphone, hoping it would miraculously start functioning again.

She should have never gotten into this relationship, she knew.
“Bah,” she told herself as she kicked another stone, this time with renewed energy.
She knew what to do. It would be smooth and clean. She had done it so many times that she was now an old hand at it.
“Ah. Such bliss will follow,” she told herself, almost smacking her lips.

She saw him at a distance and smiled sinisterly. If you were there, you would have held your breath as she approached him -
“Hi, Sudhir. Listen, I’m breaking up with you,” she said. “Best of luck etc. etc. Bye!”
“What? But, we were supposed to get married!”
“Whatever gave you the idea? Get lost, you creep.”
“Wait, you can’t leave without telling me why you’re doing this to me.”
“Hahaha!!!”
“No, seriously.”
“One, you are crazily possessive and it irks me no end,” she said counting it off her fingers. “Two, you are always busy, never return calls, etc. Three, you are mean. Four, you have queer opinions on everything and are narrow minded. Five-”
“Oh, f**k off, bitch.”
“Six!”

“Ah, this is the joy of life,” she laughed to herself as she turned on her iPod again. Her right earphone gave a hopeful squeak and she tweaked it, expectantly. This time it yielded and music flooded both her ears. Humming, she hailed an auto-rikshaw.

“And then he actually asked me why I was breaking up with him! Can you beat that?” Anju told her best friend Ria.
“Oh, ha! I suppose he must have started his usual emotional stuff about being a one-woman man?” said Ria.
“Oh, God, no. I don’t think I’d have been able to stand that. Might have collapsed with laughter. I mean, after the number of girlfriends he’s had! Do you think he subjected each one of them to that sickening bollywood dialogue?”
“Ha ha! I’m sure he has. I’m glad you broke up with him!” said Ria giving Anju a hug.You sure you won’t go through any single’s blues?”
“Are you kidding? That was quite a cleansing ritual! Pity I didn’t call him names. Shit! Why do I have to be so civilized at times?” she mused.
“You are about as civilized as a sabre toothed tiger,” Ria laughed.
“Ha, true. Spread the news to the four quarters and silence the ‘Why the hell is she seeing him?’ question. I’ll see you in a couple of days. Bye!”

Next day dawned bright and clear. Anju yawned loudly, stretched and stared at her colourless ceiling. It must have been white once upon a time, but now it could just be called colourless. Loose plaster dangled from it in a couple of places and she had placed her bed strategically so that none of the plaster would fall on her bed. Anju was 30-something, made a decent salary, and single. The single part of her life didn’t worry her that much but her parents kept wanting her to ‘settle’.
“I am settled. I’ll make good money to feed me for the rest of my life,” she had told her parents in exasperation.
“Oh, these modern children. They will never understand. You know Malati’s son? He says the same too. And I was hoping we could talk to them about Anju and him.”
“Haha! The skinny boy who was scared of ghosts! Mom, do you remember the time he came and I -”
“That was very wrong. Poor child. But you should talk to him. He is a software engineer and -”
“He is from a good family, same caste, kundalis matching too, probably. I know, I know. Let it be, okay? I don’t even remember his name.”
“Now, give me some more of that awesome payasam!” Anju said.
Her mom beamed. It was Anju’s way of making up, she knew. She didn’t mind. She grinned as she ladled some onto a bowl and handed it to Anju.
“Awesome Payasam! That’s the worst pair of rhyming words I have heard in a decade,” shouted her brother Pradeep from a corner.
“What about ‘amber sambaar’ or… or,”
“Stop it Akka, you’ll drive me nuts.”

Anju switched on her iPod and changed the mode to ‘shuffle’. A loud song byMetallica hit her ears hard. “Whatever was I thinking when I put it in my iPod!” she cursed. She peered into the iPod to choose a new song.
“Crash, bang!” She had walked right into someone. She only saw yellow for a moment.
“I’m so sorry,” said the guy in the yellow T-shirt, stepping away.
“No, my mistake. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” she said.
“Hey, I know you. You’re Anju, right?”
“Err, yes… Oh my god, you’re Robber!”
“Good lord, stop calling me that! I stopped stealing your lunch a long time ago! And it was just once, you know. I just couldn’t stand any more rotis.”
“Robber, robber! Gosh, it’s been so long!”
“Yeah. Hey, will you join me for some coffee? CCD’s right next door.”
“Uh, sure.”

A pleasant fifteen minutes later, Anju looked at her watch. She knew she was getting late for work, but she was reluctant to leave. She had genuinely laughed at someone’s jokes after a long time. Something about Robber made her smile. “What was he like in school?” she tried to recall. Her memory failed her.
“You know, you used to draw really well?” he said, cutting through her thoughts.
“What rot! I have never drawn so much as a stick figure!”
“No, no. There was this drawing competition we won together…”
“Oh, yes, in standard three, right?”
“You idiot, you don’t remember me at all, do you? There was never any drawing competition!”
“You mean, you baited me? You ass!”
“Haha!”
“Ha, I really have to go now. See you some other time?”
“Sure!”

She walked out of the door and waved good bye. Still smiling to herself, she walked on.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten to take down his number!”
She turned to yell out his name when she saw Sudhir approaching. He walked upto Robber and hugged him.
“And you told me you’d call immediately when you reached? And here you are, blowing up your money in CCD.”
“No, dude. I was about to come when-“

Anju slowly slunk away.

(To be continued)

Day one

2008-07-21T22:28:00.001+05:30

The first day of a new academic year is so refreshingly predictable. That’s almost an oxymoron, yes! But the familiarity of it all gets to you. Even if you’re strongly not looking forward to college, you can’t help but allow the sheer bliss to sink in.

There’s the meeting of old friends, of course. And you discuss what you did over the summer. Though, thanks to chat, you do know what they have been doing every other second. (My Mom often laments that she has lost touch with all her college friends because they didn’t have the excellent means of communication that we do. I wonder if the people of our generation will have a falling out with their friends, not because they couldn’t keep in touch, but because they did! )

And then there’s the gauging of the new teachers. The whole class, including the usual noise-makers silently watch. One could almost compare this to the hunter and his catch. Every one is desperately waiting for the new teacher to lose his temper the first time. Careful analysis of how he screamed, the subject, the object and every other aspect is keenly analysed. No proxies are tried on the first day, even though it’s the best time since the teacher doesn’t know any of you!). His levels of punishment are the next criteria. If he brandishes the ugly weapons called 75% attendance, internal marks or lab grades, the class will fall back in shock and fear. Else, he will be in line for the nomination for the bakra of the year. Within the first 10 minutes of class, he is branded as good, bad or just plain ugly. If a relationship is judged by the first kiss, you may certainly call the first class so.

And then, it all goes by in a streak of colour. Dinners, walks, gossip, grumbles about teachers, assignments, exams… They all fly past you. And another semester dies down, exhausted with all the excitement.

It’s good to be back. I didn’t think so. But, now I do. Cheers!

Love all

2008-07-13T22:16:00.003+05:30

I shook off the little beads of sweat from my wrist and looked at my opponent. I held the badminton racket, with all the familiarity and comfort of a loved one’s warm hands in mine. I smiled and tilted my head a little, indicating I was going to serve. “Love all.” The game had begun.

Ashok was about three to four years older than me, with the grace of a deer on the badminton court and all the clumsiness of a hippopotamus off it. He would move his wrist just about an inch and the shuttlecock would fly gracefully to the other end of the court. He was equally capable of dropping whatever he was holding or trip over his own feet with the utmost ease otherwise. It was nature’s idea of a joke, I always mused.

“Fourteen, Five”
Damn, he scored again.
She could’ve easily finished me off on that serve. That was my worst serve ever!
“Gotcha!”
Grinning good-naturedly, I pretended to bash him up from the other side of the net. His next serve cut through the air and came dangerously close to my face after which I lashed out, more to defend myself. I had learnt from experience that being hit with one of his shots would sting for some time after.
“Good shot!”
“Arrey, it was only a fluke. I can’t beat you!”
“Bullshit. You just don’t try hard enough.”
“Never mind. This high roof is echoing your voice. If you scream the next time you score, I swear I shall be deaf very soon.”
“Haha. You’re the shrieky monkey, you know.”
“No. I go (shriek). You can shriek at levels so high only dogs can hear it. See? There you go again”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You can’t hear it, dear. Only dogs can.”
“Hmm, then how do you?”
“Oh, me? Err...”
“Gotcha. Hahaha!”
Famous in our badminton court, Ashok possessed a killer serve, an amazing back-hand attack and tricky movements round the court. In short, he was always impossible to defeat, and the rest of us would judge one another by the number of points we scored against him.
“Smash it!”
“Huh?”
Snapping out of my day-dream, I wildly hit out and the shuttlecock zoomed at full speed and got lodged in the net. It remained stuck, looking like an oddly shaped flower with white, pointed petals. Ashok removed it, shaking his head ruefully. “You shouldn’t have let that point go, you know.”
“Oh, well… you won! Why’re you complaining?”
“Because you’re an idiot and can play better if you concentrate a little.”
“Oh, fine. I get blamed for you being a better player than I?”
“Anyway, I have to go now. Bye”
“Huh? Listen…”
But Ashok had already gone away. The high asbestos roof echoed his heavy footsteps. Sighing, I tightened the laces of my canvas shoes and walked over to Smith Sir.
He had been watching us intently. He looked thoughtful and a little worried crease appeared on his face as I neared him. “Sir, I have exams next week. I’ll come for practice after they are over. Bye!” I said and slung the bag with the racket over my shoulder and walked home.

“Hiya Ashok!”
“Hey. Good to see you. Where’ve you been? It’s been ages.”
“It’s only been a week, silly. I had exams. Ready for a game?”
“Yup, let me have a sip of water before, though.”

Spotting Smith Sir, I stretched and did a few half-hearted exercises, knowing I’d have to listen to a tirade about lazy people getting cramps, suffering gruesome consequences and all that. Keeping my racket down, I began some basic wrist exercises, the one that only involved moving my wrists and took least effort.
“Hello, Sir”
“Hi. Readying for a game with Ashok?
“Yes, sir. He just went to drink some water. Should I call him?”
“No, no. I’m surprised he came to play at all.”
“Why? Something wrong?”
“He’s been having this weird ankle pain and doesn’t want to accept it’s affecting his game. In fact, I told him to not come for a few days, but he didn’t agree.”
“That’s weird. I’ll tell him to take rest, the stupid fellow.”
“No, don’t. He’ll only play like one possessed to prove he’s fine and hurt himself all the more.”
“Tsk. Ok, then. I’ll finish the game soon and persuade him to leave with me.”

“Hello, Sir”
“Hi, Ashok. Begin, I shan’t disturb you.”

I remember that game vividly-the speed with which the shuttlecock buzzed past my ears and the ominous sound my racket made every time it came in contact with the shuttlecock. It seemed to tell the opponent, “There’s no way you’re going to hit this back…,” Ashok’s puzzled face as I suddenly seemed to expand and cover every edge of the court, my fellow players’ hoots, my own mad yells of joy… That day marked a new beginning, not in badminton, but in my life, as I made a new discovery about myself. Like a lot of things in life, I didn’t know it then…

I won game after game. I was unstoppable. Ashok was still a challenge, but with concentration and effort, I was able to win often. Coming to think of it, he had not defeated me for quite some time. Dizzy with success, I lay down on my bed and recounted the previous days’ events. Try as I might, I could not recall which singular event had caused my game to improve so drastically. It didn’t matter. One never needs reasons for things going well. I was a winner. I snuggled into my bedclothes and went to sleep.

A new day dawned and I returned to the badminton court, full of zest. Ashok waved to me and I readied myself for a good game. “Love all”
“Wait”
“Smith Sir? Good evening!”
I chatted with him for a few minutes until Ashok got impatient. “Alright, alright, I’m coming”, I said and walked over to my end of the court.
I won the first half of the set with much difficulty. He aced the second half; sweeping out serves that seemed like lightning, making me run in circles around the court when he hardly seemed to move from one place.
“It’s a tie.”
“So it is. Another to call it a game or we leave it at a tie?”
“Oh. Let’s finish it.”
The game began. I was flabbergasted. I lost. Only by two points at first and by more as we continued playing. I had been granted a magical power for a few days and was now stripped of it. I was a common player again, making sure I remembered the number of points I had scored against Ashok. It was deadly disappointing, but over all, a huge mystery.
“So, Ashok rules again, huh?”
“Oh, it’s my day, I suppose.”
I was not one to smile in the face of defeat. I possessed not the sporting spirit or the confidence that Ashok did. “Probably because of years of winning,” I thought savagely. I shook off the ugly thought and smiled at him. With a huge effort, I managed a watery smile. “Maybe it was a bad day for you,” my mind comfortingly suggested an excuse.
“See you tomorrow, then?”
“I guess so. See you.”

I slumped as I walked past the other players, cringing every time someone turned towards me, fearing I would have to lie about being ill if they seemed surprised at my defeat.
“So, you have ankle pain today?” said Smith Sir and winked.
“Huh? No, I am quite fine, thank you.”
“Then why did you lose?”
“Hm, it was his day, I guess,” I said, echoing Ashok.
“You remember what I told you about Ashok being ill a few days back?”
“Oh, ya. I’m so glad Ashok is fine again. It is very obvious from his game.”
“Well?”
“Err, well what?”
“Silly, he never had pain of any sort. I just knew the Ashok fame was intimidating you.”
“You mean…”
“Yes. You won because you were capable of defeating him. Always. And it used to make me really angry that you expected every shot of his to be excellent, every serve to be top notch. He’s good, but not perfect, you know. Even the best can be defeated.”
“Accha, hmm. This is surprising news for me.”
“Ok, you’ve played enough for today. See you tomorrow.”

I played many games after, represented my school in numerous tournaments-won some, lost some. But I never forgot the lesson I learnt that day- never to be intimidated by another person, that a Nadal existed for every Federer. I saw surprising outcomes on the badminton court- a tiny kid outplaying a taller, known-to-be-better player with ease, a slim player mistaking his fat opponent to be slow, and a guy regretting placing a bet on winning a game with all the girls on the court. There was always a surprise element in the game. That little twist at the end of the novel you certainly did not expect. “A lot like life,” I mused
I heard a shout. A new game had begun. “Love all…”

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

I want to write a few more sentences for the sake of nostalgia. The friendly banter pretty much follows conversations between my old badminton partner and me. Though we have lost touch completely and hardly talk anymore, I still have fond memories of the many months of badminton, with rain pattering on the (asbestos?) roof, making us shout to hear each other across the court.

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

After I finished the story, I realised I had drawn inspiration from a similar incident in my life. I was in the 7th standard and was an avid player of badminton. A boy, better at the game than I, challenged me to a game, and won it. Slightly sour about being defeated by someone younger, I murmured something about ankle pain and not having been at my best. The next day, he was told that I was captain of my school’s badminton team.

“Ayyo, you had ankle pain yesterday? That’s why you lost…”

He never won a game against me after that.

Five weeks

2008-07-11T16:59:00.004+05:30

Little did I think this summer internship would bring with it a numbing shower of experiences. I suppose you would expect the earlier sentence to end with ‘both good and bad’. But nope, it’s been all good. I swear. I don’t have a single complaint.

I am sad to go. I have grown attached to this place. To the people I work with. To Binesh Sir(who once pointed at the daily email I had to send him and said, 'Ahem, Jayashree, I think there's a small mistake.' My email began thus-'Hell Sir' and Johnson Sir who made work seem fun (honest). This is the place where one of my worst fears was laid to rest- that I would hate work, that I would reprimand myself for choosing engineering.

Sigh. I shall miss sprawling in random places with a book and read, licking ice-cream cones while looking at the road dreamily and writing stuff… Double sigh.
I shall miss having a play to watch whenever I wish (and not having to wait for Dramanon (which’s once a semester. Hmph) or go to Mangalore on a bumpy road), and the shopping. (Wail!)

I could write pages on the jam-packed weekends which passed by in a flash, where I had so many things to do, but couldn’t manage to fit them all in at times…Chatting on everything under the sun with Shrikant (my God, he can talk almost as much as I. Scary.) Working on the latesht Google Android has been amazing. To dive into a software and program whilst it’s so new that not even a book has been written for it, curse Google for not giving enough documentation, wade through numerous forums for information…It has been a breathtaking experience.(Wail, again!)

My lovely, lovely little niece who I met for the first time. You’re the single, most beautiful thing God ever made on the face of this earth. You have an Aunt to spoil you silly. Always.

Aravind, my cousin. Dude, chill. Life and girls are not so bad. I am old enough to say, ‘It happens at that age. You’ll get over her. Or them. Etc. etc. Life’s good!’

The four girls I shared a house with. What shall I say about you all? I have been the court jester of the house, making the most ridiculous jokes without caring about making a complete fool of myself. Sensible Suvarna, Anu, with all her fire (though, she was a sucker for senti movies. Something highly contrary to her nature.), ‘I believe the world has no bad people’ Kali and ‘I can handle any situation with finesse and am fun’ Shruthi. Sigh. I wish we had more of those power cuts in which we sat around and laughed like idiots, sang kahi deep jale kahi dil. Oooooooo! I wish I could go to Jayanagar 4th block with you all and shop till I dropped. I wish…oh, too many things.

Enough said. It has been a great stay. And just like IIT Saarang08, (a much postponed, yet to be written article) I have no pictures to show. Like Ishaan said, (though he vehemently denies/ want me to believe it’s a drunken remark) some memories needn’t be caught on camera. They’re just there.

On diyas

2008-07-03T09:57:00.003+05:30

Diyas have fascinated me since forever. There is something infinitely Indian about a diya. It speaks of a dark prayer room divinely lit with its warmth, of light emanating from a humble combination of clay and cotton wick, and of diwali where hundreds of them join together to form golden threads of brightness. The glowing droplet of light shivers in excitement as a breeze caresses it, making it move with all the grace of an elegantly draped sari. The wind and the diya playfully dance, and the pointed light laughs as the wind tickles it. Nay, the coldness of a stiff, white candle cannot replace the earthy warmth that a diya is. There is no oil left to throw away, unlike the little stub of hardened candle wax that cannot produce any more light. Every drop of oil is greedily consumed by the wick to keep the light alive, brightening many seconds of gloomy darkness.

The night grows weary, but the diya continues to brighten the threshold. The night blows harder, but the light merely bends, without breaking. Patiently, the night waits for the diya to tire. You can feel the diya’s reluctance in dying out, as it begins to alternatively blink and glow. It aches for a hand to feed it, while the night giggles and coughs up stars. Its time has come, its day is over. But wait; there is no ‘the end’ for a diya. All you have to do is call upon it, and it shall encircle you with the same light and comfort as it always did. And it is this fact that brings light to our life, in knowing that there are some things which can be renewed even after ‘the end’, that even when the cold night has extinguished all signs of light ever having existed, a thin, weak wick and a drop of oil are all that are needed…

Coffee Calling

2008-06-03T00:37:00.003+05:30

First of all; me - a coffee lover. Long long ago, I went in search of that perfect cup of coffee which would envelop my senses with its rich aroma, feel like heaven when my tongue felt it and trickled down with a pleasing sensation… Sigh.

In my many coffee crusades, I had to face a lot of hardships, i.e. taste copious amounts of coffee that made one blanch, ones you gazed fearfully at, good-looking but misleading coffee (Rather similar to people, I see) and others. I have braved them all, and am here to list the types of coffee to be avoided, so that no one else will have the lingering taste of sickening coffee in their mouths ever again.

Milky coffee- Ugh! It feels like you are fooling a kid into drinking milk by flavouring it with coffee. Double ugh. Places in danger of coming in contact with type 1 bad coffee-Homes with kids, our college canteen. (Actually, that is not too much of a danger, as you might mistake it for tea and happily consume it. How can that be? Visit our canteen to know how unity can be created- coffee and tea are brothers after all, and must cast away their differences.)
Coffee with jaggery- Found to exist in the deep recesses of South India. Beware. Looks exactly like non-toxic coffee.
Coffee candy- Yes, it tastes like candy but it’s not. No, it’s not coffee flavoured sugar crystals either. You see, people forget that the main ingredient in a cup of coffee is coffee, not sugar. It’s sad, but one of the harsh realities of life.
(Warning- it is a thousand times worse when you are in a relative’s house and stared in the face by a tankard full of what-must-not-be-named. Sob! I speak from experience.)
Watery coffee- We know milk is expensive. A pox and a curse on inflation! We assure you we would not mind having half a cup of coffee with no water. Promise. Take a survey of your guests if you belong to the doubtful.

Words of advice

Trust your instincts. If the mere sight of that cup makes you think there's something wrong, you are probably right. DON’T even take a sip. Just turn your back to it and run as fast as your legs can take you.
If the coffee looks like mud, 9 out of 10 times, it tastes so too.
ALWAYS make a note of the places where you have been served bad coffee. Very politely, ask for a glass of water the next time. Start a group of harassed people if possible. Have meetings, make posters, and even stop the local shops from selling coffee to the people on your list.
If unsure about the category the coffee at hand belongs to, and are too cowardly to take a risk, put on your best, ‘I’m a kid. I drink Bournvita and eat Chyavanaprash’ look and ask for milk. Never mind the stares. You know it’s for the greater good. If you are too old for the earlier tactic, say, ‘It’s bad for my heart. Only milk.’ Or if you are a woman and really desperate to avoid it, ‘Oh, I’m pregnant. No coffee, please.’

Final note- All that is golden-brown is not coffee. Remember, looks can be deceptive. May God watch over your daily cups of heavenly caffeine. Amen.

The last word

2008-05-28T12:07:00.001+05:30

A weird calm while things’re wrong
A strange trust without friends among
Wove her craft, shouting aloud-
Silence, came through the crowd.

The brain’s complex, we all move on
We teach it to forget, it responds.
Yet, we hold back, know not why
Friendship, love or too hard to try

Life’s good, hunky-dory
Feeling fine, hey, a-hoy!
Tiny pieces want to wait
The rest forget it all as fate

The break I need and the peace
Also the time, yes, please
I sit back, take a breath
Somewhere I fear, our death.

Time goes by and all might change
One thing’s constant, yes, change!
Happiness, joy all abound,
But deep down, I crave a sound.

Afterthought- I really should not attempt poetry! Anyway, shall come up with a proper blog post soon. It has been years, I know.

Humour

2008-02-07T20:36:00.000+05:30

The flower that looks like it will smile forever.
--The joke nature plays on us.
‘You live in a free world.’
--The joke society plays on us.
‘Oh, if I have a little more, I shall be perfectly happy.’
--The joke money plays on us.
(Yawn) Tomorrow will be a new day, I’m sure.
--The joke sleep plays on us.
There. That’s water. Aah, thankfully.
--The joke our eyes play on us.
Ooh, I can feel the sea. I’m moving as the waves retreat.
--The joke our skin plays on us.
Come, now. I’m sure things will brighten up.
--The joke hope plays on us.
‘Don’t worry, honey. You look like you always do; beautiful.’
--The joke age plays on us.
‘I can do anything if I make up my mind.’
--The joke youth plays on us.
‘If I shut my ears there’s silence.’
--The joke our ears play on us.
Life
--The joke God plays on us.

Chakravyuha

2007-12-31T15:32:00.000+05:30

Images that flashed through my mind when I heard that Bilawal, Benazir Bhutto’s 19-year old son would be replacing her as the PPP head-
First- Of a puppy thrown out into the streets during a stampede.
Second-Abhimanyu in the midst of the Chakravyuha during the mythological Mahabhartha war. He was surrounded by veterans in the art of war, each out to seek his blood. He didn’t choose to get into the Chakravyuha (roughly translated, the unbreakable circle) either. He had to, simply because the only others who could break into the circle were away. He was very young too. Sixteen, if I remember right…

The news made me go clammy. Here’s a boy as old as me with the weight of a nation possibly resting on his shoulders. Here’s a boy as old as me with lots of people filled with hatred for him and plotting his death. Here’s a boy as old as me who just lost his mother and has no time to mourn it…

This isn’t fair! It’s almost cruel. He should’ve been an ordinary kid who worried about his college grades. The greatest thing that scared him should have been his mom getting to know that he drank on Saturday nights. He should’ve woken up each morning, hugging his pillow, dreaming about some pretty girl he knew.

When Benazir Bhutto said, ‘I didn’t choose this life, it chose me’, I didn’t quite understand. ‘Nobody forced her’, I shrugged. Watching Bilawal, I now know what she meant…

Oh, well.

2007-11-18T23:34:00.000+05:30

I can't believe I've been tagged again. No, make that by you, again.

Random humour
‘The surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere is that they haven’t tried to contact us.’
Ironically funny. Calvin and Hobbes, I shall never tire of the two of you.

Random book
Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier. A must-read.

Random boredom
I’m never too bored in college. It’s the hols that get to me. And that boredom is just incurable. I lie around, crib and complain and wait for the hols to get over.

Random worries
Sigh. I’m too afraid. Too afraid of what I may say and what may happen as a result. Too afraid not to say it. Same reason.
I don’t study enough. HELP!
That I may never know what it is that I really want. Or worse, think of the wrong thing to be what I really want. (Is it worse? Pretty much the same, I guess.)

Random memories
A classroom. Sad. Really not the first thing that should come to my mind. Sigh. It matters little now, yes. No, that’s not bravado.
Rain. Frusto. One umbrella. And pretending to study while watching the rain.
Neets and I gobbling down pulao in our school canteen. I still remember the menu and the specials. (Yes, I will call you up sometime. I’m a self-absorbed jerk, I know.)
Colouring carrots (don’t ask me why!) with an orange crayon in LKG. And getting appreciative glances from a classmate for doing it so well.
Playing cricket with Karthik.
Asking Karthik to teach me painting in class 2. (A brilliant artist and my childhood friend. Don’t know what the adult Karthik is like at all. Strangely, I like it that way.) His instructions- Dip the brush in water. Next, wipe it on your trousers.
Turning round and round till I became giddy and then helplessly sitting down and laughing away. (Gosh, I had a fun childhood.)

Random realizations
I am cowed down and intimidated easily and will soon believe that someone else is better than I am. Must keep reminding myself that I’m not all that bad. And that I needn’t play second fiddle to anybody. Not easy; no. I can justify myself for suffering from the second fiddle syndrome, but, what the heck.
I’m cheerful. Have managed to remain optimistic despite everything. Can’t believe that I’m still a die-hard romantic at heart. Maybe you’re just born that way and it isn’t life that changes you or anything…
I shall die when college gets over. God, help me, please. I shall miss all of them, including the ones who drive me round the bend now.

I tag Trivik, Rishabh (who pointed out last time that I hadn't tagged him!) and Sudhir (who's been kind enough to comment on most of my posts despite me ignoring his blog for quite a while-Hey, I do read it. On Google Reader. Do keep commenting. I shall respond in kind, I promise!)

2007-11-15T22:20:00.000+05:30

That’s it!
Okay, I’m officially a girl. My tomboy tag is almost as good as gone. (Oh, my school friends would know exactly what I was talking about.) Anyway, here are the reasons.

1) I don’t find pink disgusting anymore. I added a pink tee or two to my wardrobe. (Still can’t stand something that’s too pinky-pink, though. But a lil’ pink does seem appealing.)
2) I look at myself in the mirror before I leave home.
3) I carry a comb!! (Neets, you should read this.) (Note: She was my best friend in school, had lovely long hair and was quite desperate to do something about mine.)
4) I’m seriously considering decorating my room.
5) I rate a piece of jewellery as my best birthday present.
6) I spare a moment to think if my shirt and pants complement each other. (Yes, I’ve worn black shirts with dark blue jeans. Yes, they look awful. No, I didn’t care.)
7) I carry lip-guard with me and hate my lips looking chapped and scaly. (Or anyone else’s. Looks very painful, somehow. And oh, imagine having to kiss chapped lips. Ugh.)
8) I bought a purse! Larks. (Ok, I’ve never used it. I still think the wallet is a better invention.)

Yet, somewhere beneath all this the tomboy still lives. And I love her. Yes, she still thinks she’d have made a better guy than a girl. She tries to be a girl, not quite succeeding always. (I have, to some extent, I think. My junior from school walked past me on several occasions till I addressed him. His first words were, ‘Jayashree!! It’s you! (Pause) It’s Jayashree, right?’) Yes, she can be a not-so-bad girl, she discovered. Wondered why she bothered at all, though. Maybe because hormones and nature played their cruel tricks reminding her that George was Georgina after all.

To you, my love

2007-10-31T21:58:00.000+05:30

I walked away from you, forgive me. Never gave you a reason, nor did you demand one. You just accepted it, silently.

I cringe as I remember how heartless I was. You must understand, however difficult it is.
Weird as it sounds, I needed to. You reminded too much of things bygone, things that I desperately needed to forget. Being with you reminded me of those I wanted to forget which became increasingly difficult as the days went by as we had shared a deep bond. I could not bear you; my love; giving me pain. That too, unintentionally.

Everyone tells me I was mindless to leave you. No, I don’t think so. In all the years that I have known you, I never realized how much you meant to me. The time away was what I really needed. Time to appreciate you, time to realize how important you were to me after all. So that when you came back, I loved you three times over and never took you for granted ever again.

I come back to you. Never to be parted ever again. You are mine again. No longer do you remind me of anything or anyone other than myself. Take me into your arms. Only you have the power of giving me complete happiness. You are the one who makes me feel complete.

Shall never neglect you ever again. Never ever. Promise. My love; my Music.
Shall drown in melody, never to surface ever again.

Tag, again!

2007-10-19T20:36:00.000+05:30

List five things that you want to say to people but never will. Don't say who they are.

1. I’m FINE. Go away, for God’s sake.
2. Could you confuse me a little less?
3. I can be you if I want to. I choose not to.
4. I love you, I adore you. I can never say it, no. Maybe, I can. NO, go away.
5. Thanks. Just that, thanks.

Five things I’d love to do before I die
1. Write a book. A good one, mind you.
2. Travel like crazy and visit every goddammed beautiful place on Earth.
3. Have a second profession.
4. Learn atleast three more languages.
5. Do something with my voice.

Five things I will not do even if it kills me
1. Smoke.
2. Pierce my ears. (I don’t want to!)
3. Cheat on somebody.
4. Eat jackfruit, tomatoes and everything else that’s ‘healthy and nice’.
5. Change for anybody other than me.

Five things I do when I'm away from the public.
1. Practice different facial expressions and match them with what I’m thinking. (No, I’m not crazy!)
2. Dance.
3. Croon an imaginary mike as I sing and pretend that I can hear people cheer.
4. Look out of my window and sigh like an emotional fool at ‘the little beautiful things’.
5. Prance about the house like I’ve lost it all.

Five fave sentences/quotes.
1. If you can’t convince them, confuse them.
2. Ability is nothing without opportunity.
3. Words are so futile, so feeble.
4. If you spend all of your time arguing with people who are nuts, you'll be exhausted and the nuts will still be nuts.
5. I'm learning real skills that I can apply throughout the rest of my life ... Procrastinating and rationalizing.

Five things I'll make you wish you didn't do if you did.
1. Say bitchy things to me. (Wow, NEVER do that. I’m not bitchy on my own but if you are, you’ll get it. People who know me, no laughing.)
2. Not recognizing me irrespective of my talents and blah.
There are no seven things, actually. That’s pretty much it.
Five people to tag

Kyra. ( There!)
Dhruv.
Nishant.
Trivik
You.
And YOU!

(Ok, I couldn’t think of five names.)

Hmmm

2007-10-06T17:56:00.000+05:30

LIKES

Truth
Hidden Causes
Being involved
Work That is Meaningful
Being Persuasive

DISLIKES

Being Given Only Surface data
Taken Advantage of
Demeaning Jobs
Shallow Relationships
Flattery and Flattering

The sun sign Scorpio is one of the most powerful astrological signs in the zodiac. Dynamic and forceful, they make excelent leaders. On the list of famous Scorpio people you will find several leaders. This is what they do best, lead. They are very determined and forceful, and do not accept failure as an option. It is not a good idea to get on Scorpio's bad side!

Only one thing hurts scorpio, and that is their tendency to be emotional. However, being extremely intuitive, it helps them deal with this, and even gives them a physic edge in some situation. They live hard and love hard, and give their hearts fully and unconditionally. Woe be the one to break Scorpio's heart! There will be a price, the sting of this scorpion can be deadly!

Powerful, passionate, exciting and magnetic, these people also make some of the best sales and marketing gurus when they decide to enter this field. They also do well as stock brokers and finacial advisers because they are not afraid to question anything, and look outside the box and think creatively.

Scorpio does have a problem with jealousy sometimes, and they really do have to work on it. Most of them will require proof before actually accusing, but some will go with their instinct.

Are sun signs and astrology crap?

Well, who cares? It's time pass. (And a good way to make a post.)
(Can any site have something nice to say abut scorpios?? We're not all that bad, y'know.)

(Info:http://www.astrology-insight.com/scorpio.htm)

2007-09-30T22:44:00.000+05:30

Well, I started off this blog to put stuff that everyone would like to read. General articles, stories, funny stuff and the like.

Of late, I find my blog posts turning way too random. They’re just things that I feel like saying out loud, stuff that a third person would care little about but things I just have to say.

Solution?

An alternate blog. I’ll move all the random stuff to that one and keep this blog totally general; something that a total outsider will, hopefully, enjoy reading.

Here’s the link. As always, comments are welcome!

Take two

I wish

2007-09-16T19:37:00.000+05:30

I wish

I could learn to be sensible.
Study. And show that no, I’m not dumb.
Love myself.
Use my common sense.
Not quarrel with you, not when I have no reason to.
Remember that I’m only hurting myself each time I yell at you.
Do something worthwhile with the not-so-bad voice and story-writing skills that I have.
Learn NOT to be jealous. It’s stupid, dumb. It only means you don’t trust.
Have a better opinion of myself. Deep down I know I’m better than what I think.
Not become a martyr and feel sorry for myself. Not when I have everything in the world.
Remember that I don’t own you.
I repeat, not quarrel with you thereby disturbing both of us; not when you mean the world to me.
Not write pointless blog posts a day before exams. (You’ll never learn, will you?)

(YOU shall not comment. Atleast, not here. I only give you permission to grin at the ‘jayashree ness’ of the post and go away.)

No, I want you to comment. How else will I know you read it?

Thanks for everything. For our friendship, for bearing with me at times when I was most idiotic-even ugly, for your affection, for making me laugh and forget and everything else that makes life good for me. (I know I don’t have to say it but I will, anyway.)

Second Fiddle

2007-08-15T19:47:00.000+05:30

Hey, diddle diddle,
You second fiddle.

Second best, second known,
Second called,
Second fiddle.

Second thought, second felt,
Second loved,
Second fiddle.

First forgotten, first gone,
First cried,
Second fiddle.

Last left, left last,
Fiddled around,
Second fiddle.

Fiddle comes, fiddle goes,
Twiddles thus,
Second fiddle.

Hey, diddle diddle,
You second fiddle.

Fixed Rates-No bargaining

2007-08-08T21:03:00.000+05:30

He held his head in his hands.
Battling against yourself is so difficult…

No, you can’t be so stupid. You have absolutely no earthly reason to get depressed.
I know, but I can’t help it.
What the hell do you mean by that??
Get lost, now, will you? I need peace.
STOP being a martyr. You’re fine. You’re being silly, and you know it.
Go away! For Christ’s sake.

Jack got up and walked across the room, lit only by a table-lamp in a corner. The lamp cast a dim light around it, as though reluctant to illuminate the room any further.

See, you’re even setting the ambience to get all the more depressed.
Oh, go away.
Go and suffer. You know what I have to say, anyway.
Oh, I hate you.
Yourself, you mean.
WILL YOU GO AWAY?

Everything was perfect. His entire life was planned. Everything set out neatly, like a pile of books stacked in a shelf. In perfect order- the bigger ones at the bottom and the smaller ones at the top. A book that disrupted the order was put away; an outcaste. All in all, it seemed like a perfect arrangement.

He walked up and down the room to clear his mind. He probed his mind in search of the reason for his crankiness. He found none. Just a state of emptiness. Like he hadn’t eaten for days. Brain battled the heart as it told him to be logical. Logic… everything doesn’t go by the rules of logic. Everything isn’t clearly defined. Sometimes the hazy outlines of things blend to form shapes you never knew existed…

With nothing else to do, he locked the door and stepped out into the street. A new shopping mall caught his eye.

Eww, shopping. I’ll only do that to myself if I’m in dire need of something.

Wandering around, he could find no interesting place to visit. The place held no newness for him. Newness never exists, you only create it. You choose to be interested. In things, in life. He knew it. Yet, his usual cheerful ideas didn’t help him today. They even mocked him, you could say. ‘Fine, let me go to the mall, anyway’, he decided.

The cold air from the AC hit his face as he walked in. Usually a keen observer of everything around him, he just walked in, shrugging off the sensation. Brightly coloured stuff stared at him through the shops. As if magnetically pulled by it, he walked in. He saw himself fingering the T-shirts hung tantalizingly. He found himself buying one. A strange sense of happiness grew in him. No, it wasn’t happiness. A temporary sense of achievement, it could be called. It waned as suddenly as it had risen but he felt slightly better. Jack widened his mouth in a smile and went out.

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

Robert, his colleague and someone who’d known him for years walked upto Jack.
‘Wow, new clothes? And a new watch to go with it, I see? Found a girlfriend to take you shopping?’ he winked.
‘Nope. There’s this really cool mall near my house...’

Robert watched Jack describe his shopping spree in painful detail. ‘Something’s funny. I had to drag him to buy clothes so that he’d stop looking like a ruffian.’
Not voicing his doubts, he left, slightly uneasy but unable to detect anything abnormal.

As the days went buy, the shops in town got to know Jack better and better. They greeted him and made him comfortable; he was one of their best customers. Jack flitted from shop to shop, each buy giving him a high like a tequila shot. He couldn’t allow the high to go away so he shopped again, the time gaps between his shopping lessening.

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

Robert watched Jack walk into office, whistling away. 'That’s a new watch again. And new shoes as well, If I’m not wrong’, he guessed. A mental image of someone filling an empty box with things came to his mind. The person was filling it with determination writ on his face but the box was as empty as ever. ‘Yes, he’s filling his life with stuff. What is up with him? I hope he’s not into drugs or something…’ he shuddered, remembering his neighbour who’d succumbed to drugs and died a year ago. It had been just the matter of a girl. Nothing that common sense and a little counseling wouldn’t have eased out. ‘But he made the wrong choices’, Robert remembered. Making up his mind to talk to Jack, he walked into his cubicle.

‘Hey, Robert, what’s up?’
‘Um, I wanted to talk to you’, he said without any further beating around the bush.
‘About?’

For a whole hour Robert listened as Jack talked like he never had before. Robert watched, half-tensed, half-curious. Jack said every single thing, including his own wonder as to what was bothering him after all.

‘I’m glad you let it out. I hope you feel ok now’, Robert told him.

Robert walked out, convinced that Jack was finally alright and that the shopping sprees would cease. Jack had been spending most of his salary, he’d noticed. ‘Thankfully, that’s all over now.’ He exhaled.

Back in his cubicle, Jack switched on his computer. “Buy and sell at great prices! Visit www.buywhatyouwant.com”

Click.

2007-08-06T17:55:00.000+05:30

Err, no... I'm a lil too fond of my blog. I'll be back. Busy at the moment but a post will be up soon.

Nice to meet again!

2007-08-03T20:10:00.000+05:30

Off blogging. Hopefully, I will return.

For first time readers, welcome! The archives have plenty of stuff which, hopefully, you will like.
For the others, see ya!

2007-07-28T22:10:00.000+05:30

Stupid mind, no? Never lets you forget stuff. You’re torn between remembering something because it was so beautiful and wanting to forget it as it’s pointless. Gah. (Remember Mr. Goon, anyone?)

Sigh. I wish today would stop feeling like yesterday.

Scat, vamoose, Yesterday, I know you don’t exist. Go away.

P.S. - I shall post something which makes sense sometime. Soon. Maybe another lame attempt at humour. Bear with me meanwhile!

2007-07-24T00:26:00.000+05:30

Things go up. Things come down. Sun shining. Clouds moving. Sky bright.
You look up. He looks down. It looks there.
You wonder. He muses. She broods. It thinks.
Tears. Worry. Sorrow. Laughter. Life. Melting-pot.
You. Me. He. She. We. They.
Death. God. End. Birth. End?
Giggles. Whispers. Kisses. Pleasure. Pain. Circle. Joy. Roses.Thorns.
Point? Pointless? Point.

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

He looked up at the sky. The feeling of helplessness grew. It consumed him. He heart felt heavy, like it was weighing him down. ‘It's moved closer to my stomach’, he thought, ironically amused.
Helplessness. He wrote it in the air with his finger taking care to make the‘s’s nice and loopy. He drew it again. In a circle surrounding him as he whirled around. He laughed. Again. And again.

A world without Harry Potter

2007-07-21T00:00:00.001+05:30

Said granny to the child,

‘What a world you do live in!

No fun, suspense, excitement within

Oh, alas! Potter has gone.

Long ago, afore you were born

A lad who was called Harry,

The hearts of kids did he carry

Turned this world into magic,

Oh, mind you, it was no gimmick,

Ooh, we waited on tenterhooks,

What will happen in the next book?

Aah, we too have the books you say?

But let me tell you if I may,

You do know Sirius dies in the fifth,

And Albus in the sixth?

Alas, the world you do live in

With no fun, excitement within,

Oh, Harry Potter has gone…

Happiness

2007-07-17T14:43:00.000+05:30

Happiness… the one word which is man’s eternal quest. Happiness…in a glistening rain-drop, in the wind through my hair, in my mom’s loving, indulgent smile, in a haunting tune, in a bird’s wings…Yes, very common sounding; like something out of a bollywood movie with a silly happy ending.

I rarely preach. Or get senti and philosophical. But when I do, I just have to keep talking. Yup, this is indeed one of those moments.

Haven’t lived much; don’t know the miseries of life yet. Not old enough for my talks to be considered wise either. Yet,

‘Life’s beautiful, go live it’, I say, however clichéd it sounds.
‘You’re a baby’, they mock.

Happiness, solace, peace… they don’t come to you. There’s nothing on earth or anywhere else that can make you happy. No miracle will happen to change your life for the better. Period.

It’s so simple. You should just want to be happy. To believe in life. To love yourself. To love life.

No! I’m not talking about counting your blessings. I’m not even saying that you look at all the miseries in the world and be happy that you do not have those. It’s not about being selfish and shutting out everything either.

Confused? Nope, it isn’t confusing. It’s so bloody simple that you just don’t believe it.

Indeed, there’s a lot of sorrow in this world. Lots of reasons to be sad. (No sarcasm.) Ugly faces of human nature. Wicked people. Insensitive people. Broken friendships. Broken hearts. Poverty. Pain. Diseases. Death. And lots of horrible things that I don’t even know about.

We all have our hard times. But we continue to live. People who you see happy aren’t like that because they’re lucky. There’s a saying in Kannada, ‘yellara maneya dose toothu’ which translates to, ‘Dosas in every house have holes’. It’s the same story everywhere. In every home. Within every individual.

I know it’s useless to preach. I know I shall be thought primitive, materialistic, less emotionally literate etc. etc. That people who are depressed will never get the simple key to happiness. Only because they don’t want it. Only because they don’t try. It’s just so sad…

(P.S. please don’t quote examples like a person’s entire family dying in a car crash and he finding it impossible to be happy. This argument has its obvious boundaries.)

A Driving Test- II

2007-07-12T12:48:00.000+05:30

(This is part two of my Driving Test series. For part one, click here.)

Six months had almost gone by and I had blissfully forgotten about my license. One day I casually looked at my learner’s license.

‘OMG, it expires in a few days!!’
‘Hurry.’

So I reluctantly called up the driving class waala and he asked me to shell out more money.
‘What the hell! This is such a waste’ I thought, again.

Now, I own a gearless scooter (kinetic style for the over curious) which’s pretty simple to drive. Hell, it’s ridiculously simple. Also, I’ve driven for about two years. Hence failing the exam wasn’t even considered.

It has two stands. One: a side stand. Easy to operate. (Side stand is nothing but like the one you have in a bicycle.)

Two: a ‘big’ stand. Oh, how shall I describe this one? It’s the stand on which you can rest the whole vehicle. You push the stand down with your foot and slide the hind portion of the vehicle on it. Maybe, the pic will give you a better idea.

I cannot operate the big stand. I’ve tried zillions of times. I can’t. I’ve tried to get what is famously called as ‘the knack’ for operating it but with little success. ‘Push the stand down and pull the vehicle ever so slightly, yeah just like that and there you are! Just move your left hand a little and simultaneously push the stand down with your right foot using all your strength and use your right hand to gently pull the vehicle.’ Noooooo…

I went to the RTO office with my Dad and a lady representing the driving class waala was present.

‘You have all your documents?’
‘Yes.’ (I’d double checked, not wanting to suffer like the last time!)

I was asked to sit in a room with a few others who were applying for it. In my mind, I casually went through the sentences my next blog entry would contain, ‘I sat there, brimming with confidence, surprisingly, not in the least bothered about the test. Driving is a piece of cake, just like walking. I looked around, patiently and without fidgeting, just waiting for the imminent things to follow- the inspector asking me to drive, the look of admiration on his face at the ease with which I drive and him handing the license to me like a medal.’

‘You? Permanent license?
I slowly clicked save a draft in my mind and followed him.

The driving class lady appeared again. (As to why I was asked to grace that room I have no idea. Must be some age-old ritual they follow. Maybe to test my endurance-how long I can sit thus which in turn would show the maximum amount of time I could sit in my vehicle and drive. You get it?)

‘You have no problems driving, right?’
‘Oh no, not at all.’

‘I can’t operate the big stand but that hardly matters, no?’
‘What?? What do you mean you can’t operate the big stand?’
‘I mean I can’t operate the big stand.’
‘But they’ll ask you that. What will you do if the auto-start button stops working and you have to kick-start the vehicle?’
‘Err, lock it and fetch a mechanic?’
‘No, the inspector won’t take that for an answer.’
‘But why is it important?’ I was beginning to get infuriated.
‘What will they do if I say I can’t do it?’
‘They’ll fail you.’

And for the first time in my life I worried about passing an exam. Sounds very nerdy, I know...
No, I didn’t want to fail an exam!

‘Go and try. It’s not so difficult.’
So I went and huffed and puffed, pulled and pushed the vehicle with all my might.
Unnnh. Uuuuuunh. No result.

‘Why are you suffering so much? It is so easy.’
‘It is a heavy vehicle’, I said, scowling. Not like yours. Let’s see you do it.’
She came and operated it like she’d done it all her life. I was astounded. (But if truth be told, she was shaped like a wrestler. For all those of you who don’t know me, I’m thin, frail and malnourished looking.)
‘Your stand is easier to operate than mine’, she said pompously, ‘my stand is harder’.

I tried once more.
‘Crash, bang.’
‘Ok, please don’t try anymore.’

Angrily, I came back. I hate giving up. I gave her an ‘It’s entirely your fault’ look. She was nonchalant. (Indeed, she could have knocked me down with just a swipe.)

‘Just pray that you don’t get the strict inspector. If he comes…’
‘Hmmm’ (WTF?? If he comes, I’ll jolly well tell him that I can’t operate it and finish it right there.)

Finally, the inspector arrived.

‘Can you drive around and show me?’
‘Yes. I go like this and come back from there?’ I said pointing.
‘Yes.’

Confidently, I started the engine and drove. I’ve done this so many times… Switching on the indicators at the right times, slowing down and not overtaking, neither over speeding nor dangerously slow, I put up a marvellous show of driving (Jayashree, thy name is modesty!). I came back to see him sign the license.

Bingo! I’d done it!
I came back, a war heroine. The license would be given to me in a few days, I was told.

Five days later.

License in hand. None in the bush.( Oh, I love PJs)

Yay! No more visits to the RTO, no hunting around for weird documents, no giving money to the driving class and pretending it’s not a bribe, no worrying if my ears are visible in photographs…

I opened the little book which was my precious driving license.

Miss Jayashree Bhat ( ‘Miss’ looks curiously like alias. I swear, I kid you not.)

~~Wife/daughter of~~

S/O Mr. Bhat.

Miss Jayashree Bhat and Son of Mr. Bhat? Rather an interesting combination, no?

Oh, why me??

An old diary entry

2007-07-06T21:04:00.000+05:30

I kept a diary for some time last year (Aug 14th to Sep 3rd). Didn't feel like writing in it after some time. It was a pointless diary as I sounded just like I do in my blog. I started a diary to write about anything and everything I felt without inhibitions. I discovered that I just couldn't do that, however much I tried. It was pretty much like I'd writte it for someone else to read and i decided to drop it, relying on the diary in my mind.

Feeling highly reminiscent, of 12th and school. It was written during the first month of college. I have changed! My old friends don't agree but I know I have. Oh, I digress. Here's the old entry.

Sunday, August 20, 2006
12:01:28 PM

Today is Sunday. Bliss… no college, no work to do… just laze around… can’t believe that I was sick of hols just a few weeks back. But no, I definitely don’t want more holidays. I love college life. I was heartily sick of the holidays when the days stretched out in front of you. For how long can you enjoy your hols? When I was in 12^th, I used to think that once my hols were over, I’d have great fun, party like crazy etc, etc. nothing of that sort happened. Instead, there was just a dull realization that 12^th was over, once and for all. All the times when I slogged, I used to think, ‘just a few more weeks. And I’ll be free’. But the sense of freedom didn’t really dawn on me or anything. I didn’t say, ‘yahoo’, jump and punch the air or anything. Even now, when I look back, I feel 12^th was fun in its own way. Getting up bleary-eyed in the morning, gobbling up two slices of bread and half a cup of coffee, running (rather, driving my kinetic style) to college 2 minutes before class began, trying to give a proxy to a lucky friend, criticizing teachers, going to the canteen to get chocolates to eat in between classes, gossiping, getting classes cancelled, running home to have a hurried lunch before running back to Subbat’s maths tuition (one of the few classes I really enjoyed), going home to have a snooze for about an hour ( I’d fall asleep in class otherwise), getting up with great difficulty, going to Kedilaya’s IIT tuition where I struggled to understand the finer aspects of calculus, stoichiometry, magnetic effects of electric current and the like, the break where we got a few seconds o respite cracking PCM related jokes, ‘he fell down because his momentum, center of mass and force applied were equal to….’ , going back home only to be greeted by a pile of assignments, records and timetables of exams- grim reminders of pending work, slowly resigning to the fact that sleep was a distant dream, settling down on my study table, doing some work and finally when I knew that it was pointless staying up as I wasn’t taking in anything, dragging my feet to bed. Getting up next morning with dark circles around my eyes….

Whew, I felt tired just typing that. Can’t believe that I really led a life like that for 2 years…
12^th is nice to look back at… I have good memories of 12^th. I mean, I don’t feel like I’ve come out of hell or anything. Surprising, considering that it is every 12^th standard student’s heartfelt wish for everything to get over.

I repeat, 12^th is nice to look back at…

Jayashree

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

I suddenly miss school! Sigh. I miss school friends. And college friends (No, silly. College isn't over. I'm not that old. They've just gone home for hols.)

I wish... Oh, never mind, the list is too long. Just wish I could live one more day of school, one more day of laughter with my school friends...

(Sorry, messed up the font and the font size earlier and was in a hurry so didn't preview the post.)

Don't read

2007-07-02T22:58:00.000+05:30

Seriously, don’t read this. One, I’m highly frustrated as I write this. Two, if you read this and don’t comment, I shall get more frustrated. (And how shall I know if you’ve read it? I possess powers you know not,ok? And no giggling allowed, too)

Here’s a list of things which drive me round the bend.

Windows’ ‘Are you sure?’ message. I am god dammed sure. I’m not mad to click on the delete button otherwise.

Orkut’s Bad, bad server. No donut for you.
I don’t want a donut. Please believe me. I hate them. I’d rather have chocolate chip cookies. Or cold coffee.
No donut for you?? (Repeats to increase the effect of incredulity.)

Getting disconnected when
1) You’ve almost finished downloading a HUGE file- 98% complete and…. Aaaargh.
2) You’re chatting and your friend says mysteriously, ‘you know, I wanted to tell you something….’ Poof. And she was just about to spill the beans because she couldn’t keep it secret any longer. Surely, by the time you have reconnected she’ll say, ‘never mind. I shouldn’t be talking about all this anyway.’ Grrrr.
Who knows how many lives have been destroyed forever this way? Imagine you’re quarelling with your special someone (ahem, ahem) and he says in a fit of anger, ‘I never want to talk to you again.’ And you’re about to clear things up with one magical sentence. Snap. You’re signed out. Disconnected. The rest is better left unsaid.

Continuous rains. Really, how can it rain so much in Manipal? Please, give us a break sometimes so that we can go out without gazing upwards every two minutes in trepidation.
It is NOT nice to be grounded due to rains. (Forget everything I said about solitude and the like.)

Finding insects in your plate or drink. Ew! I seem to have an insectomagnetic field around me. Don’t you dare laugh. They follow me everywhere!

Scene 1

I’d gone to a house to pay a social visit.
‘What do you want? Coffee?’, asked the hostess.
‘No, just a glass of water.’ (Oh, I loathe badly made coffee. Wait. I can write a whole post on that. Watch this space for more details.)
I smiled and said what a lovely day it was indeed, the weather was just right etc etc. and I proceed to lift the glass upto my dainty lips. (James Bond music in the background.) Some external force seized me and I looked into the glass. Ewwww, a dead insect with wings and many legs.

‘Um, there’s an insect in the water.’
‘Oh, I’m so so sorry. Here, give it to me’ and she handed me another glass. Closing my mind against the image of the floating insect, I drank the water.

Scene 2

As a child, I had this habit of opening beans before I ate them.

Hmm, this post is getting a lil’ too yucky. Never mind the beans. I found something not-so-nice in it. That’ll suffice, I guess. (Wipes a tear from her right eye.)
I have many more of insect tales (maybe I can begin an animation series like duck tales. PJ, I know. (there, I’ve nullified the effect of the PJ by accepting it’s one and making you smile, anyway. Smart, no?))

But next time you see me bring a morsel close to my eye and turn it around in my fingers to observe it from all angles and maybe even cut it into smaller pieces (there could be something inside, you know), you’ll know what I’m doing.

Ooh, how could I forget this one? Guys in Orkut wanting friendship. Dude, go get a life! How desperate can you get? There was this absolute pervert who approached me on Orkut. *shudder*

I think I’ll switch my loyalty to Facebook very soon…

Hiccups. Always at the wrong times. I was talking to an old school friend after ages and I go hic, hic, hic-a-hic. Nothing works, I tell you! Not even glassfuls of water or holding my breath till I look asphyxiated. Grr.

That brings us to the end of the list. Aaah, it feels good. Nothing like a good yelling session to make you feel better. I can’t believe I have nothing more left to list. Ho hum, I’ll find something else to whine about very soon. But no, that’s another post!

Hols

2007-06-29T22:37:00.000+05:30

I have always hated hols. Loathed them, in fact. Hols marked the end of a busy year, a year of fun, some good study, bitching about teachers, gossiping, lunch treats, bleary eyes and high fives before exams, laughing for no reason at all and well, everything that made you alive. I was terribly bored last hols.

The semester drew to an end and I began preparing myself to get bored. ‘Oh, I’ll miss you’ messages were sent days in advance and I started gazing sadly at everything in college and how I’d have to do without them for two months. Almost cried as my friends left, got senti, everything.

Two months. They loomed large in the horizon. I shuddered and cowered. Two months of no college. Two months without my best friends.

A few days passed by. The sun bowed low to the rains and Manipal was drenched. Sounds nice and poetic but it just meant that I was grounded at home. Thankfully, the internet and my faithful laptop came to my rescue and I spent many a blissful hour downloading and chatting away with my friends.

As the days made weeks out of them, I found things changing. No longer did I feel bored. I began to like getting up at 10. (Could not do that all these years. My body clock woke me at 7, no matter the day or season.) Calmness replaced boredom and peace-restlessness. I was in an island, isolated from everyone save my family. And I loved it. For all my friends who’re snorting with disbelief at that; believe me, I did. My days were spent doing nothing except lying in bed and reading. Solitude consumed me. And I loved it.

I love company. I love being with friends. You can almost say that I can’t do without them at all. Probably guessing this, a friend of mine said, ‘Don’t miss anyone too much.’ I just shrugged in reply, incapable of saying anything.

To be very honest, I don’t miss anyone-none of my friends, not even the ones I cried for just at the thought of two months without them. I’m quite happy. I needed this solitude, needed to be with just myself. I don’t feel like Miss Spitfire anymore…

All this is so weird. This is so not me!

But life’s good…

Full Circle

2007-06-22T22:11:00.000+05:30

The hot summer sun blazed down sending a trickle of sweat down his spine. Shrugging off the sticky sensation it produced, Deepak pedalled on. Avoiding a pothole with a professional turn of the handlebars, he cast half a glance at the sky. ‘Must be about 11’, he guesstimated, quite accurately.
A few minutes later he surrendered to the sun. Panting a little, he parked the cycle near a house and rapped on the door.

‘Madam?’

No answer. He waited, straining his ears to hear if someone was approaching the door. He could hear the faint metallic sound of steel utensils. ‘Someone’s in there, washing dishes.’ He called again, ‘Madam?’
He heard someone shout: ‘Who is it?’
‘Postman. Mrs. Raj, could you…’
‘Leave it near the door.’
‘Madam, a little water?’ his voice trailed away.

No answer.
He shrugged his shoulders and went out. One got used to these things with time. The sun seemed to mock him as he wiped his forehead on his sleeve, marking it with sweat. He looked up, fervently praying for a cool breeze to blow. But the sun just smiled at him even more brightly. Picking up his cycle, he pedalled back home.

Exhausted, he lay down on his bed and turned on the fan. It whirred in slow motion. Reluctantly, he got up and turned it to full speed. It complained and groaned a little and proceeded to run a little faster. He reached out for the pot of water on his table and emptied it at one go. ‘Drat that woman. Couldn’t even fetch a glass of water. Wretched creature’, he cursed. Fuming a little, he looked around for his spectacles. ‘Never there when I need them’, he muttered, pessimistically.

Crash!

He heard the sound of something fall. Filled with alarm, he opened the door and ran out. Looking down, he saw a small muddy looking creature gaze sheepishly at him.

‘Stealing mangoes again? You naughty boy!’
The boy grinned lazily from where he was lying, not even bothering to get up. ‘He knows me well’, Deepak thought.
He pulled the boy to his feet, roughly but not unkindly and watched him wipe the mud off his shorts with little success. ‘Why should you steal? Can’t you ask me instead?’
The boy grinned a little more, a grin that spoke of familiarity with a person’s actions.
He was Rohan, Mr. Raj’s son, a real scamp but absolutely adorable. He was the neighbourhood prankster but no one ever seemed to mind. He was scolded and shooed away, only to be welcomed with warm words the next time he came.

‘Here. Take this stick and knock down as many mangoes as you like. The ones on the lower branch are nice and ripe. See?’ he pointed.
Without answering, Rohan moved towards the tree. Deepak watched him for a while before the telephone rang. ‘I’ll be back in a minute’, he said and went in.
When he came back there was no one in sight. ‘Couldn’t even say thank you’, Deepak muttered to himself.

‘Hey’, he heard Rohan shout. He looked up to see Rohan dangling from the tree with his pockets full of mangoes.
‘Get down, you scamp!’ he shouted.

It was a beautiful tree that looked like it was out of a painting. The height was just right and the branches were evenly spread out in all directions. Lush green leaves sprung from it, dancing merrily when the wind cared to caress it. Half-way up the tree was a curiously bent branch. It was flattish and curved to form a semi-circle making it a kid’s hotspot. It was Rohan’s hiding place where he hid from his mother to avoid homework, baths and the like.

‘Get down, you monkey or you’ll fall.’
‘Ha ha, monkeys don’t fall off trees!’, Rohan shouted.

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

Next morning was as hot as ever. Deepak dragged himself out of bed and slowly made his way to the bathroom. He noticed that his movements were slower than usual. Attributing it to the previous day’s exhaustion, he splashed cold water on his face. As he looked into the mirror, he thought sleepily that he was looking paler than usual. The clock struck seven and he hurried to dress, thinking no more about it.

He reached the post-office. Looking at his watch, he noticed he was five minutes late. ‘I wonder why, I always leave home at the same time’, he mused.

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

He opened his eyes. ‘Why am I lying down in this weird place?’ A small group of anxious eyes looked down at him. ‘Come on, let us take him to the hospital. He doesn’t look very well.’

Feeling rather dull, he followed two people to an auto-rickshaw waiting outside. ‘I’m going somewhere.

Oh, this is the way to the hospital.’

‘He’s fallen asleep.’
‘Wake him up. He looks like he needs a doctor.’

They nudged Deepak till he woke up and dragged him to the doctor’s room.

‘What do you think is wrong with him?’
‘I think it’s jaundice. You know, my son had it once and he couldn’t attend school for days. And then the principal…’

Deepak came out. ‘It’s ok. It’s just jaundice. I overheard the doctor tell the nurse.’
‘Just jaundice?’

Just then the doctor came out. ‘Here’s the list of medicines you have to take. Take good rest. You may not be able to work for about two to three weeks. Take care.’
‘What? Two weeks? I can’t take leave for so many days.’
‘Well, you have no choice’, he said dryly and went off.

Two weeks passed by and he still didn’t feel energetic enough to cycle and deliver the post. Another week dully went by. A few days later, a friend of his at the post-office came over to visit him.
‘Um, I have to tell you something.’
‘Yes?’
‘Your sick leave got exhausted. You’ll have to go without a month’s pay. It’s almost been a month now, you know.’
Deepak covered his face with his hands. He’d been expecting this. Illness and irritation made way for frustration and he wrung his hands in despair. He took a decision in a split-second.

‘I’m giving up this job.’
‘What? Are you mad? What will you do?’
‘I will go to the city and find some work there. No more of this routine for me.’
‘Listen, don’t take hasty decisions. You have a good job and…’
‘I have made up my mind. I will give my resignation letter tomorrow’, Deepak said determinedly.
‘You are being foolish. I have nothing else to say. I hope you change your mind by tomorrow.’
‘Meet you tomorrow in the office.’
‘Bye.’

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

Jauntily, Deepak set out for the city. ‘Finding a job may be difficult, but, what the heck!’ he thought, recklessly. ‘Besides, if my friends can rent out my house like I told them it will give me enough money’, he thought, happily, lost in dreams.

A month passed by and three more. As his colleague had warned, finding a job in the city wasn’t easy. And his old house had been rejected by tenants as it was ill-maintained. ‘Maybe I should have stayed there’, Deepak thought dejectedly. ‘Let me go back and see. Maybe my friends haven’t tried hard enough to find a tenant. I’m sure I know just the person who’ll agree’, he thought. Deciding thus, he packed his bags and set off home.

Back home, nothing had changed. After awkwardly answering his neighbours’ questions about his life in the city, he set out in search of a tenant. Luck frowned on him and he returned, exhausted. ‘I don’t think I was ever meant to be anything other than a postman’, he sighed.

As he was coming back, he saw Rohan standing outside his house with a tall man he’d never seen earlier. ‘Now, who could this be?’ he thought.
As he came towards them, the man smiled. ‘I’m Mr. Khan. I would like to have a few words with you. May I come in?’
I looked at him and then at Rohan and said, ‘Uh, sure.’
He sat down opposite Deepak on a chair and said, ‘Will you sell your house to me?’
‘WHAT?’
‘He wants to buy my house?’
‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of selling it. I’d rather rent it out. Uh, I need the money.’
‘I would really like to buy this little house. I’ll tell you why.’
‘I’m Rohan’s grandfather’s neighbour. When Rohan came to visit him over the holidays, I heard about this house.’
‘What is so special about this house?’
‘This was my childhood home, the house where I spent the happiest moments of my life. We were four children- three brothers and one sister. Oh what fun we had!’
‘If so, why didn’t you come back before this to buy it? Why now?’
‘I thought the house would have been demolished by now. I didn’t want to come and see a new house in its place. That would have saddened me. When I heard Rohan telling me about his hiding-place at the top of the tree I knew that my house was still alive! That tree was my favourite. How we used to fight for that one branch!’
‘Ok, coming down to more serious matters. How much do you want for this house?’
‘Uh, I don’t know’, Deepak said, dazed.
‘Will five lakhs do?’
‘FIVE LAKHS?’ Deepak said, incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite.’
‘I need the money, yes, but I still can’t believe that you’ll pay me such a huge sum for this old house.’
‘Ha, I will. Get the documents tomorrow and we’ll finalise everything. I’ll be so glad to own this house again…’
‘Five lakhs’, Deepak muttered to himself.
Mr. Khan smiled. ‘You know, there are some things worth more than money.’
Deepak smiled back, ‘I hope I’m rich enough to say that one day.’
‘Oh, ha ha. You know, I feel like climbing that tree again.’
‘Come uncle, I will show you the easiest way to climb it. I know two ways to climb it, you know. One way is by putting my foot on this branch and then…’

The hardest thing in the world

2007-06-04T19:27:00.000+05:30

The hardest thing in the world is to accept that you’re wrong. That you made a mistake. To get over your ego. To be humble. To accept it.

Yes, it’s harder to accept it yourself than apologizing to someone else. `Cause humans are blessed with the art of pretension. You may not mean what you say at all.

The next hardest thing? To stick to it. Our ego says that we can’t be wrong, what we’ve done is not flawed at all. And it leads us back to square one. It’s a vicious circle.

And the next? To accept to someone else that you’re wrong. To look at someone in the eye and say, ‘You’re right, I’m wrong.’ And still not hate the person for being right. Funnily, human nature can’t take it that someone can be right when you’re wrong. And that destroys everything. The disagreement is gone, things are settled but the feeling that remains is not good. You are a better person at the end of it, yes, and you're thankful to the other person for it but things can never be the same again. `Cause now you’re no longer equals.

A line from Harry Potter (I think it's from The Half-blood Prince), ‘It’s easier to forgive people for being wrong than for being right.’

Human nature’s so weird...

Me

2007-05-23T13:26:00.000+05:30

I writhed in pain. Screams escaped my dry lips.
No one heard me.
Probably, because it was all within me…
I’m tied, chained.

To myself…

‘Leave me’, I screamed.
Someone smirked from above.
Pulled at my chains. Felt blood.
Someone laughed louder.
I pulled harder.

I’m free…

Gazed at the chains that’d tied me,

Emotions…

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Published ages back in 55s and then some. Sigh. Exams going on.

2007-05-09T23:32:00.000+05:30

Sometimes I wonder; what is it that makes us laugh, love, smile, frown and cry? What is it that makes us believe in something we know is too good to be true; to believe in hope against hope? Why is it that we never think twice even though past experience is hitting us hard on the head, reminding us that it would be wise to do so?

Hope… a word whose power is not fully understood. Hope makes the world go round. We live in hope. We hope for a better life, a better future, and better things to come. Thus a new day dawns. And fades away. In hope…

Life. What is life? I mean, it’s ridiculous that not one person has come up with a definition for life that makes complete sense.

I wish life wasn’t such a bundle of questions. Or that it wasn’t a bunch of answers with the questions left free in space.

Desire...

2007-05-01T22:09:00.000+05:30

Oh, desire.
Crushed to pieces…
Oh, life teaches,
To kill your desire…

Out in the moonlight,
A candle glowing bright,
A drop of water, a puff of air,
Look, it’s no longer there...

On the sky, in the blue,
Watch your desires go by,
Oh, life makes you,
Kill your desire…

You cry and smile,
Desires stretch a mile,
You know it’s gonna die,
Yet you try to fly…

Tagged... again!

2007-04-27T22:28:00.000+05:30

(Tagged by Nishant.)
Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.
This is weird! Anyway, I have been tagged so I comply. A roundish scar on my arm.

Middle of end semester exams. Driving back from the library. Vroooooom. No reaction time. A biker rams into me with full force and sends me down with a sickening sound. Miracle of miracles! I escape with a few scars and minor injuries. He got fractured, though. (Poor guy. Must have spent the entire end sem hols with a cast. Never got to know who he was.)

I had a good excuse to explain my bad marks ;-)

2. What is on the walls in your room?

A beautiful pic of trees in autumn, a pic of a waterfall (I LOVE waterfalls), a huge poster of a Siberian tiger right above my study table and last year’s calendar (Funny that I didn't take it off.)

Oh, also a painting of flowers in a corner and a tiger with two cubs ( I actually made it. It was this kit. Quite unlike me to have the patience to do something like that. (Gosh, I have a lot on my walls.)

I love posters on my walls. They give a nice feel to the room.

3.What does your phone look like?

It’s a Nokia 3230 (Man, its heavy. Wish I’d got a lighter one. Has a decent camera.)

4.What music do you listen to?

Rather sick of music in general (at the moment, that is.)

Sometime back, I used to listen to random songs given by my friends- Linkin Park, Eagles and some Hindi music.

5. What is your current desktop picture?

6. What do you want more than anything right now?

I just wish I knew.

On second thoughts, I think its sleep.

7. Do you believe in gay marriage?

Yes, like Nishant said, why not?

8. What time were you born?

Not very sure. I think I was born in the afternoon.

9. Are your parents still together?

Yup.

10. What are you listening to?

Silence. (Been feeling quite melodramatic off late.)

11. Do you get scared of the dark?

Umm, not unless I’ve just finished watching a horror movie. In that case, I’ll probably run for miles and never look back.

12. The last person to make you cry?

A very good friend.

13. What is your favourite perfume/cologne?

Err, this tag is beginning to irritate me. Who cares? Just as long as you don’t smell like a skunk.

14. What kind of hair/eye colour do you like on the opposite sex?

Dark smiley eyes. (Light eyes make me feel weird. I feel I can see through them or something. Ugh. No offense meant. Just a personal choice.)

Hair? Dark. Dandruff free. And no streaks or funny artificial colouring. Puts me off.

15. Do you like painkillers?

Yeah, especially when it hurts so much that you can’t sleep it’s a lifesaver. (Would anyone say that they don’t like something which lessens pain??)

16. Are you too shy to ask out someone?

Umm, I don’t know. A little, yes. But if I liked him quite a bit and I knew he was stupid enough not to be able to ask me out, I’d probably do it.

17. Fave pizza topping?

Capscicum, onions, lots of cheese, a few pieces of mushrooms and a dash of tomato sauce. Droooool.

18. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?

Nothing. Just had a good dinner. Can’t think of food on top of it.

19. Who was the last person you made mad?

A very good friend, again.

20. Is anyone in love with you?

No.

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I tag Neelav, Nupur (Oh, Kyra, we miss you) and Blue Panther.

The case of the mysterious white box

2007-04-22T12:25:00.000+05:30

I, Jayashree,(read: lazy blogger) have been forced to forget the blogging hiatus I had planned and come up with a new post. (Waiting for the cheers and claps to subside.) I am blessed. God has made things happen which are meant for blogging. Situations stare at me in the face and say, ‘Blog me. I was made for you.’ Now, how can I refuse? I wake up, don my armour, mentally prepare myself and take a deep breath.

I pick up my pen and begin writing.

A brief introduction of the character around which this article is centered: Ms X, my lovely neighbour. My lovely neighbour with an observant eye. My lovely, observant neighbour who gossips and is nosy. My lovely, observant, gossipy, nosy neighbour.
That should set the ground for me to continue.

Well, she isn’t exactly my neighbour. She lives in another row, the one just behind ours. Sometimes I go for a short walk, meet my neighbours, etc. A few days back I passed her house and there she was!

‘What’s up, Jayashree?’
(Bracing myself for an interrogative session.) ‘Um, nothing.’
And yes, she proceeded to ask me a million questions on my actions and movements in the past few days (That is, since the last time I met her. She has to keep updating the database, you see.)

‘Did your whole family go off to sleep that day at 9:30?’
‘Huh? Which day?’
‘I don’t know. (Was amazed to hear that she hadn’t made a written note of the day, time, hour, minute, second and the position of the stars.)
‘Well, I don’t know either.’
(Thought a little. Decided it was probably last Sunday when I’d been ill. Though I have no idea why everyone went off to sleep at 9:30. Told her that. ‘Aah’, she said. One answer got. One missing data no more.

‘Which room do you sleep in?’
‘Huh?’
‘The one near the road?’
(Taken aback.) ‘No’.
‘I heard the fan whirring in your room that evening as I passed by so I knew you were sleeping.’
(Oh, my GOD.)
(Still keeping a straight face and remaining patient.): ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Oh. I take a round in the evening with my son. I see your mother open the fridge after dinner and keep pickles and stuff. Sometimes you’re in your room, sometimes you’re not.’
‘I saw you walking there the other day. You seemed dressed up to go somewhere.’

(Felt like I was being questioned regarding a crime. ‘I need an alibi. I’m innocent. I’ve done nothing’, my brain told me. Shrugging, I said, ‘Auntie, I’ve to go. Bye.’
‘Will you go back this way or that way?’ (One’s shorter than the other.)
‘Um, that way. (Pointing at the longer one.)
‘Why?’
‘Just like that.’ (Smiled a silly smile. It always helps to give a silly smile. And giggle, if possible. People don’t cross-question you after that. Maybe they’re too afraid you’ll do it again.)

This was a few days back. I came back home, had a good laugh and forgot about it. I wouldn’t have thought about it (her behaviour was nothing unusual for her, honestly) if she hadn’t appeared today. This time she encountered my mom. I was in, listening to music and she and Mom were chatting outside our gate.

‘Who’s that boy in Jayashree’s bedroom?’
Only a silhouette was visible. ‘Oh, that’s Jayashree’, my mom said.
‘That looks like a boy’, she said, probably thinking that my mom had lied and would break down on cross-questioning.
‘That’s her.’
She looked hard and decided to take my mom’s word for it.

‘Why didn’t you have dinner today at 9? You always have dinner at 9, I see you everyday. (We had made the grave mistake of having dinner that day at 9:15, that too, without informing her.)
‘Uh, I don’t know. Didn’t see the time.’
(I’d never observed that we generally have dinner at 9. I suppose everyone wraps his/her work at about 9 and goes for dinner.)

(Now, the award winning question.)

‘What’s that white box you keep in the fridge every night after dinner?’
‘What? Which white box?’
‘The one you keep in every night. Do you keep pickles in it?’
(Mom, totally puzzled): ‘I don’t know.’
(Now sure that my Mom is hiding something and that something sinister is going on.)
‘You know; that white box…’
‘Uh, some food I guess.’
(Giving up.) Oh.

As soon as the conversation was over my mom rushed to the fridge and opened it to find the mysterious box. (Horror music in the background.) There is no white box…

‘Jayashree, come here.’
I walk up to the refrigerator. ‘See? Tell me; which is the white box I keep in every night?’
‘You keep a white box in every night?’
‘I really don’t know. She told me so. She can’t have made a mistake. You think I’ve begun to forget things?’
‘Ha, ha. You know what she’ll tell people?’
‘What?’
‘That she asked you many times what you kept in that white box and you refused to tell her. Oh, ha ha ha.’

Aah, I haven’t laughed that hard for ages. The other day I saw an ad in the newspaper for private detectives. With people like her, who needs them? In fact, I’d recommend her name for a teacher’s post in a training school for detectives. The world needs people like her to ferret out criminals and crimes. We need more people to observe people doing suspicious things everyday, like putting food in the fridge, switching on their fan, etc. Who knows? There might be a terrorist hand behind these seemingly innocent activities. Thanks to people like her, the world is a safer place for us all.

Header image

2007-04-20T21:47:00.000+05:30

Liked the header image in this blog? It was custom made to suit it. I love it! Especially, the I in Musings.

You want one too? Don’t worry, I’ll not be mean, I’ll share the secret with you. Click on Free Blog header images, a site which offers header images for free.

I, You, Who?

2007-04-15T12:38:00.000+05:30

( Dedicated to my best friend who I (stupidly, sadly, surprisingly) thought I'd lost.)

Walked in peace
All my worries, about to cease
Blissfully happy, oh, unaware…
Walked on, without a care…

Saw colors of every hue,
Red, green and even blue
Rejoiced, smiled, danced and sang,
Bothered not of any snag.

Too good to be true!
Screamed a voice.
To hell with you!
I kicked the noise.

Ah, you do know how it is.
Higher you are, harder you fall.
But never mind, I go on.
Through spring, summer, winter and fall.

2007-04-13T12:56:00.000+05:30

(Click to enlarge.)

What UK men want

2007-04-04T21:23:00.000+05:30

Of late, newspapers don’t seem to be publishing anything other than bullshit. Sorry for the slang but nothing else describes the scenario better. The worst: a front page photo of the largest democracy’s president on the floor after tripping on someone’s cane. What a shame! Poor Kalam was looking so undignified. The president of our nation certainly deserves more respect than that. Apart from the fact that it was a sheer waste of valuable front page space.

But today’s article in TOI drove me round the bend.

‘UK men want Shilpa types’

It is an obvious result that her win will make Indian or South Asian women very attractive as life partners. Shilpa has demonstrated some amazing qualities such as grace, elegance and poise that make a South Asian woman unique.’

And oh, this was said by a leading international asian matrimonial service.

Who cares if Indian or south asian women become attractive as life partners to UK men? They (we) have our men, thank you. And puhlease, it is a matter of common sense that grace, elegance and poise has absolutely nothing to do with a woman being Indian or not. What rubbish!

“Shilpa only really stressed how well-rooted Indian women are in their culture and hence better at keeping peace and calm.”

Oh, seriously, no comments on this one.

“She has shown Indian women in a very very nice light which will generate a lot of interest in Indian women in the marriage market”

Marriage market? Shame, shame! It’s like saying ‘Oh, now the prices for this commodity will rise and hit the sky’. As it is, Indian marriages are complicated with dowry, casteism, (and heaven knows what else) without educated people joining the bandwagon.

Ladies and gentlemen, the 21^st century with women empowerment, educated people etc. etc.

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

The funniest line in that article? ‘British Asian boys, especially, will see how well-rounded Indian women are and will be much more keen to marry someone from back home.’

Ha ha ha ha, oh ha ha ha. My stomach hurts.

A Driving Test

2007-03-18T21:58:00.000+05:30

Manipal is suddenly seeing an onslaught of traffic policemen, all of them highly keen on ‘doing their duty’ which mostly comprises of stopping drivers randomly, demanding their license and other weird documents .Initially it was fun to ride a two-wheeler without a license, keeping my eyes peeled for any uniformed person, chuckling wickedly to myself that I had outwitted them. Catch me if you can!

Predictably, it wore out. When I started taking 10 minutes for a 2 minute trip (because I went through a ‘long-cut’ to avoid any non-license carrying drivers’ catchers) I thought I might as well get a license. (Aah, you guessed that? Wow. How? Oh, the title? Very smart, ehh?) I mean, a driver’s license can be given to someone who can drive, right? That’s something I can do. ‘Piece of cake’, I thought. But then… (Pause for dramatic effect. Spoilt slightly by giggling. Made up by turning it into a cough.)

Dad: So, you finally are going for a driving test?
Me: Yup.
Dad: Let’s go to the driving school walla tomorrow.
Me: Huh? I know how to drive. I have been driving for ages.
Dad: If you don’t go to the RTO through him, you mayn’t pass.
Me (insulted and all that): I can drive better than a lot of idiots with licenses. They can’t fail ME!
Dad: Listen, I don’t want any hassles with this. It’s always easier when you go through a driving school.
Me: You actually want someone to teach me to start the vehicle and toot the horn??
Dad: (exasperated) No, he’ll just take you to the RTO.
Me: YOU can take me to the RTO.
Dad (Now, patiently, with the air of someone explaining that one plus one is just a simple two): The agent will make sure you get your license. Else you will have to keep running around the RTO. Why take the trouble?
This is not right. I should be taking the test on my own. I can drive well enough to get a license.

Me (giving in): Fine, tomorrow, then.
Dad (with what I imagined to be a sigh of relief): Ok.

Next morning, a little reluctantly, I gathered a few passport-size photographs and the necessary documents and reached the driving school.

Lady in the office, “Give me the photos and the papers.”
Duly handed them over and plonked myself on a chair.
Lady: These photos won’t do.
Me: Why?
Lady: Your ears can’t be seen.
Me: Huh?
Lady: Your hair’s covering you ears. We need a photo with your ears.
Dad (suddenly entering the conversation): Can’t we assume she has ears behind her hair?
She (firmly): No.

Alas. What could I do? Dragged my feet to the nearest studio (I’m sure the driving school receives commission for photographing ears.) grimaced when he said ‘smile please’ and got an absolutely horrendous photo of myself. ‘I don’t care’, I told myself, quite irritated with everything in general.

Lady: Hmmm (pleased expression.)
Me: Hmmm (Good for you that you have a pleased expression.)
I was given a list of traffic signals to mug up, which I happily did (something to do instead of uselessly sitting around).
The principal of the driving school came up to me and asked, ‘How do you show that you’re turning left?’
Me: Err, turn on the indicator lights?
Princy: No. like this. (And proceeded to draw a circle in the air (anti-clockwise.)
All signalling to be done with your right hand. Prevents accidents.

(Wanted to tell him badly that if I take my right hand off the scooter and begin drawing geometrical figures in the air (keeping in mind if I was drawing it clockwise or anti clockwise) I was in grave danger of losing balance. Also wanted to tell him that I’ve almost never seen people signalling before they turn. Vroooooom and they vanish.)

Me: Uhh, ok.
Princy: This is how you signal that you’re going to stop.
(Raises his hand like we do when we answer the roll call in class.)
Me (unable to control it any longer): I’ve NEVER seen anyone doing that.
Princy: Uhh, they might ask you that in the RTO.
Me (resigning myself to fate): Ok.

Ten minutes later. Place: RTO. Time: About 12:00 (read blistering hot and sunny)

We (the others who’d applied for a license) sat down in a room which bore an amazing resemblance to a classroom. Sitting in front, facing all of us, sat a man who bore an amazing resemblance to a you-better-not-mess-with-me teacher.

‘No talking or I will send you all out’, he said, to complete the effect.
Just when he was ready to read out the first name, his cell phone went din chak. Gesticulating wildly, he went out of the room. Bored, I looked around. For reasons unknown, the walls had photographs of accidents. Gruesome ones, with vehicles crushed to pieces and glass strewn on the ground and all that. (There were 13 of them, if you’re one of those superstitious people.) Ghastly. Wonder what they were trying to say. ‘See, look what can happen if you drive. You’re here for a license? Ha? What do YOU know?’

He returned; looking highly satisfied with everything. He called out a girl’s name.
‘What do you do when you want to turn right?’
‘You bloody turn your vehicle to the right’, I wanted to say. Predictably, I chose to remain silent.
‘No, that’s not the way to do it’, he said. ‘See? I’m giving you the license. Learn all the signals, ok?’ (She’d come from the driving school. ‘So there’s something in what Dad said’, I thought.)

Next in line was a middle-aged woman.
‘Car driving, ehh?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I am the headmistress of _____ school (Obviously, my attention had been wandering quite a bit.)
‘Oh, you’re from that school?’
‘Yes.’ (Smiled politely.)
‘How do you get such a high pass percentage?’
‘Something, something.’ (Didn’t quite catch what she was saying. She was speaking too softly.)
‘All parents like to send their children to your school though it’s Kannada medium, no?’
‘Yes.’(Began talking about some student who had won many prizes for the school etc. etc. Took about five minutes.)
‘I will come one day to your school.’
‘Sure, sure. My pleasure.’
“I want to see how you get such a high pass percentage.’
(Smiles) May I go?
‘Yes, yes.’

(Self explanatory piece of conversation. No sarcastic comments required. The previous sentence was enough, in any case!)

‘Jayashree Bhat?’
I got up; fully confident of telling him all the ways he could turn around and come to a stop.
‘I want your address proof.’
‘Huh?’
‘You have given me only proof of your birth-date. I need address proof.’
I pointed at my birth-certificate which had my address clearly written on it.
‘It’s here.’
‘That’s not valid.’
‘What?’ (I mean, come on, it’s a certificate issued by the Government.)
‘You need to give me address proof by another document. (He was quite polite, surprisingly.)
Princy intervened but it was of no use. He wouldn’t have any of it. ‘Get me address-proof’, he said.
‘Ok, I will get it.’
Completely exhausted, my dad drove me back home, got the required address proof and gave it to Princy. He gave me a thumbs-up sign. (It means, ‘everything’s fine’, silly, in case you’re wondering about traffic signals and thumbs.)

What a day!
I have my learner’s license. Yay!
Hey, that rhymed, wow!
And the dogs go bow-bow.

(I actually wrote a poem! Larks!)

Oh, this and that

2007-03-06T22:32:00.000+05:30

Sometimes when I begin typing, I’m entirely unsure of what I’m going to write about but as the sentences flow I find myself able to write about something or the other.

Hmm… I thought saying the above magic words would help me think of something to write but beep beep beep blank…

I still haven’t finished reading all the ‘hitchhiker’ books yet. Damn, I’m just vaguely casting my thoughts around to see if they’ll land on something I can write about. Maybe this is called writer’s block.

I always thought writer’s block was rubbish. Of course, I don’t write under pressed conditions, no deadlines to meet; I’m quite free not to write at all for that matter.

‘Inspiration doesn’t come to you; you run after it and pin it down with a stick.’ God, I loved that one. If you want to get inspired you don’t need much, just the wish to get inspired. And that itself it is inspiration enough. (That was a kind of a paradoxical sentence but it did make sense to me.) Many great things were inspired out of very small, seemingly insignificant things. The creators received accolades because they could see what the others couldn’t. (Yeah, that’s a cliché but so true…)

Inspiration- the source could be anything. Recently in a contest for fashion designers they were given photographs and they had to get inspired from that and create dresses. One photograph was that of gutter water flowing and a designer created a beautiful flowing green dress (no, it didn’t look nauseating.) I mean, if you can get inspired from gutter water to create a beautiful dress for a young woman; that just illustrates my point, right?

Considering I started writing this wondering if I’ve got writer’s block, I seem to have written quite a bit, no??

Blog Link

2007-03-05T21:50:00.000+05:30

A friend of mine has begun blogging, yay! Let's welcome him with open arms (read comments. Do you all remember how we prayed to get a few comments in our initial stages of blogging? I wondered what happened later. Maybe we all got used to not getting them :)

Here's the link. Go ahead, I'm sure you won't be disappointed.

Silent Fall

2007-02-26T20:59:00.000+05:30

Why the hell do I feel like writing when I'm terribly pressed for time? My exams begin on wednesday and I feel like writing a looong post, something I didn't do when I had loads of time.

Why the hell can't I write poems? My poems suck, I hate them.

I want to write something really good and get plenty of comments to feed my ego.
I want to write just for the sake of it. To feel happy. To feel good.

(I think I shouldn't continue. I seem to be ranting.)
Will be back soon. ( Soon implies one week.)
See you all!

2007-02-10T22:41:00.000+05:30

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Tagged/ Forced ;)

2007-01-29T16:45:00.000+05:30

Kyra has tagged me. I am not too good at answering questions about myself but let me try...

I am thinking about...
I don't really know. I think a lot; too much, actually. There are a million thoughts running through my head right now-I have a half day tomorrow. Why the hell JKR isn't releasing the 7th book? What's the appetizing smell coming from the kitchen? Oh, shit, when will I actually get down to studying? Oh, I have to call her today. Man, I have to finish that book today. It's so hot.

Well, I hope everyone got the general idea.

I said...
??? I didn't get it. I must have said a million things in my life. None of them significant enough to be quoted. I mean, nothing like, 'One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.'

I am...
According to me, I am what you see. I'm pretty straightforward.

I want...
Hmm... I want to have a simple, happy life.
And oh, like Kyra, I too want to write a book.

I make with my hands...
Shadows which look like dogs and cats in candle-light.
( If you ask my Mom, she'll say that I also make a mess of my room. Anyway...)

I wish...
That situations and people were easier to understand. Sometimes, they can be so mind-boggling.

I cry...
Naah, I cry very little. Unless something absolutely horrible has happened, I don't end up crying.

I hear...
Sounds, voices, music- you know, things that can heard. I mean, you can't hear pictures, can you??

I wonder...
Where everyone is running to. Sometimes, people seem awfully directionless. You want something. You get it. Then? You want something else. You get it. Then?

I regret...
Nothing. I don't want to change anything that has taken place.

I confuse...
When I can't convince.

I dance...
When there's no one watching me.

I sing...
There was a time when I used to sing quite well. ( Note: I learnt music for 12 years.) Of late, I haven't been singing much. May get back..

I am not always...
Quarrelling ( like Dhruv thinks). No, I can be nice to people as well.

I write...
Writing gives me happiness. I love writing. It's fun.

I need...
To stop thinking whether the sentences written above are accurate enough. It's giving me a headache.

I don't want to tag anyone else, whew.

26th January

2007-01-26T21:26:00.000+05:30

I wanted to write something today like I had on 15th August. But after reading this, I don't think there can be a better article on India's Republic Day.
Do visit the following link.
The igonomy of being "Indian"
Jai Hind.

2007-01-11T23:13:00.000+05:30

‘Coffee, Arnold?’
‘Sure, Anne dear’
‘Why hasn’t our son, Michael, come?’

Michael sobbing.
Cemetery.
Arnold and Anne.
Rest in peace…

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I absolutely loved writing the 20-word story... It was more fun than 60 words. Should I try 10 words now? Err, maybe that would be a bit too much. Oops, I mean, too little...

A rather short story

2007-01-09T13:55:00.000+05:30

‘Shhh. They’ll wake up.’
‘No, we’re professionals. Hehe.’
He crouched. ‘Shit, pass the tools. Wonder why there’s a high-safety lock on the back door.’
Clang went the tools as they hit the floor.
‘Shhhh’
One minute.

No movement.
He carefully picked the lock and crept in.

Someone’s up!
He bolted.

Sleepy voice: ‘Honey, you forgot to close the front door?’

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I loved writing the 60-word story (Thank you, Nishant, for tagging me!)
I tag thee, O reader!

Frustration Point

2007-01-04T01:30:00.000+05:30

It was late in the evening. I shivered as the cold, frosty wind danced around me blowing the scarf off my head. My teeth chattered as I bent down to pick it up.

Not bad, eh. Wrong beginning, though- I’m in Manipal and well, the weather’s not exactly what you can call cold. Let me try again.

It was late in the evening. I shivered (with fear), wondering how much hotter it could get. I wiped the sweat off my brow and looked around.

Now, that’s more like it!

The road was silent. It seemed to be saying something to me.

‘Where are the bikes zooming like jets?
Where are the Romeos? Where are the Juliets?
The taste of gum, the smell of mentos wrappers,
The husky voices of the wanna-be rappers,
Adidas, soothing to the touch,
Nikes, I didn’t like so much,
Aah, the painful stilettos too…
Where, where are all of you?’

‘Honk, honk.’
What are doing there?’ Hastily, I stepped back to the kerb.
‘Yes, there are people left. Poor souls like me’, I thought, (self) pityingly.
I suddenly remembered a friend of mine say, ‘Now, that the place is empty; walk like you own the place.’*
‘Why not?’ I told myself. (Note: I had begun talking to myself. First signs of madness.)

I walked on the pavement, remembering the many times I had walked there with my friends. The jokes we’d shared, the silence which spoke volumes ( read: mouth shut due to ongoing sessionals), running to grab a copy of the assignment from campus stores, nudging each other and whispering gossipy stuff………………
I wiped a tear from the right edge of my left eye. (Or maybe it was sweat. They’re both salty, anyway.) Filled with emotion I tried to walk into my old classroom and relive a few memories. (Or maybe it was the air-conditioning that beckoned me) I was promptly stopped by the guard.

‘Yenu beku?’ (What do you want?)
‘Aah, hmm, volage hogbahudaa?’ ( Aah, hmm, could I go in?)
‘Naale banni. Iga close aagide.’ (Come tomorrow. It’s closed for today.)
My chest swelled with anger at his audacity. MY classroom. Smiling mockingly, he went in and sat down on the stool, (in the air-conditioned room). I sneered at him. ‘Just you wait, I’ll be back soon’, I thought and walked away.

The library gave me a cheery grin as I passed by. I didn’t even want to enter. The wonderful place where I had had such fun would never be the same. The place where I had studied, had enjoyed numerous cups of coffee and veg bun masala, almost forced a ‘friend’ to sit on the steps, discussed crushes and break-ups, bitched to glory etc. would never hold the same charm for me.** I walked past without a second glance.

I came close to the canteen. I looked at my reflection on the walls (it’s a 2-way mirror, actually). I looked pale and thin, not having eaten there for days.*** I could almost smell the dosa. I almost heard the crispy sound it made as I ate it. I felt the touch of the ice-cold glass and the feel of cold-coffee down my throat. I could see myself laughing at a completely idiotic joke, and wondered how I could’ve laughed at all. I shook my head hard and with a great effort, continued my walk.

I reached Frustration Point. (How apt!) I gazed around, not a thought in my head. (Actually, no. I was wondering where the cows of Manipal had gone. Frustration point generally provides a good view of them.) A gentle breeze blew all stray thoughts away. I stood still for a few minutes, just enjoying the silence.

College will reopen in a few weeks, I thought

Yay, yipeee, hurray, three cheers, YAY, YAHOOOOOOOOOOOO!

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I dedicate the above article to my college, my classmates and friends; all of whom I sorely miss. I HATE holidays.

* told by Dhruv when I lamented about how bored I was. You can find his blog here. (There! I’ve repaid you in kind!)
**The library is being renovated. And the whole place will be ACd I guess. Ugh.
***That was a bit of an exaggeration. Kinda obvious,yes, but I thought I’d make it a bit more obvious.
Frustration Point is near our college. Nice view. ( Apart from the cows, that is.)

2006-12-31T22:43:00.001+05:30

One year gone by… There have been so many incidents in the past year which have changed my life forever. (Pretty clichéd, yes, but can’t put it in any other way.) I really wonder where to begin… the events of the past year have made a complete new person of Jayashree (That’s me. Quite obvious, but I thought I’d make it clear. Just in case, you know…) A year back, I wouldn’t have believed that I’ll be what I am today. Sometime in the year, my thoughts and ideas entered a tornado and now, at the end of it, I don’t know in what direction they’re heading. I feel I’m much more sensible (and two years back I thought I couldn’t get more sensible! Probably, two years henceforth I’ll be saying the same thing…)

The year has seen me go crazy with happiness and success, drop down to the depths of depression, come out of it with Herculean efforts, get on with life like nothing ever happened and learn things the hardest way possible- by raw experience.

But no, even if I were given a second chance to set right all that went wrong, I’d have none of it. I’d enviously guard all my experiences- the bad ones included. For without them, I wouldn’t be the Jayashree I am today. (Why am I sounding dramatic today??)

On hindsight, 2006 has been kinder to me than I thought- I met like-minded people, made wonderful friends, ones I can depend on for almost anything. Above all, I learnt that what is most important in life is to be an individual, to be what you are (easier said than done!) and to be proud of what you are.

Happy new year to everyone and may 2007 bring you loads of happiness.

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P.S. - I have been dormant for ages. Somehow, I wasn’t in the mood to write. I’ll try to be more regular henceforth. See you all!

Stones and diamonds

2006-10-23T23:48:00.000+05:30

She picked it up from the road. Turning it carefully in her hands, she observed it from all angles. Disappointed, she threw it away. ‘Today’s been a bad day. I haven’t got much…’ she thought. ‘Let me look farther. Maybe there’ll be something there…’
She walked along, her shoeless feet burning in the hot summer sun, yet caring little about it. She looked around, but she couldn’t find anything she wanted. No pieces of iron, scrap metal, plastic or anything that would fetch her money. Her young hands clutched at the gunny bag slung over her shoulder and drops of sweat began to fall from her brow. She wiped it with one hand and dried it on her tattered frock.
‘Ow’, she said and dropped her bag. She peered at the underside of her foot to see a tiny thorn protruding from the heel. When she tried to pull it out with her nails it only got lodged in further. Tiny tears formed around her otherwise bright eyes. She sat down, kept the throbbing foot on her other thigh and gritting her teeth, tried to remove the thorn by pressing the skin on either side of it.
‘Hello beti, what are you doing?’
She looked up to see Uncle gazing concernedly at her. No one knew what his name was. He was called ‘Uncle’ by everyone and indeed he was older than most people. She waggled her foot in the air. ‘The thorn is refusing to come out’, she said childishly. Hiding a smile behind his moustache, Uncle told her, ‘Come, I’ll see how the bad bad thorn won’t come out.’

He offered his forefinger to her and she tightened her little fingers round it as he led her to his house. It was an old broken down house, one which with some care could have been better, though not much. He lived alone in it. Some said that his children had driven him away whereas others opinioned that he had run away from jail. Nevertheless, the only solid fact remained that he lived quite alone and seemed to know no one.
He struck a matchstick, heated a pin lightly to sterilize it and came upto her. ‘Uncle, are you going to prick my foot with that?’ she questioned, beginning to get worried. ‘Don’t worry. Listen I’ll tell you a story. Once upon a time there lived a king with three beautiful daughters…’ he began, all the time expertly prising the thorn out of her foot. ‘Tra la la. Here is the evil thorn’, he said. Giggling, she said, ‘It got afraid of you.’ When she got no response she went to see what Uncle was doing. ‘I have a surprise for you. Here it is’ he said and kept a bundle of newspapers in front of her with a flourish. This was a game they played every week. He would announce a surprise, she would pretend to be curious and he would keep the week’s newspapers infront of her. It didn’t fetch a lot of money, but for her, every little bit counted. That was something she had learnt long back in her job of scrap collecting--- small things count. Little pieces of scrap iron contribute towards getting a tidy sum.
‘Come here. Open your bag; I’ll put it inside.’
Dutifully she held the bag open and watched him as he put the newspapers in and deftly tied the mouth with a bit of string.
‘Off you go now. Next week I’ll have a surprise for you again, okay?’
‘Yes, uncle, I will come. Bye.’
‘Look out for evil thorns…’
‘Hee hee’, she said and scampered off.

Uncle buying newspapers was indeed a curious thing as he seemed to have barely enough money to make ends meet. This issue was vociferously debated over by the neighbours. Some said that this just showed that he was from an educated family and his children had shooed him out. Others counter-argued that since he had nothing else to do in jail, he had gotten into the habit of reading newspapers and now, couldn’t get out of it. While the neighbours had a jolly good time whispering it as he passed by the real reasons were something else. One, he was passionately fond of cricket and since television was a non-affordable luxury he had settled for the newspaper. Two, he had a habit which, try as he might (not that he did) wouldn’t let go of him. He loved buying lottery tickets. Every evening one could see him outside the lottery-ticket shop, chatting with the shop-owner and sipping a small glass of tea from the tiny hut-like tea-shop next to it. Every morning he would open the newspaper after a small prayer to God and check the results. Cursing his luck, he’d vow not to buy another lottery ticket but when evening arrived it was the same story all over again.

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

‘Where are you coming from’, questioned her mother, sternly.
She cowered knowing what was going to follow.
‘I went to collect…’
‘Don’t lie. I saw you in uncle’s house. How dare you lie to me’, she yelled and hit her hard on the backside.
{Sniff, sniff} ‘He gave me paper.’
‘Why did you go inside his house? I have told you so many times not to go there. Don’t you know he’s come from jail?’ she screamed and hit her again, even harder.
The girl’s wails could be heard all down the street.
She lay sobbing in a corner of her hut, too tired to cry anymore. Her mother guiltily walked in and held out a small bowl of rice to her. ‘Eat’, she said.
She looked scornfully at her mother and turned away. Smiling a little, her mother pulled her close and said, ‘Here, eat this. Then I will tell you a story.’ Grudgingly she took the bowl and began to eat. Stuffing her mouth full of rice she asked ‘Where is my story?’
‘Once upon a time in a far away land…’
‘Mummy, what is jail?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘You told me yesterday. You said Uncle…’
‘Hmmm. Jail is a place for bad people. If a person steals or kills someone he goes to jail.’
‘Do you get chocolates in jail?’
‘No.’
This idea dampened her spirit a little but she continued her torrent of questions.
‘How do you kill someone?’
‘Child, what are you saying?’
‘Tell me, tell me, tell me…’
‘Ummm, with a gun’, she replied since she was sure her daughter couldn’t lay her hands on one.
‘What’s a gun?’
‘I don’t know. I have not killed anyone.’
‘Are you sure? How do you know we are not in jail? I don’t get any chocolates here either…’
She laughed and patted her child’s head. ‘Go to sleep. It’s getting late’, she said and covered her with a thin sheet.

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

The next day she awoke quietly and ran out before her mother saw her. She ran till uncle’s house came in sight.
‘You’re here so early? I thought you won’t come till next week.’
‘Ummm, I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Wait a minute. See here, do you know what this is?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a gun. See? Bang, bang’, he said and pointed it in all directions with a gleam in his eyes.
The girl took one frightened look at him and ran out at top speed paying no heed to his shouts of ‘Wait, listen; come back here…’
Still shaking a little, she crept into her hut. Her mother had gone out for work and thus she was all alone. She found two stones and a thread and began to play a game which she had thought of. She tied a thread to the end of a stone. Keeping the other stone on the ground, she swung the string till the first stone hit the second. She started competing with herself as to how far the stone went at one go.
Noon arrived with its royal heat and her mother. ‘How much did you collect today?’
‘I didn’t get anything…’
‘What? You lazy child! I suppose you’ve been playing around all morning. Go out and collect some scrap. You will get lunch only after that.’
Slowly she got up, picked her gunny bag and went down the road.

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

Morning awoke with the crow of the rooster and the sunshine tiptoed towards the little girl’s face through the makeshift window and tickled her. She rolled over and dozed off. Her mother shook her awake. ‘Get up; today you will come with me.’
‘What about scrap collecting?’
‘Today you will come with me and work. You never get much scrap, anyway.’
She became thoughtful. Scrap collecting was great fun since she could do what she liked and wander as much as she wanted. ‘I will get more scrap today.’
‘Hurry up and clean yourself. You will come with me today’, said her mother and went out.
There was nothing to be done so she got ready and the two set off to a nearby house where the girl’s mother worked as a maid.
As they passed Uncle’s house he called, ‘Come here; I have something for you.’
She cowered behind her mother till his house was a long way behind.
The house was beautiful to her young eyes. Flowers of every hue adorned the garden. It was a visual feast. ‘Wheeee’, she said and rolled on the soft lawn.
‘Madam, I have got my daughter to work here.’
‘I need someone to water my plants. Can she do that?’
‘Yes, she can.’
When she took the big garden hose with her tiny hands and cool water splashed out of it she let out a yell of surprise.
‘Don’t waste the water. Water all the plants, understood?’
Joyously, she nodded. She aimed the hose into the air and squeezed the end to make the water move in a shimmering arc. She watered each plant, taking care to wet all the leaves so that they looked fresh. When she was done she wiped her hands on her frock and sat on the lawn. ‘This is much better than scrap collecting’, she thought. Her mother came out to find her daughter completely wet and rolling in the lawn which covered her with tiny grass pieces. ‘Come here, you idiot’, she said and proceeded to wipe her daughter’s head with the edge of her sari. ‘Come here, I’ll show you how to water the plants without getting wet…’
As they went on their way back home Uncle called out to her again and this time she didn’t pretend; she just ran home at top speed leaving her bewildered mother hurrying after her.
Uncle called her many times and even tried coming after her one day; much to her horror but she scuttled away at the mere shadow of him. Slowly, Uncle gave up trying to talk to her. Sometimes, she thought she saw him looking at her as he passed her house but when she turned to look, he wouldn’t be there.

Summer gradually made way to the passionate rainy season with its thunderous rain, dazzling lightening and the heavenly smell of the earth. The croaking of frogs could be heard in the distance. The rain made a rhythmic sound as it pattered on the plastic sheet that covered their hut. It was slowly beginning to get cold and she sat close to the fire and watched her mother cook food over it. The droplets of rain made their way down a hole in the plastic sheet to the hard, straw covered mud-floor inside. ‘Mummy, the roof is leaking.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Mummy, the water is coming into the house.’
‘Keep quiet. I have no money to buy a new sheet to cover the house.’
As the rain lessened, the two went for work. Watering the plants was no longer required but scrap collecting was difficult. Besides, her mother thought she would make her daughter share her work in the house. As they passed by uncle’s house they could hear him giving rasping coughs. He looked weakly through the window as they passed by. She held her mother’s hand tightly and went off.
As the day’s work was almost over someone came hurrying. ‘Madam, do you know? Uncle has died.’ Remembering him and his kind ways all of a sudden, she pulled at her mother’s sari till she came with her. A bunch of curious people had gathered around. Uncle sat peacefully in his chair; his head on his chest, with the newspaper neatly folded and kept on his lap. ‘Mummy, is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
Someone asked, ‘Does a rag-picker; a small girl live nearby?’
Surprised, she answered, ‘Yes, why?’
‘Uncle wanted you to have this. He’s written a small note here which says so.’
Curious, she opened the paper covering it. She almost dropped it in shock. It was the gun that she had seen Uncle with. ‘It’s a gun, it’s a gun’, she screamed. A few people who were watching tittered. ‘It’s only a toy. She thinks it’s a real gun’, they said and laughed. She gazed at the gun which was beautiful and hand made, which looked like it had been polished every day. Yes, it was indeed a toy. ‘Uncle didn’t come from jail. He only wanted to gift this to me’, she realized. As she was thinking thus, her mother took the toy gun out of her hands. She looked at with obvious happiness and satisfaction. ‘This will fetch a good amount in any toy shop. Along with the little I have saved, it’ll help me buy a new sheet for my roof...’

Kya baat Hai? (What's up?)

2006-10-15T18:31:00.000+05:30

The other day I was watching MTV’s ‘Kya baat hai’. (I just love watching debates. Sometimes a certain element of comedy can enter into the picture too. Though, that is not the reason why I like them. Sometimes, extremely interesting points come to the fore- probably because each team is hell-bent on getting the other down.)
The topic was ‘Is formal education necessary?’ this is a really great topic for arguing.If you ask me what I think, I’d say that there is no single answer. Ultimately it all boils down to what each individual wants. And that is as varied as, well, the people themselves.
Why is it that all people who have ‘dared to be different’ look down upon ‘ordinary’ people? Not everyone can come to Mumbai penniless and end up as millionaires. Not everyone is talented enough to give up formal education and build their life on what they ‘really’ want to do. In such situations, a degree in hand could be better than well, I guess you know what I mean.
But then, there’s the other side to this topic too. A lot of talent does get curbed in the follow the crowd concept. Someone argued that a person could first establish himself financially by the usual means and then go on to pursue his dreams. Theoretically, it is correct. But practically, that may never happen. He would have lost most of his youthful zest by then. But still, it is possible.
My opinion would be something similar to the above. Giving up formal education is risky because then you don’t have any back-up (unless you’re the heir apparent or something like that). But I think a person should never let go of his dreams. What he really wants to be should be very clear to him because sometime in his life, he’ll long to be an individual; distinct and unique. Are you getting confused? No, I’m not contradicting myself. I’m just trying to say that it’s always better to be on the safer side but also to take care not to be too safe. Because, sometimes too safe can be boring.

NaNoWriMo

2006-10-04T19:41:00.000+05:30

I must be nuts. I have signed up for NaNoWriMo, inspired by blue panther. For more details you can check this or Blue Panther's article on it.
It's a sort of a self-challenge to write 50,000 words in one month (Nov 1- Nov 30). I'm a lazy blogger who writes about 2000 words in one month! I really don't have the time to do this, there's every possibility of me giving up halfway but I thought I'll have a go at it anyway. Nothing to lose, right?
Wish me luck...

Bread Crumbs

2006-10-01T17:43:00.000+05:30

‘Will you lock the door when you come? The keys are on my table’
‘Yup, I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Be careful not to get caught by you know who’, he said with a wink.
‘I will. I’ll walk with a swagger so that no one gets to know…’
‘Are you sure that’ll work?’
‘Well, it did last time. I could be twice lucky, no?’
‘Sure, dude. See ya.’
He picked up his bag and left.
‘Oops, these assignment questions will be the death of me. I never knew copying was such a tedious job’, said Gautham.
He had joined college a few days back, a bit sad that holidays were over, yet excited at the prospect of freedom from parents (though washing his own clothes wasn’t in the least exciting) and making new friends. Gradually he’d begun to get used to hostel life- one of zero privacy; where you lived by sharing everything (except perhaps underclothes), to adjust to and love his roomie’s idiosyncrasies, to cope up with the ragging, getting a bit of studying done, playing ‘Counter Strike’ till 4 in the morning, waking up bleary-eyed and hastily stuffing some food down his throat, running to college only to hear his roll number being called, sending dozens of stupid SMSs, tearing a teacher to bits by criticizing him, laughing mindlessly over stupid jokes etc.-what constitutes anybody’s normal college life.
After the initial excitement of college life had worn out he found himself thinking longingly of home. He remembered his mom saying when he cribbed at her food, ‘All you need is a bit of hostel food, my ordinary idlis will seem better than any 5-star stuff’
‘What I wouldn’t give for some warm home-made idlis with chutney and honey’, Gautham thought wistfully. ‘And I wish Rocky was here. He’d scare away my sniggering seniors in no time.’ In his mind, he could see Rocky wagging his tail for a tit-bit. He shook his head to get rid of the memory. ‘I’ve to wait for this semester to get over to see him again…’he thought.
He yawned loud and long. ‘Counter Strike after effects’, he thought dully. He looked at his watch-‘10 minutes more… I’ll go. Oh, God, I need you now…’
As he locked his room, he heard someone call. ‘Hey, you! You’re Gautham, right?’ His feet went cold. ‘Yyyes, sir.’
‘Show more respect to seniors, man. Is this the way? Chalo, didn’t your mom tell you how to greet elders? Fold your hands and say ‘Namashkaar’.
‘Namashkaar, Sir.’
‘What did you say? I couldn’t hear it. Say it again and louder this time.’
‘Namashkaar.’
‘With more expression.’
‘Namashkaaar, Sir.’
‘Louder.’
‘NAMASHKAAR’
‘Yup, that’s more like it.’
‘Ok, then, I’m busy now. Don’t worry, we’ll meet soon.’
He managed to mumble a yes and ran at top speed, glad to have escaped unscathed.

‘May I get in, Sir?’
‘Hmm?’ the teacher looked up from the book he was holding, ‘What time does the class begin?’
‘Sir, I.’
‘Take your seat. You will get no attendance.’
‘What else do you think I attend your class for, Sir?’ Gautham thought viciously. He sat down in the first bench (the favourite back benches were always full) and winked at his neighbour.
‘Are you coming to the fresher party tonight?’ his bench mate whispered.
‘You bet’, said Gautham.
‘I hope Neha comes…’
‘Who’s she?’
‘What do you do in class, man? Study? If you don’t know Neha, the hottest girl of our class, you must be a real padhaaku.’
‘I don’t know. Where’s she sitting?’
‘Two benches behind you diagonally left.’
Gautham craned his neck to see her.
‘Hey you, first bench, what is the question I asked just now?’
‘Sir? Ummm’
‘Get out.’
‘Sir, but…’
‘Please, just go.’
Gautham slung his bag across his shoulder and walked out.
‘Let me go and have some food. Hopefully, the mess will provide something edible for breakfast’, he thought.
He took two sandwiches and came out. ‘Pooh, what is it made of’, he muttered to himself. He spotted a bench for travelers by the side of the road and sat down. The cool shade from the grand old tree made it an ideal place for a good read. He took out Richard Bach’s ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’, his all-time favourite book and one which was slightly worn out by many reads. He lovingly thumbed through the pages and found his favourite chapter and begun to read. The sandwiches lay uneaten on his lap. After a few minutes he got the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He looked around but could see no one. Assuming it to be a figment of his imagination he continued reading. A few more minutes passed thus. He felt something move. There was something alive near his feet! He lifted his feet above the ground at great speed only to kick the thing. ‘Yelp’, it said.
He looked down to see a pair of large brown friendly eyes gazing up at him. The light-brown coloured dog with white socks wagged its tail at him. Spotting the sandwiches that had fallen down from Gautham’s lap it began to gobble them greedily. After it had finished eating them (which didn’t take much time) it gazed expectantly at Gautham, hoping more food would fall.
‘Hey, you beg for food just the way Rocky does. Oh, you’re a she not a he. Let me call you Lassie. Hey, Lassie, shake hands’, he said and solemnly produced his hand. Lassie daintily lifted a paw and kept it on his upturned palm.
He fished in his pocket for something to eat and found a toffee, one which a shopkeeper had given him because he had no change. He kept it near Lassie’s paw and watched her lick it and prod it with her paw, laughed as the sticky toffee stuck to it and she tried to shake it off. He watched her till she had finished eating it (which didn’t take a surprising amount of time either).
‘Buzz’ said his mobile against his thigh. ‘Yup, I’ll be there in a minute’, he told his friend who had called.
‘Bye, Lassie’, he said and went off.

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The evening was growing darker. From his room, Gautham could see the trees lightly moving in the wind, like they were making a final bow before the sun left. He shut the book he was reading, locked his door and came out. His roommate was nowhere to be seen. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a deep breath. The night air whispered comforting things in his tired ears and he whistled his favourite tune, gently.
He felt something brush against his feet. ‘Hey’, he said as Lassie bounded upto him and proceeded to lick his feet. ‘Fancy a walk?’ he asked her. The two walked; content in each other’s company. ‘Animals can be such good company sometimes. They never say a thing yet say so much…’ he thought. He looked down to see Lassie happily sniffing the ground for crumbs, chasing an imaginary creature and occasionally giving his feet a lick or two.
As days passed by, this became a routine for the two. Gautham would come with a few crumbs and they would go for a short walk. Sometimes when he studied, Lassie would sit on his feet chasing away any birds or cats that dared to disturb him. Gautham’s friends too gradually accepted Lassie into their group. Sometimes, Gautham would be teased with ‘Mary and her little lamb’ but he didn’t mind. Simply speaking, he loved Lassie.

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

Months had flown by and Gautham was now a complete college student, well versed in the art of bunking classes, giving proxies and the like. He still managed to find time to play with Lassie every day. In short, Lassie had become a part of his life.
One day, as usual, he was standing outside his hostel with a few bread slices waiting for Lassie to appear, wagging her tail with her tongue hanging out, which made her look like she was laughing. And sure enough, he could see her bounding from across the road. From nowhere a car flew on the road with break neck speed. Gautham watched, with his heart in his mouth as the unthinkable happened. It was all over. A squeal and a sickening yelp and there was nothing more left of Lassie. The car driver looked behind to see what he had hit and immediately thumped his foot on the accelerator and drove away.
Gautham looked at her with pain his eyes. He couldn’t bear to touch the mangled body that had once been his Lassie. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he gazed at her for a long time, not knowing how to overcome his sorrow. He crossed the road and sat down slumped, under the tree where he and Lassie used to spend time having mock fights, playing ‘run and fetch’ etc. The more he tried to blur the memories the more they seemed to come into focus. He heard a few small yelps at his feet. It was like the cliché- history repeats itself. He looked down to see two lassie-resembling puppies at his feet. Brushing his tears away, he smiled lightly. ‘So, here are her puppies. She got them to see me today I guess,’ he thought. Yet again, he fished in his pocket for food, found a few crumbs and laid them on the ground for the puppies to eat. The cloud of sorrow in his mind seemed to be clearing. ‘Now what shall I name you both? Let me see…’

Split Ends

2006-09-11T19:34:00.000+05:30

This is a story I wrote for a story writing competition. (Check this for more details.) The first few lines were given (the ones in italics) and we had to complete the story in less than a 1000 words.
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He sat on the bench and looked around. It was only 9.00 am but there were still a few people walking.
He opened his school bag and felt the inside pocket. Through the lining the rustling sound of the crisp notes made him want to take it out and count it one more time.
Just then a dog ran towards him wagging its tail. He wondered if he should feed it a biscuit from his snack box. But he had a long wait ahead. So he merely patted its head.
Mummy said he always came to Cubbon Park for a walk. It was a routine of many years. A walk and then a morning coffee at Koshy's.
He raised his water bottle to his mouth and drank deeply. What if this was the one day he decided to stay at home? He wondered…

‘It doesn’t really matter. I can give it to him any day’, he mused. ‘But then, Mom won’t be too happy…’
He sighed. He was tired of all this. He looked at his watch. ‘I might as well give school a miss’, he thought. He looked around to see if he could spot him anywhere. He was beginning to feel thirsty. ‘Let me go to Koshy’s. He might have come early and gone there.’
He walked in to Koshy’s and got himself a cold coffee- his all-time favourite drink. He took a long sip, enjoying the sensation as it trickled down his throat.
Ajay was a typical 16-year old Bangalore teenager. Apart from the numerous problems that teenagers generally have he had an extra one- his parents. That’s not unusual as most teenagers would name their parents as their major problem but then, his problem was indeed genuine. His parents had divorced a year back and his life had become living hell. A call-center employee in one of the many BPOs of Bangalore, his mother would return exhausted in the morning. His father, a software professional was a true workaholic and stayed in his office till late in the night to meet deadlines, attend meetings etc. Time had gradually made them go separate ways and though Ajay’s father had begged his wife not to leave, she had.
Ajay stayed back with his mother. But the problems didn’t end there. Financial problems soon arose. His mother’s salary of about Rs 15,000 per month wasn’t enough for their daily needs. His school fees were another issue. Getting to know from the principal that he hadn’t paid the fees yet, his Dad had paid it for him. When Ajay’s mother had heard of this she had immediately sent him to return the money. She reminded him that he would be in Cubbon Park for his morning walk.
Ajay loved money. He always dreamed of getting rich and roaming in fancy cars. He loved fingering the notes and imagining what he could buy with it.

Ajay savoured the last few drops of his coffee. He thought ‘Am I going to live all my life like this? Like a go-between? How can I choose between my parents? They’re after all, well, me. That’s a strange way of putting it but that’s what it is. They’re me, I’m them. What kind of a life is this? What am I living for? No one seems to care for me. My parents would have thought twice before separating if they’d been concerned about me. I feel lost and purposeless.’ He looked around, wiping his eyes, hoping that no one had seen him weeping. ‘But, this is Bangalore. As if people have the time to look at anyone…’ he thought viciously.
He got up, not really thinking about where he would go next. Suddenly he spotted Sahana hesitating at the doorway. ‘Sahana bunked class too? That’s amazing’, he thought. Sahana was one of the most intelligent students of the class and it was considered blasphemy even if anyone hinted that she would bunk a class.
‘Hi, you bunked class? Or did they declare today a holiday?’
‘Uh, no, I just didn’t feel like going’
‘Sahana, are you all right?
‘N…yyes’
‘Why don’t we have some coffee? You like cappuccino, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Um, I over heard you telling someone.’
Before Ajay knew what was happening, she had begun crying. He watched, slightly scared, not knowing what to do. Finally, he gathered up the courage to ask, ‘Sahana, could I be of any help?’
Between tears she said, ‘Ajay, it’s my parents. I think their marriage is on the rocks. I don’t know what to do.’ She talked and talked saying everything that she had kept locked up. Ajay, heard, not believing that anyone’s life could so closely resemble his. With a small sad smile he said, ‘You haven’t seen anything yet…’ he poured his heart out to her. Somehow, it was very comforting.
‘Um, Sahana, shall I say something?’
‘Ya’
‘I really like you. I don’t know how to put it but I’ve never felt this happy in anyone’s company for quite some time. Once upon a time I and dad used to sit around and chat like this… forget that. I really like you…’
She smiled and held his hands in hers. Her eyes said it all. He didn’t care if he was in love, if this would last, whatever. All he knew was that he had got a companion, someone he could depend upon, someone whom he needed and someone who needed him.

15th August, 2006

2006-08-15T21:34:00.000+05:30

Today is India’s Independence Day. 15 August 1947 was the day when India became free from the clutched of the British. But, what does it mean to us, the youth of today? I wanted to write an article about it in my blog but, coming to think of it, I really don’t know what to write. That’s a shameful thing to say. I know, but that’s the truth. 59 years later, has the Independence Day lost its meaning in commercialization? Has 15^th August just become a holiday for us?
Patriotism- what does it mean to us, the so called citizens of tomorrow? Is patriotism dead? Or maybe it isn’t. When I look at the soldiers of our country, many of them barely 17, I can safely say that patriotism is not dead. What about the rest of us? What is our role in serving the country? It’s everyone’s favourite activity to crib about the government but I can’t help wondering if that’s the only thing that can be done. There are people who say that we should not just blame the government, we should work for the country’s improvement too. But not one of them has come up with a suitable suggestion as to what can be done. A heated discussion was going on about the above topic and one person said, ‘You go and stand for the elections if you find fault with the present government. After all, you voted for it.’ But, then, what is our duty as the people? To join NGOs? To donate to charitable causes? How do you know that the money you donate will reach the right hands? Not everyone can become social workers, sacrificing everything. There are people who can’t get actively involved in all these things due to various reasons- family obligations, money matters and many others. What does 15^th August mean to all these people? I don’t know; I’m rather a confused soul about this matter.
Don’t tell me a theory that today is the day when India became independent, thousands died for her cause, today’s the day when we remember them and pay homage. I know all that. In no way am I forgetting it. But how many of us really thought about it today? How many of us really saluted the soldiers, if not by actually attending a flag hoisting, at least in our minds? Has 15^th August just become a holiday? A day when we relax and watch movies like Border, Mission Kashmir, Lakshya and the like? I wonder… You can’t really blame the people. Most of them work like crazy throughout the week and a holiday in between is treated with the greatest relief. But I can’t help but think of all the people who sacrificed their lives just to watch the tri-colour flag being hoisted. What great love they must have had for India. Will that passion ever return? Will India ever see such patriotism again? Will India ever see her children united for her cause? I wonder…

Youth unplugged

2006-08-09T18:41:00.000+05:30

I watched ‘youth unplugged’ on NDTV (it’s a news channel) sometime back and they were discussing two hot topics: one-is ragging a necessary evil? And two- is our education system good? A debate was going on and both the parties (constituted of students) were steaming! I guess if the mediator wasn’t there they would have torn each other apart.
These are two questions, very much pertaining to the youth of today and I can’t help but express my opinion. So, here goes.

Is ragging a necessary evil?
I think ragging is extremely stupid- done in any sense. And you can’t justify ragging. Ragging brings down the morale of the students and that is definitely not a good idea. After a lot of difficulty, a student gains admission into his/her choice of college and the first day he gets to meet seniors who need their egos to be fed? And because the student is usually in a hostel, he is at the complete mercy of his seniors. Some points made by the pro-ragging party were that ragging would help you in your later life; that’s what real life is all about, you get to know your seniors better through ragging; you should have the mental stamina to face ragging after 12 years of schooling.
I mean, what crap is all that? Mental stamina? Give me a break. Getting yourself embarrassed in public (forget about the worse things that can and do happen) gives the juniors mental stamina? Believe me, no amount of training can make a person get used to being pointed at and jeered. We’re talking about human nature here and not about a machine which gets smoother as you use it.
Ragging will help us in our later life? Like, in our workplace? No, I don’t agree. A student’s life is designed so that he faces the right things at the right time. When he is done with college he is old enough to handle the workplace in its totality. Prior experience of ragging doesn’t count. He doesn’t need to be ragged to become a good professional. Not everyone gets ragged. I mean, if you’re getting your degree by evening classes or something similar, the question of ragging doesn’t arise at all. Are such people inferior to the ‘experienced’ people? I leave you to think about that one…
Ragging helps us to know our seniors? There isn’t a nicer way for juniors and seniors to get to know each other? How about seniors ‘talking’ to juniors? (I mean, as a civilized being would; without saying, ‘you f**g junior? Where the f** have you come from?’). Seniors can help the juniors quite a bit; in fact, they do need it. They have absolutely no idea what to do and how to work out things with their educational system. (I have seen it happening so there’s no question of telling me that it’s not possible. The seniors showed the juniors around, told them what places were worth visiting, where cheap second hand books were available, which teachers to watch out for( that is important!) and generally how to have a good time without bidding good-bye to their grades. And man, were the juniors happy! Of course, that is not the whole story; there were seniors who ragged them too. What I’m trying to say that friendly interaction between the seniors and juniors is possible.)
The bottom line is that ragging is done by those who get a cheap thrill out of it; the thrill of watching someone shake and shiver in fright; the sadistic excitement in knowing that they have control; total control.

I will talk abut the second question some other time. If you click on this (it’s one of my previous posts; a short story) you may get an idea…

Blog

2006-08-04T16:57:00.000+05:30

The essence of 'blogginess' is “the unedited voice of a single person” - Dave Winer
I thought that was a great one. What say?

A 20 Rupee note

2006-07-31T12:43:00.000+05:30

He looked up at the sky. It was a pleasant evening, not too warm, not too cold; just right to be outdoors. He had always been an outdoor person; adventurous and full of life, something his numerous friends would testify to.
As he shut the gate, he heard someone call, ‘Hey Harsh, where are you going?’
‘Just felt like going for a walk. Might go to the beach.’
‘Just a sec, I’ll come with you.’
‘Er, I have some work on the way and might drop into my colleague’s house. If you don’t mind…
‘Oh ok. See ya.’
‘Whew, that was close’, he thought.
He walked along, lost in his thoughts. ‘Should I be doing this?’ he mused. Then he reflected, ‘This is going to happen after all, some day or the other…’
He could see a stray dog from the corner of his eye. Dogs terrified him. ‘Don’t look at them in the eye, they feel they’re being challenged’, he remembered someone telling him. Resisting the temptation to do just that, he slowly walked sideways. After confirming that the dog wasn’t chasing him, he drew in a deep breath and walked on.
He reached the beach. ‘Oh good, there’s still a lot of time till sunset.’ He sat down to watch the waves caress the shore and go back.
‘People are so oblivious of everything else on the beach. They don’t even care if they’re being watched’, he thought as he observed a few children playing and a couple splashing water at each other.
He held up a fistful of sand and let it go slowly, watching it being blown away by the wind. It was a gesture he had seen in numerous movies, used to symbolize futility.
Somehow, it seemed very apt now.
The laughter and the shouts in the background, the sound of the waves, nothing mattered.
‘Ice-cream, ice-cream’
A small dirty looking boy of about ten stood before him leaning on his cycle. On it was strapped a small box with ‘Pallavi Ice-cream’ written on it.
‘Some local company. Cheap stuff’, he surmised.
‘Sir, chocobar, cup ice-cream, ball ice-cream, vanilla, butterscotch, strawberry, mango, chocolate flavour, Sir’, the boy said in one breath.
Harsh was in no mood to be disturbed. This intrusion into his thoughts irritated him.
‘Go away’, he said rudely.
‘Sir, sir, I have chocobar, cup…’
‘I said, go away. Don’t you get it?’
‘Sir, ice-cream is very good. Only 10 Rupees for cup ice-cream, 15 for chocobar…’
‘Listen, I don’t give a damn for your ice-cream-vanilla or chocolate. Go away. LEAVE ME ALONE.
He said the last sentence so loudly that the boy was too stunned to speak. Two big tears found their way down his cheek and onto his grubby T-shirt. Still crying, he turned away. Harsh gazed at him for a moment. He heard himself say,
‘Hey, stop.’
‘No sir, I will go.’
‘Come here, I say’
Cautiously, the boy came upto him. Checking his pockets, Harsh found a 20 Rupee note and some loose change. ‘Here, take it’, he said, handing it over to the ice-cream boy who immediately brightened up.
‘Sir, which flavour?’
‘No, no, I don’t want any ice-cream. Just keep it.
The boy gave Harsh a disbelieving look. ‘Is he making fun of me?’ he seemed to be thinking.
‘Sir, but…’
‘Just keep it.’
The boy gazed at him happily. Harsh could see dreams in the boy’s eyes; probably of toy guns or cars or maybe a cricket bat, he thought. (He had saved up for one when he was young.)
‘Sir, er, thanks’, he said awkwardly.
‘Ya, now go’

‘Thank God’, Harsh said loudly.
‘Funny that I should be thinking of God right now’, he thought grimly, ‘looking at it from a different perspective, I don’t think there could be a better time’.
He started laughing. He stopped suddenly, sickened with himself.
He had always been strong, healthy and athletic; a lady-killer too. He was young with years stretching out in front of him. He could see nothing that would destroy his utopian life. But then, real life rarely ends with ‘happily ever after’.
He was HIV positive.
The news had shattered him. For some time, he had shut himself up, avoiding all social contact. But his neighbours and friends had stood by him and made him live an ordinary life again.
‘Ya, I am treated well; no one treats me as an outcast, but…’
‘At least, all the AIDS campaigns by our Miss Universes have worked; people are more aware.’
The crowd was thinning. The sun had already plunged into the sea and it was getting dark. He looked around at the people, longing to be one of them.
‘I am HIV positive.’ He had repeated it over and over to himself so that he could really believe it. ‘But, how?’ he wondered. ‘Oh, of course, I guess my promiscuity has something to do with it. But, me? HIV? Oh shit, this can’t happen to me.’
All the glorious years of his life that he had visualized seemed to crumple up.
He couldn’t bear to think that he had to live day after day knowing his days were numbered. Sure, the doctors had assured him of a few years, explaining the finer details of HIV and AIDS; that it would take some time before AIDS took control of him. But, no, he couldn’t take it anymore. Waking up everyday to the fact that he wasn’t the same old youthful Harsh frightened him. Suicide had seemed the only way out.
‘Would I have ever dreamt of killing myself before? Would I ever have been desperate enough?’ he wondered.
The beach was deserted. He looked around. Yes, there was no one in sight, not even beach crazy teenagers. He slowly walked towards the water. The waves brushed against his feet. The night was silent, as if watching everything but able to do nothing. He walked on, feeling nothing. His mind, unoccupied, began to run over the day’s events. ‘What will my neighbours think? Will they guess? Or will it be days before someone notices? No, one of my friends is sure to call to find out what I’m doing. Who knows, someone might be calling right now.
His thoughts came to rest on the ice-cream boy. The joy on the boy’s face as he clutched the 20 rupee note (an extremely small part of Harsh’s salary) flashed before him. He could still see the boy’s eyes, sparkling with happiness. ‘How pleased he was’, he thought.
He suddenly saw that he wasn’t moving further. He had stopped, lost in his thoughts. He tried to move but his thoughts were still circling the boy. The shy, innocent smile that had lit up the boy’s face on receiving the paltry sum made him smile. Something about that made him come to his senses. ‘How on earth could I forget the small pleasures of life? How could I have ever contemplated suicide? True, I’m going to die. But then, as the cliché goes, everyone dies. Apart from that, I have lots to live for. Oh God, how could I forget that? My friends, my job, my sports, my hobbies-oh, a million things.’
He slowly walked back. The beach seemed beautiful to him. The sound of the waves filled him with a sense of calm. He stood still, gazing at it.
‘I’m going to find that ice-cream boy tomorrow. I wish he was here now. I feel like having a chocobar…’

Stay connected

2006-07-29T10:36:00.000+05:30

I am a chronic surfer. (I’m talking about the net, in case you were visualizing me on a beach) Yet, the last two days have been complete bliss. My computer conked out and was taken for repairs. I nearly cried out, ‘What am I going to do? How will I spend time?’ I am not too much of a TV watcher-not too fond of serials, maybe music for a few minutes.
But there was nothing to be done, so, off went my comp. (The monitor, if you’re a stickler for details. But then, I hope you aren’t dumb enough for me to mention that a comp is pretty useless without its monitor. I have mentioned it in a way, haven’t I? That means I think you’re dumb? No comments about that one. By the way, don’t you think I’ve written far too much within the brackets? You think so? Good, great, in fact. I don’t)
Ok, so I’ve forgotten what I was talking about (either I’m too happy to have my comp back or I’m really sleepy-it’s 12:06. Ya, I have a digital clock. I hate them. So why do I still have one on my table? No idea. Too sleepy to think about the day when it first received the honour of gracing my table.)
Yes, it all comes back to me now. (See, I have my streaks of brilliance too. What happens in between two streaks? Don’t worry; we’ll deal with that highly intellectual question later.)
Before you beat me up, I’ll continue. (Ah, you guessed that the beating part of it was metaphorical? You did? Wow, ten points to you.)
Yes, I was talking about my comp. I had two internet-free days. No websites offering me free smileys, or any free stuff for that matter (with a tiny ‘conditions apply’ in an obscure corner), no sites offering me law degrees (Wanna become a lawyer? Click this. Wow, I wish it was that easy.) No worrying about my blog statistics (not a great headache as the blog is for my personal satisfaction. Yes, in case you don’t believe the above sentence, re-read it. That was a serious sentence. And don’t you dare laugh.)
No clicking the ‘download’ button guiltily and wondering how much time it will take. No browsing through JK Rowling’s site and waiting for the objects to turn into portkeys. (I must’ve visited it a million times. You want me to mention that I suffer from Pottermania? There you are.) No visiting chat forums and wondering who ‘cool tiger’ or ‘Rocky the Great’ is.
No ruining my English with stupid chats:
‘Wat r u doin? She is comin frm blore 2 ur hous.’
‘dat is sumthin Ill do 2morrow’
(I’m not a chat fan. I hate saying gtg, btw and LOL- that’s the stupidest, reminds me of lollipop)
No bulk mail-‘Wanna do business with us?’, ‘laptop for free’, ‘buy SlimPlus--reduce your weight’ (I’m sick of ads for slimming. Check this for more info)
No email forwards. No person suffering from a dreaded disease who’ll get 10 cents for every mail you forward. Honestly, how do people fall for it? No mails telling me that I’ll have bad luck for the next 7 years (it varies, you see. Stronger the email charm, more the bad luck.) And I will suffer from relationship problems for the rest of my life as I’ve deleted numerous ‘You’re my sweet, you’re my honey, you’re my sun, whatever, whatever forwards. I wonder what else they can think of to keep chain letters circulating. They’ve used it all---God, poverty, suffering, everything!
Sometimes, I wonder if we’re connected a bit too much. Maybe, you wouldn’t want to ‘keep in touch’ all the time. Hey, don’t get me wrong, internet is wonderful, blah, blah and blah. But sometimes, I can’t help wondering…

One Tuesday...

2006-07-13T23:47:00.000+05:30

‘Hurry up, we’re getting late.’
‘Can’t you wait a second? Let me lock the door.’
Sahana gazed at her brother Ashish and then at her watch. ‘There is still time’, she reasoned, ‘unless the traffic gives too much trouble…’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Taxi, TAXI’
‘Haan saab, where do you want to go?’
‘Churchgate railway station and make it quick.’
He drove at full speed, cruising expertly through the traffic. Ashish grinned to himself as the driver swore when a vehicle came in his way, something all taxi drivers did.
As they finally reached the station Sahana heaved a sigh of relief. She had clung on to the seat for dear life as the taxi flew on the road. She gingerly got out and adjusted her dress as Ashish paid the driver.
The evening crowd was still accumulating at the station. There was time for her train to arrive.
‘I called Daddy and told him you’d come in the evening.’
‘Oh, ya, I’d for forgotten that.’
‘Hm, nothing unusual’, he remarked dryly.
‘Thank God, my boss gave me leave today.’
‘Ya, you know what….’
They sat around for a few more minutes, making light conversation.
‘There’s my train.’
She boarded the train and waved to her brother. After the train left the station, he slowly walked back to the nearest taxi.
She kept her small travelling bag by her feet and settled down. For a few minutes, she looked at the houses whiz by before reaching for a book from her bag. She soon got bored and started observing her fellow passengers. A mother and her child (she put his age at about 10 years) caught her attention. He was eagerly telling his mother about Superman’s latest movie and she wore the expression of one who had heard it quite a few times before.
‘You know, superman goes vroooooom’, he finished with adequate special effects. Sahana called him. ‘Have you read the Harry Potter books?’ she knew it was one of the best openings of conversation with a kid. It had rarely failed her.
‘ya, he said, his eyes shining. ‘Do you know his Firebolt is the fastest? Its acceleration is…’
Before she had obtained that particular statistic from him she heard a loud sound and simultaneously everything went black.

As he climbed the stairs leading to his cramped 2-bedroom apartment, he thought about Sahana; how she had longed to work with him in the city. It had hardly been a month and she had already begun to feel homesick. ‘Women’, he muttered to himself. He suddenly realized that it had been just a few minutes since she had gone and he was already missing her usual banter.
As he was opening the door, his neighbour called him.
‘Ashish?’
‘Hi’
‘Have you seen the news? It’s horrible, just like ’93.’
‘No, I just came from the station.’
‘What? Did you go to leave someone? Was it Sahana? Oh shit, there have been bomb blasts on trains. See?’
His heart skipped a beat. Trembling slightly, he stepped into his neighbours house and peered at the television. His worst fears were confirmed. It was indeed the train Sahana had been on.
‘Ashish, hey, Sahana’s ok, na?’
Somehow, he managed to say, ‘No, I’m not sure. I hope so’ before dragging his feet downstairs and onto the road.
His thoughts were getting entwined with each other. Memories seemed to be doing a fast paced dance in his mind. Everything was going twice as fast. He could see her laughing yesterday and suddenly jumping out at him from behind a tree when she was 12… He pushed his thoughts aside, knowing he had to act calmly. For the second time in the day, he hailed a taxi.
‘Take me to Churchgate, no, where the first blast has taken place.’
‘That was between Khar and Santa Cruz stations, no?’
‘Ya, ya, just drive fast’
As he was driving, he asked, ‘Someone you knew was on the train?’
‘Huh? Ya, my sister.’
‘Don’t worry, Inshallah, she will be fine.’
‘Ya, thanks.’
He reached the spot where the disaster had taken place. Refusing money, the taxi driver said, ‘Don't worry, Allah will find your sister for you.’
He reeled in horror at the sight that greeted his eyes. He could see mangled bodies covered in blood. Fighting the wave of nausea that came over him and avoiding the thought that his sister was one of them he addressed the person standing next to him.
‘Where are the survivors?’
‘I don’t know, most of them have been taken to local hospitals.’
With increasing terror and desperation he inspected the bodies lying before him. When he had seen the last of them, he felt weary with relief. ‘At least, I have hope’, he thought.
All of a sudden, he remembered that she had a cell phone. He almost went mad as he heard, ‘The number you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please try after some time.’
How he managed to visit so many hospitals and check the patients, he didn’t know. He took a lift, walked, sat on a pillion, hailed an auto, a taxi, and went from hospital to hospital. At last, he could search no more. His throat was dry and he felt weak with exhaustion. He went into a small hotel nearby and sank into a seat. He ordered some food and thought about his parents, ‘How anxious they must be’. The full weight of the day’s incidents came down upon him and he laid his head on the table.
A few minutes later when the waiter came to give the bill he found Ashish sound asleep. Having heard the full story of his day, the waiter felt pity on him. He told the owner of the hotel and they agreed he was best left undisturbed.

He woke up in the morning to the latest film’s tune from his mobile. Picking it up, he said, ‘Hello’.
‘Hello, are you Ashish? Sahana’s brother?’
‘ya, is she ok? Where are you calling from?’ he said sharply.
‘I’m calling from a hospital. Please come quickly. We tried a lot to call you on your cell phone but couldn’t reach you. Please come soon.
‘Tell me, is she fine?’
‘Sort of, she’s out of danger now.’
He felt dizzy with happiness. ‘Give me the address; I’ll be there in a minute.’
He rushed out and caught a taxi. ‘Meena nursing home’, he read as he stood in front of a small, old-looking building. He went in. A man of about 45 called him, ‘Are you Ashish?’
‘Ya, you’re the one who called me? Where’s Sahana?
‘Come’
As they walked, he told Ashish that he was a taxi driver. He had come forward to help the victims and had carried Sahana and two other people to his taxi. He had driven towards a nursing home whose owner he knew. It wasn’t a big place, not well-known, yet functional.
This had to be the one place I didn’t search’, Ashish thought.
When he saw Sahana, he stood still for a moment. He was relieved beyond words to see her alive but horrified at the state she was in. One side of her face was badly wounded; she was covered in bandages and seemed to be in great pain.
He moved forward and hugged her, tears running down his face. All his pent-up feelings broke loose and he cried like a child.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine. And how are you?
He laughed inspite of the situation, probably out of pure relief.
‘What did the doctors say?’
‘I’m ok; out of danger.’
He sat down beside her bed. Suddenly, the faces of all the people he had seen in the hospitals he had visited came into view. The thought of their haggard and desperate expressions made him wonder about their fates. He knew that not all of them had been as lucky as him. It had been a black Tuesday for many. His heart went out to them. He kneeled down and said a silent prayer, thanking Him for his sister and asking Him to save the others.

(This story is a tribute to all those Mumbaikars who came forward to help the injured on July 11, 2006 when Mumbai was rocked by 7 blasts, all on trains. They were there to help the victims, providing whatever they could- water, food, bed sheets to carry the injured, etc. They bridged the gap between the time of the accidents and the government’s arrival. Telephones (cell phones too) didn’t work when they were needed most due to excess communication which jammed the networks.)

Commercialized life

2006-07-10T00:28:00.000+05:30

Man is said to be a civilized being. He lives within a society that constitutes himself, his family and others like him.
Finance plays an important role in any society. Money matters. True. But don’t you think finance is gaining an upper hand on man himself?
The modern day commercialization is a bit too much if you ask me. Take the example of the child marathon runner Budhia. How many newspapers and TV channels have had a field-day because of him? You can say that they are showcasing talent. But don’t you think it puts a very high level of expectation on such a young child? Maybe he should be allowed to lead a normal childhood…

Personal moments such as people lamenting over the death of loved ones are printed in newspapers and flashed all over television. Some person will receive an award for ‘picture of the year’- a photo of how a woman weeps her heart out for her child. Need I remind you all of the tsunami that destroyed the lives of thousands? Surely some photo like the one I described above must have appeared in your mind’s eye. Maybe I could put my point across by mentioning the infamous ‘Kareena-Shahid’ incident. Do you really think photographs of them kissing deserved national attention? There are so many national issues to talk about yet their snaps were published. Why? It is because everyone loves a scandal. It sells. Sure, they are celebrities and you could say that it is a small price to pay for the adulation they receive. What about personal space? Don’t you think it’s slowly getting lost in this whirlpool of commercialization?

I sometimes wonder if man is going in retrograde order as far as civilization is concerned. (No need to talk about the tech world, I guess. There, we are advancing at lightning speed.) What is civilization? What is it, after all, to be a civilized being? Maybe, that is a question each one of us should ask ourselves.

12:00 AM

2006-07-05T11:07:00.000+05:30

It’s nearing 12. I feel it’s time for me to go to sleep (read my mom will yell at me for staying up so late). Yet, I’m feeling wide awake. I know I’m going to toss and turn for quite some time before falling asleep. Can’t listen to music as it will disturb the neighbors. (I hate walkmans if you’re thinking about that.) Can’t call anyone at this unearthly hour either. I’m bored of surfing the net. (Obviously, I just finished a 1-hour session about 15 minutes back.)
No, this is not the beginning of an adventure or a horror story where he suddenly hears a ‘mysterious sound’ or the windows begin to rattle and a woman dressed in white walks in. Here I’m describing my own experience. Anyway, let me continue.
Since I’m already feeling wide awake, I decide to utilize my time well. I decide to study. (Actually, I should have realized right then that lack of sleep had addled my brains.) The very sight of my notebook makes my eyes feel weary. I begin to yawn uncontrollably. My eyes read the same sentences over and over again without taking in a thing. Suddenly, my mind which was feeling all clear is all muddled up. My thoughts are getting entwined in each other. I think longingly of my warm bed. I almost fall over my feet in my haste to reach my bedroom.

Sleep, a word of five letters. What is sleep after all? A long time ago, my uncle said, ‘Sleep is a thief as we never know when it comes and goes’. Not a complete description but accurate nevertheless. Recently, I read a book by the physicist Richard Feynman where he tries to probe the mysteries of sleep. I am not crazy enough to lie awake each night and observe every moment of my consciousness before I fall asleep; yet, sleep is indeed an intriguing subject for me.
Sleep is truly wonderful as it makes you forget all your worries for hours at a stretch-something you cannot achieve either by drinking or by drugs. I pity the people who suffer from insomnia. How terrible it must be if you can't wind up the day with a good night’s sleep!
I think the time when you have just woken up is one of the rare moments of your life when your mind is really clear; clear of all the garbage of the previous day. Thus, you are ready to face a new day with renewed strength and vigour.
Sleep is something that rejuvenates your body and mind. (Food can’t refresh your mind unless you are the kind of person who lives to eat and not the other way round.)
So, I’m off to do just that (Yawn) and if you are reading this late at night or in the wee hours of the morning, I say, go to sleep!

On kids and painting

2006-07-03T10:45:00.000+05:30

Drawing. Is there any kid alien to it? (Ok, I know it was a rhetorical question but I couldn’t help it.) Even if your artistic pursuits didn’t amount to more than a few squiggles, I’m sure that as you are reading this, you have remembered your childhood days.
There is something beautiful about the way a child draws. He lets his imagination run wild (sometimes, a bit too much, considering trees get painted red, etc. etc.)There is something that attracts you to a kid’s painting-maybe it is the simplicity that charms you or the fact that it is done by someone pure at mind and heart, I don’t know, but you do feel drawn towards it.
A kid’s painting makes you want to look long at it. Somehow, it pleases you, probably because at that very moment you are looking into a child’s heart and it awakens the child in you, the child that died long ago as you got on with life.
I believe that simplicity is what makes a kid so special, unlike us, who live highly complicated lives. A man, a difficult subject to draw with his eyes, nose, ears, toes, fingers, etc. is conquered with just a circle for a face and lines for hands and feet. Two triangles placed next to each other form hills which hold the sun, a semicircle. A few letter ‘r’s drawn in the sky become the birds, completing the scenery.
How could I mention paintings and not talk about colours? Almost all of a child’s paintings are brightly coloured (usually red, don’t ask me why). I always feel that it reflects the way a kid looks at life-all rosy and colourful. The sheer joy on a child’s face as he dips a brush in paint and smears it all over a page (never mind that he was supposed to colour each thing differently) is something worth observing.
As he grows up, he realizes that life’s painting has quite a few shades of grey in it too. He learns that hills have to be coloured brown only, trees, a certain shade of green and so on. He gets to know that life is not the way he painted it to be. He wonders if he can paint well, wonders what others will say and worries about a million other things. After he reaches this stage, he can never paint with the abandon of a child.
Hence, I say that a child’s painting which screams innocence is truly a work of art. It is not something to be scoffed at but a thing of beauty to be cherished forever.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

2006-06-22T21:43:00.000+05:30

You Should Be a Song Writer

You have the ability to evoke emotion, tell a story, and hook someone...
In a very small amount of words, perhaps with some deft rhyming.
Even if you can't write music, you can sure write compelling lyrics.
Lyrics so good, people will have them stuck in their heads!

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

The Annual Day

2006-06-11T00:32:00.000+05:30

I woke up with a start. I wondered what it was that had disturbed my sleep. Pushing the curtains and peering through the bars of my wooden window, I saw two boys playing cricket.
‘These cricket-crazy children.’
I yawned, still drowsy. My brain dimly registered that it was past 8 by the faint notes of Subbulakshmi’s Suprabhatham that could be heard from my neighbour’s house.
Deciding it was time for me to get up; I pushed the sheets off my feet. I slept between sheets, even in summer, an old habit of mine.
Tightening my dhoti, I said, ‘Latha, get my coffee’.
The boys were still playing. I saw that my son had joined them.
‘What is Shyam doing? School starts in half an hour.’ Then I chuckled to myself, remembering my cricketing days. ‘Boys will be boys…’
‘Latha?’
‘I’m coming, no? I need time to prepare coffee and get it here’, she grumbled.
I gratefully accepted the piping hot golden-brown coffee and sipped it. Coffee in the morning was my greatest weakness. I looked at her fondly. Fifteen years’ of mornings had begun thus. I could still remember…
‘Are you going to get up at all?’ she said, tucking the crisp cotton sari around her waist.
‘Huh?’
‘I knew you would forget’, she said, straightening the bed.
‘Okay, I’ve forgotten. Will you tell me now?’
‘Today is the parent-teacher meeting at 10:30’
‘Oh, yes…’
‘I have kept the hot water ready. Go and have a bath. You remember you have to apply for leave before you go, don’t you?’
‘Latha, I always wonder who knows more about my job.’
‘Don’t worry, I do’, she said, picked up the empty glass and left.
I yawned again and got up. ‘So, it’s a holiday for him today. No wonder he’s playing. And I was all ready to give him a piece of my mind for going late to school’, I thought, shaking my head.
I finished my bath and came out to find my white shirt and silk dhoti neatly folded on top of my chair. I was never allowed to wear this except on special occasions.
I dressed and started combing my hair in front of the small mirror hanging on the wall. I could see shades of grey. ‘Age tells’, I thought, wistfully. Then I cheered up. ‘I have no cause for worry. I have aged well’, I thought.
As I ate the uppam that she served, she said, ‘Don’t allow them to talk you into donation’.
‘Hmmmm…’
I finished my breakfast and picked up my bag. Fixing it to one handle of my bicycle, I placed my feet on the pedals and started off.
The Taluk office where I worked as a clerk was about one and a half kilometers away, downhill all the way and it was a pleasant journey each morning.
I parked my bicycle near the door and went in, wiping my forehead.
‘Namaskara’, said the office boy.
`Hm.
‘Has the Tahshildar come?’
‘Illa saar’
I settled down as comfortably as I could on my rickety old chair when I remembered that I had to apply for leave. I had the parent-teacher meeting the same day, Shyam’s annual day in the eveing and a family function the next. ‘So, two days’ leave’, I calculated. ‘How will the boy get to know of his relatives if he doesn’t meet them?’ Musing thus, I submitted the application for leave and left, telling the office boy to tell the Tahshildar that I had come.
As I was cycling towards Shyam’s school I heard the distinct purr of a car. Before I could wonder what the model was, it had passed me with lightening speed, splattering me with mud. Furious, I shook my fist at him but he had gone. ‘Madman, maniac, psycho’, I cursed. It was already 10:20so there was no way I could reach home and change unless a miracle took place.
I reached Shyam’s school with five minutes to spare. I hastily cleaned my hands and face as best as I could and proceeded to the school’s auditorium, hoping I looked presentable.
The headmaster was an Mr.Gopal Sharma, someone I defended daily against my son who loved to criticize him. He was a newcomer and had taken over as headmaster only last year. I didn’t really know him on a personal level but I liked him. He was young and enthusiastic though I had heard that he could be just a little domineering.
I went over to talk to him.
‘Hello, Mr.Sharma.’
He gave me a strange look (something I couldn’t understand then but later realized that it was probably disgust).
‘Oh, hello’
‘I’m Shyam’s father, Mohan Rao. Shyam, who studies in the fifth standard?’
‘Oh, yes, nice to meet you’, he said, very formally.
There was a small pause and he showed signs of wanting to leave. Wondering why he was cold shouldering me, I tried once again.
‘Mr.Sharma, how is my son…’
He cut me mid-sentence and said, ‘If you could please excuse me, Mr.Rao, I have some important work to do’. He smiled and left.
Feeling slightly put off, I settled down on one of the plastic chairs and looked around. The auditorium was slowly getting filled. A few minutes later, the headmaster rose to speak.
‘Good Morning. I welcome you all to the Parent-Teacher meeting. He continued, talking about changes that could be made for the better, progress in the previous year, etc. etc.
‘Parents are responsible for the future of their children. They should be a role model for them’, he said, giving me a hard look.
I wondered if I’d been mistaken about the comment being directed towards me. His next sentence cleared all doubts. ‘Self discipline, cleanliness and personal hygiene are some of the things that parents should keep in mind’, he said, glaring at me throughout while saying it. Realizing this, a few people turned in their seats to look at me. I was shocked. ‘A little bit of mud on my clothes and he judges me! My face was burning with embarrassment. I hardly listened to the rest of his speech, got up when it was over and silently went home.
‘What is it?’ said Latha, noticing my unusual silence at lunch.
‘Nothing just tired. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up in time for Shyam’s annual day’

After I woke up, the three of us dressed and went to Shyam’s school. We were quite early and hence we sat down in the first row.
After the formalities were over and done with, the chief guest rose to speak.
‘I have been called today to be the chief guest of today’s function. I consider this a great honour but there is someone here who deserves it much more than I do.'

‘Mr. Mohan Rao, please come to the dais.’
I didn’t move. ‘Has he gone mad?’ I wondered.
My wife and son were nudging me from either side, willing me to get up.
I slowly moved towards the dais, not really conscious of the many eyes staring at me. I was still shocked.
‘I would like you all to meet one of the first teachers of this school, Mr. Mohan Rao’.
It was as if someone had pressed the rewind button of my mind. I suddenly saw myself about 20 years younger, sitting behind a table and taking attendance.
‘When the plan for this school was proposed, there were no funds and no teachers.’
I was hardly taking all this in. I was getting absorbed in my own thoughts. A school had somehow been built by collecting donations from numerous people. Finding teachers had been the major problem. Though not a teacher by profession, I knew enough Maths and English to teach the primary students till teachers were appointed. I used to teach for one and a half hours daily, from 8 to 9:30 before rushing to office. I had almost forgotten about this part of my life…
‘Would you like to speak a few words, Mr. Rao?
I got up, fully prepared and said how I had enjoyed teaching, what a great experience it had been to interact with students etc.
The function was over but a doubt was lurking in my mind. 'How did he get to know all this? He is not of our village’, I thought.
When questioned, he smiled and said, ‘Do you remember Kiran? She is my wife. She introduced you to me, remember? I wonder how I recognized you after all these years but I did!'
Oh, yes, Kiran had been a history teacher, one of the few to volunteer to teach in a village school. Though she had taught only for a year I got to know her well. She got married soon after she left. I remembered being introduced to her husband.
‘You are Kiran’s husband? I’m sorry; I didn’t recognize you at all.’
'That’s ok. I have changed a lot’, he said, rubbing his bald head.
We both laughed. I suddenly saw the headmaster. He came up to me and said, ‘Hello Sir, I didn’t know…
‘Mr. Sharma, you are running the school extremely well. I’m happy that my son’s a student here. Come; let us enjoy the entertainment programme by the students.’ I smiled and left.

A walk into the sunset

2006-05-17T18:08:00.000+05:30

Slam! He snapped his book shut. Stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, he glanced at the tiny clock on his study table, a gift from his sister, which had its greenish-yellowish radium coated hands showing 6:15 p.m.
I can’t continue this…I’ve reached my saturation point…
‘Amma, I’m going for a walk.’
‘Come back before it gets dark.’
Amma, please…’

Moodily, he slipped on a pair of shoes. It was too hot for shoes, but he didn’t mind; they were his favourite pair. He opened the gate and walked out. The evening blew a gentle breeze and he slowly ran a hand through his hair, enjoying the sensation.
Two more to go…
He drew in a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the evening air, and walked along, kicking a stone out of his way and avoiding what looked suspiciously like cow dung.
After it’s over, I will…

‘Kumar’
He wheeled around, snapping out of his reverie. His neighbour Giri clapped a hand on his shoulder as was his habit.
‘So, you’re finally free?’
‘No, not yet…’
‘Ok man; see you, got to go.’
‘Yeah, bye...’

He walked along, disturbed only by the occasional honking of the vehicles and the screeching of their brakes and the continuous hum of people in the streets. He absent-mindedly stared at them, not really taking in anything.

‘Kumar, KUMAR, come here.’
Oh no…
‘Oh, hi aunty.’
‘Come chinna, you poor thing. You have become so thin within the past few weeks, haven’t you?
He grinned, knowing it to be the safest reply to her rhetorical question.
‘So, when do your exams get over?’
‘Next week, aunty.’
Here it comes…
‘Engineering or medical?’
Are there no other professions?
‘Neither. I was thinking of getting a degree in Physics.’
‘In Physics?’
‘Yes, aunty, in Physics.’ What else could I mean?
‘Your marks are not good? What percentage are you expecting in your 12^th boards?’
‘No idea. My exams are not yet over.’
She chuckled and said, ‘very smart’ and pinched his cheeks, something he hated.
‘Aunty, I’ll come some other time…’
‘Oh, sure, bye…’
‘Bye’

He had always been an intelligent student; physics being his passion. He hated being the stereotype. Almost all his classmates were becoming engineers or doctors and he had been repeatedly advised by his teachers to reconsider his choice of a career. But he didn’t care. He knew this would be the profession he would be happiest in.
What is the use of taking up something which is not my passion?
He continued his walk, whistling slowly to himself, shuddering to think of being interrogated again. He knew it would happen, as all things do when you are dreading it.

‘Kumar, how were your exams?’
‘What percentage?’
Oh shit. This is too much.
‘I don’t know yet. Exams aren’t over.’
Kamala and Kiran were good friends of his mom and often came over to visit his family.
Cool, Kumar, cool. No need to get worked up.
‘I suppose you will do engineering’, said Kamala.
‘No, no, I always thought he was a doctor in the making’, said Kiran.
That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.
‘I am doing a degree in Physics, will do a Masters in it and may try for a doctorate too’, he said firmly.
‘Physics? Are you sure?
Aaaaaaaargh! What do they mean,’ are you sure’?
‘Yes, quite…’ he said, gritting his teeth.
‘I think you should do engineering. Maybe, you can think of MBA after that?’
Kumar blew his top. ‘Aunty, please. Is there no profession other than engineering or medicine? Am I a successful man only if I’m one of the two?’
He drew in a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Aunty, I’m sorry but this is what I want. I’m sorry if you found me rude.’
‘No, it’s okay’, said Kamala.
‘You know, it’s the examination tension. The world is so competitive nowadays…’
‘Ya, I know. My son in states told me.’

Fuming, Kumar walked on. Without really thinking about it, his legs carried him to his favourite spot from where he could view a glorious sunset. He sat down on a rock.

He watched the red disk dip downwards. Looking at the sun that had illuminated the whole world sink, a wave of despair washed over him.He buried his face in his hands

Is that all I have to do to become successful? An engineer or a doctor? Will I be judged all my life because I am choosing to tread on an unconventional path? How come everyone is so narrow minded? Have all people who dared to break the rules faced a torrent of comments and remarks like I have?

No, it can’t be true. Otherwise, the world would have been filled with engineers and doctors. Who makes these ‘rules’, anyway? Why do we take up a profession after all? For money? Can’t be just that…Someone has to take the first step, someone has to be the pioneer and be ready to be different… I just have to make an indelible mark in the minds of people by excelling as others have before me. Then, there will be little remaining for people to comment about. I know it is not easy as I have to build my own path and not walk on the one millions have treaded before me…

He watched the sun turn bright orange, like the flame which burns brightest just before it gets extinguished, glow for one last moment and slowly sink downwards and disappear, knowing it would usher in a new morning very soon.

‘Kumar?’
‘Hi, what’s it?’
I know what he’s going to say…I bet all my money that he will…
‘When are your results coming?’
Kumar smiled inspite of himself.
‘No, it’s like…’
As Miss Marple would say, ‘Human nature, being what it is…’

End of diary

2006-05-15T23:44:00.000+05:30

My diary ends here. After completing the previous article, I didn’t write much for about two years.
All articles henceforth will be my latest ones.

Weight a minute...

2006-05-15T23:34:00.000+05:30

Date:22nd May, 2004

Lose 5 kilos in 10 days! 10 easy ways to fight fat! Lose weight without dieting! Excess weight rid off in a jiffy-buy this pill.
Don’t these words seem all too familiar? Don’t you feel you have heard them somewhere? Don’t you worry; you have read them in every other magazine that’s available. A major part of the advertisements on television are related to weight loss. Is the whole thing really worth bothering so much?
Here are some of the methods which are commonly mentioned and here is how I look at it.

*Watch your weight and monitor your diet accordingly!

The person steps on to a scale. Groan, moan. (Don’t worry; it’s the weighing machine that’s doing the groaning) The arrow showing the weight whizzes away like a mad thing. The size of his eyeballs and his breathing speed increases in direct proportion to the length traveled by the whizzing arrow. The person slowly shifts and repositions himself on the machine hoping that his weight will miraculously drop.

One of the greatest services done by weighing machines is in the field of religion. Let me be more explicit.
A person gets onto a weighing scale, looks down at it and says, ‘Oh, my God!’ Imagine! One machine (a tiny one at that) is able to achieve what religious books, people and sermons cannot…

*If you feel you’ve got excess weight, start dieting.

Irrespective of what the books say, people do not diet. They start fasting. Here’s a typical example.

MORNING

It’s time for breakfast. But no, they start the fast. (A poor joke, but I couldn’t resist it)A glass of juice (obviously sugarless) is guzzled down and the person looks at the mirror and thinks he is looking thinner today.
He opens the newspaper-‘40% discount on pizza.’ He suddenly goes blind and turns the page. He stares at photos describing people as ‘slim and trim’. He decides that the paper is not worth reading and switches on his television.
“Why excess weight is unhealthy and how such people live less long”, says a scrawny girl. He decides it’s not his day and goes to work.

LUNCH TIME.SCENE: OFFICE

Colleague: hey, a new restaurant has opened just by our office. All our office staff is heading towards it, coming?
Our guy: Sorry, I brought my lunch (balefully, showing a box of salad).
His colleague makes the appropriate sympathetic noises and turns away with a knowing smile. He tries to guess how long this will last.

EVENING

‘Hey, it’s my anniversary today and I’m giving a party. Want to come?’
‘Well, actually, you know, it’s like…’
‘Good, it’s at 8:30 in my house, see ya!’
Our guy pigs out on rich food at night due to lack of proper food throughout the day. He promises himself, ‘From tomorrow…’ You can guess the rest…

*Comfort yourself, have a strong will power.

A person looks at a mirror and says, “Every day, in every way, I’m losing weight”. Look, I don’t know about you guys. But, if I saw someone talking to the mirror, I’d think he was off his rocker…

* Exercise, that’s the key to it.

Our guy gets home a pair of dumbbells (as dumb as him) and starts exercising. One (huff), two (puff)…Oh, great, I’ve finished five, you know, FIVE. I’ll increase it as the days go by. I suppose you can all guess what happened to the dumbbells. They went mute…

*Eating certain foods (say spinach-it’s just an example) will lower the amount of calories you consume.

So, our guy merrily starts on an all spinach diet-spinach for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If I ever ate the same thing over and over like that, a time would come when I would hate the sight of it. And that is what happens with everybody.

I suppose all of you have realized by now how foolish the whole thing is. An extra kilo here and there will not matter if you feel completely fit and can do all your work by yourself. Face it; you cannot lose weight like that. If you do have a few extra kilos, that is how you are and that is what everyone will have to accept.

Weight loss is hyped up a lot and is not as great as it seems to be.

Thoughts...

2006-05-15T23:31:00.000+05:30

Date:7th May,2004

The morning abruptly dawns
Awakening the men from their troubled sleep
The harsh wind beats upon their bodies
And the sunshine scorches
Nature seems colourless and bare
The sand looks a dull brown
The sun, a harsh, piercing red
The trees, a dirty green
And the water, a disturbing blue
For a person who knows no love, the whole world seems to frown
Pessimistic attitudes envelop him
And the world says it’s against him.

The morning smiles his benevolent smile
And the whole world smiles in reply
The zephyr eases their souls
And the serene beauty of nature enthralls their minds
The sand seems a golden hue
The sun, a beautiful red
The trees, a peaceful green
And the water, a calming blue
For a person in love, the whole world seems to smile
He sees beauty in every grain of sand and every drop of water

Beauty depends upon the mood of the beholder
A thing of beauty may be colourless to another
The key is to maintain a good mood and attitude
Love the world like oneself
Smile and the world smiles with you…

The typical Hindi movie

2006-05-14T23:57:00.000+05:30

Date:24th April, 2004

Hindi movies! We all love to watch them. Every month, numerous movies get released. Most of us wonder at how the people can produce so many different movies. But are they really different? Read on…
The following are some of the rules for making a Hindi film. There should be a ‘hero’ and a ‘heroine’ (simply a must!) who should fall in love at some part of the film.*
*As in the RFF-Rules For Films. What did you think it was for, Real Foolish Fellows? Or better still, Rules For Fools??
The hero, even if he isn’t good looking should have muscles (reminds you of someone, doesn’t it?) The heroine doesn’t have to fulfil many requirements. Just one-she should be able to move her waist faster than a milk-shaker (reminds you of, well, most of the films!!)
The hero should be a Mumbaiwaala and should speak Hindi slang (Dekha! Apun se panga letha hai, saala! ) the hero should have absolutely no money to call his own, he should have no ‘Dhan,Daulat,gaadi and Bangla’. (I suppose you know where I got this sentence from) and can be a rickshaw driver/singer/worker in a petrol bunk/shop owner/coolie** (**Clause in the RFF) Our ‘hero’ should have a sidekick (usually someone called chotay, takloo etc. and can be a sardarji )
The plot of the film (if any) HAS to be disturbed by the stupid jokes of the hero and his sidekick. The jokes can be ONLY of two varieties. One-silly sardarji jokes and two-anti-women jokes. I’ll give you a few examples.
Why did sardarji throw the butter out of the window?
--He wanted to see the butterfly.
A thief breaks into a house. He eats the cake from the fridge. What does the husband tell his wife?
--Hurry. Call the ambulance.
These kinds of jokes are a must in any Hindi movie.

And now, let’s talk about the main ‘story’. Here we have a few choices.
One--The hero and the heroine should literally ‘fall’ for each other. The heroine should be carrying a lot of books in her hand (never heard of bags, I suppose) and she should crash with our ‘noble, chivalrous’ hero (who never has any books. We can guess why…) who is ever ready to pick up books. Voila! Love at first sight!
Two--The heroine (who can’t walk steadily) should gracefully fall from the stairs/stage** and the hero should always be there to help her to her feet. What perfect timing!( You know, the ‘she almost fell down but he was there and he held her in her arms and looked deep into her eyes’ routine )
Three--The cliché-the hero walks up to the girl and says, ‘Can I be you friend?’

The heroine should be the daughter of a very rich father (preferably, a ‘bad’ man and the enemy of the hero’s father) The heroine should be a vain girl driving a car (while our ‘hero’ is on a bicycle.( I suppose a tricycle would have been better, near his own mental level…)The hero should make her a ‘good’ girl and make her fall for him ( Sounds familiar? Wait, there’s more…)
Miraculously, the girl in pants and skirts now wears saris, cholis, lehengas, bindis, bangles and anklets! She now goes regularly to the mandir( temple), sings bhajans and prays for our hero’s ‘lambi umar’!

In a slight (mind you, very slight) variation of the ‘story’, the girl will have a brother (pyaare bade bhaiyya) who will fight with our hero and ultimately, our hero will get the girl. What is she, some sort of trophy in a wrestling match?
Another variation of this is the ‘wicked’ father who disagrees for the marriage and locks the girl in a room. (In the beginning of the movie, the girl is athletic, knows martial arts and all that but now she is, ‘oh, so helpless’.)

Another cardinal rule- The girl should be chased by ‘villains’ and ultimately our hero should rescue her. When she says ‘Shukriya’ (she has forgotten her English by then) he says, ‘Even if it were your ‘Ghar ki naukrani (servant), I would have saved her’. With this magnanimous speech, he walks off.

The hero should have a mother (the father will have usually died-saving someone’s life or killed by the girl’s father, in the army etc. etc.)The mother should be able to turn on the tap and get out bucketfuls of tears at a snap of the fingers. Oh, please, don’t snap…
And, a recent addition to the rules- The hero and the heroine should go aboard a ship or at least see a ship somewhere (Revised rule after the ‘Titanic’)

Then, the film should comprise of numerous songs which will erupt when you are least expecting it. Suddenly, the clothes of the hero and the heroine start changing by the minute and they are in the Himalayas at one moment and Goa at the next. Amazing! I thought Jet packs and such stuff worked only in video games…As suddenly as ever, the duet song changes into a group song. Guys, something we don’t know??
Then, the name of the film- the name should be a combination of the following words-Dil, Pyaar, Marna, Jaaneman, Mohabbat, Ishq and so on.

The film should end with the hero and the heroine getting married and you switching off the television (I mean, if you haven’t already done it…)
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Dekha! Apun se panga letha hai, saala!—see, he challenges me!
‘Dhan,Daulat,gaadi and Bangla’—money, wealth, vehicles and mansions- a phrase from a famous Hindi movie ‘Deewar’ which was reused in many more films to come.
Saris, cholis, lehengas—traditional Indian clothes.
Lambi umar--long life. In India, it is customary for a wife to pray and fast for her husband’s long life and well-being, much dramatized in Hindi movies.
Pyaare bade bhaiyya—loving elder brother.
Shukriya—Thank you (Hindi)
Dil—heart
Marna—to die
Jaaneman—loved one
Pyaar, Mohabbat, Ishq—love
(There was an era in Hindi films when a lot of films like the ones I mentioned were released. Hindi movies are a lot better now. Watch 15 Park Avenue and Black (lots of English dialogues in Black. 15 Park Avenue is entirely in English but the actors belong to the Hindi film industry.)

Climatic Predictions and Predicaments

2006-05-14T20:46:00.000+05:30

Date: 23rd April, 2004
Have you ever read those travel agencies’ advertisements and brochures describing tourist spots as having ‘enchanting beauty, enthralling scenes’, delightful weather which always seemed just right-delightfully cool, pleasantly warm and so on.
When I used to read all this, I used to feel extremely happy by imagining the bliss of the people in those places. But now, I’m not so sure…
Recently, I came across a brochure of one of the universities of Manipal in which there was a description of Manipal, the places worth visiting, courses offered, etc. Since I had nothing better to read, I picked it up and began skimming through the pages.
The climate of Manipal was described as ‘humid and warm’ between November and May. I almost exploded with laughter. What do they mean by ‘humid and warm’?? What were they comparing Manipal with? Africa? ‘Damn hot and real sultry’ is more like it. Not a day passes from November to May (sometimes extends to June too) without one getting bathed in sweat. I can safely state that no one who has ever been in Manipal will describe summer like this!
Perhaps, the brochure was meant for foreigners (who know nothing about the weather here). They will probably be wondering where winter has gone. Well, we want to know to know that too. The weather seems to change directly from the monsoon to the blistering summer. The rainfall is described as ‘mild and wet’. Now, this is just too much. The pouring rains coupled with the slush and dirt cannot be described so mildly…
In the next line, it was written, ‘Manipal, being located on a plateau near the sea has a fine breeze throughout the day that keeps the weather cool. I suppose one will have to jump into the sea to really ‘get cool’ in summer.
So, next time you are thinking of visiting a place by seeing the beautiful photos and eye-catching captions, THINK AGAIN!!

(This was written by me on an exceptionally hot and sweaty day and hence, the slight pessimism associated.)

Beauty is only skin deep

2006-05-14T00:01:00.000+05:30

Date: 22nd April, 2004
It is a well-known saying that children are God like. This is because they know no differences. Children don’t differentiate in looks, sex economic status and all that. They live in a blissful world of their own. But not for long …
All people (till they experience it themselves) believe that looks shouldn’t matter as it is only on the surface. There are numerous people who will argue that it is the person within that really matters, that it is a person’s nature, character and qualities that should make your like or dislike him. They argue fiercely that looks are always secondary and that it will never last. I too, belonged to this group but not any more.
Believe me, this is all just hypocrisy. I suppose this is one more of life’s cruel realities. Hey, name one thing in this whole wide world where beauty and charm don’t count. Maybe sports and a few professions, but in other things, I don’t think brains play a very strong role. Of course, I agree that in a professional life there is little room for beauty. But does our life end in just a profession? No, it doesn’t. We live in another state of hypocrisy called the ‘society’ where even if you simply detest a person you still have to grin like a fool. In this society, it is only looks that count. Everything else comes secondarily or it simply doesn’t come.
We say, ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’. How many of them really follow it? Most of the people are judged by their external appearances and very rarely for what they really are.
How many times have we heard these-‘ Oh, how fair she is!’, She is so and so’s daughter you know’, ‘He has just arrived from America’, ‘ My son earns so many lakhs of rupees per month’, ‘My daughter’s husband works in Dubai’. Oh God! After all this do you really think that the person inside really matters to anybody?
How often do we hear-‘She’s good company’, ‘you feel happy with him around’, ‘she’s very sweet’, etc. We hear these rarely. And even if we do hear it, more often than not, the person who is sweet and good company is invariably good looking.
Even now, if you feel that looks don’t count, I’ll give you a few more examples.
‘She’s nice, but she’s so dark, you know’, ‘Do you know, he/she wears specs’, ‘He/She is so fat!’
It sounds ridiculous in writing but I’ve heard these very words from so many people. And from well educated people too. Sad, unbelievable etc., but so horribly true. This is the modern society for you.

(In this article, I talk about ‘looks’. By this I don’t just mean beauty. It also comprises of colour, sex, economic status etc.)

Let me give you one more example. As we all know and can see, most of the movie stars are quite good looking. And they manage to get into all romantic situations (which never seem to happen in real life).How many zillion times have we seen the heroine (who cannot steady herself on her own feet and appears to sweep the guy off his feet), the heroine who falls down and is helped to her feet by the ever ready hero? If you think that everyone is aware of the fact that the whole thing is a cooked up story, you’re wrong. People actually believe that the film actor/actress is really like that…
This can be judged by the number of marriage proposals that seem to reach these people. Imagine! You don’t even know what the person is like and you want to get MARRIED? Could anything be more foolish??

I remember reading this in Reader’s Digest.
Beauty is only skin deep
--That’s deep enough for me. What do we want? Adorable kidneys?
Funnily enough, after seeing so many things, I too am beginning to feel the same…

Intro of my diary

2006-05-13T22:05:00.000+05:30

(The following has been copied word by word from my diary without any editing)

Date: 22^nd April, 2004

I have always liked to write. (Not notes or such stuff but things of my own).Just lately I have realized how much.

Probably, the main reason for me liking to write is this trait of mine-the trait of expressing myself strongly. Crudely, one can say that I am a person who is capable of making a mountain out of a molehill…

Whatever it may be, the truth remains that I think of most of the things quite seriously. It is not all that necessary, but well, that’s how I am.
And when you don’t find someone to argue these things over or someone to discuss it with, you feel that you should have some outlet.

And I have found mine…

In everyday life, you come across situations and experiences, each of them very different than the previous one. You meet all kinds of people-people of different religions, languages, countries etc. Different people have different attitudes and opinions and ways of going about things and it really should not bother us but it does bother me.

Anything, however trivial may it be, done by people-whether they are acts of kindness, pity, anger, etc. makes me get into a deep stream of thought and the urge to express myself grows strongly.

And you can’t always discuss it with people. (I’ve tried it and too many people have told me that I’m getting philosophical.)So, in this book, I’m going to write all that. Most of them will be inspired from my own experiences (not necessarily) and things I have seen and heard.

Intro

2006-05-13T14:04:00.000+05:30

Writing has always been my passion.
I used to pen down my thoughts in a diary until the idea of a blog occured to me.
Firstly, I'm going to transfer contents from my diary to my blog, 'Musings' , and then continue with fresh articles.
So,why the title 'Musings' ?
The mind is a wonderful machine, mysterious,unfathomable and as my Dad says, a sponge. He calls it a sponge because it absorbs everything, good or evil...
We all muse, all we need is some spare time and thoughts run through our minds, unbidden...
Muse, the dictionary says, is to ponder or reflect.Muse is also the poet's inspiration, thus making it a perfect name for my blog.