Amit Goes Blogging

I came, I saw, I was almost drowned!

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 09:30:00 +0000

It was a fascinating trip to Murud. My wife’s longstanding illness had prevented us from taking up the weekend offers that kept coming from my friends week after week. The trip that we ultimately made was a welcome relief for both of us. For her it was a change of atmosphere. For me, a change of spirits! But, before you put away reading this post as a travel journal, please be informed that I have no intention of writing one. Travelogues impart readers with information about places and, to some extent, also communicate the vibes that fill them. The traveller gathers it all while exploring not only the chief spectacles a place has to offer, but also its nooks and crannies. I went to Murud without making any efforts at visiting Janjeera fort, the landmark that gives credence to why one chooses Murud among the scores of beaches that lie on the western coast. Surprisingly, the other seven travellers, my wife included, showed an equally inadequate inclination to see the fort. Bad, isn't it?

The only consolation given me was that I was on a vacation by the seaside with family and friends. Vast bodies of water evoke a strange fear in me. Many years ago, on biennial visits to our relatives in Delhi, we used to cross river Chambal on the train from Hyderabad to Delhi. The sight of the rippling water body seemed like so many salivating tongues eager to swallow a prey. I am no swimmer either. Those that can read the bulletin of my life in the horoscope predict that I would meet death by drowning. Along with it, they also add that it’s going to be cold waters due north. We were driving westward during the summer season. So, I was safe.

Secure in this rationalization, I chose to go for the banana ride. The word banana tricks you into believing that it’s going to be an absolute joy ride over the surface of the sea. The banana is made up of rubber. A rubber strap, a foot in length, is fastened to the inflated banana. You straddle over the banana holding it. The banana tugs along by the force of the motor boat.

Three of us volunteered and we thought we were fortunate that it was just three of us riding the 7-seater banana. Without my spectacles, I could barely look beyond a few feet into the sea. What I could not cherish with my vision, I celebrated through my shrieks. All the three of us shouted at the driver on the motorboat, “Tej, aur tej. Tej aur tej.” It was thrilling when we dashed against the waves and pierced through them. “Tej bhayya, aur tej,” we were shouting at the top of our voice. It seemed like our requests fell on deaf ears. The guy has been at work since the crowd gathered on the beach. He was used to the clamour and the ‘hush’ that follows from the riders. But, in our case, I thought, he would be corrected as we were still holding fast to our positions on the banana. As if he heard me, the driver starting navigating a turn. My thoughts then: “He is trying in vain to topple us.... Rs. 150 went down the drain....I am going ask for a complimentary ride....”
“Bhayya tej, aur te..........” The banana overturned….………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… …………………………………………..It took me so much time to realise what had come to pass. The thoughts that occurred to me then were not thought; they were shrill cries emanating from deep within. The first thing I could sense in the saline water was danger. I didn’t exist then. Something that found itself in danger responded to the moment. In retrospect, it felt like being on the boundary of existence and being pushed out of it.

Then, maybe the idea that I was wearing a life jacket was injected into me. Next, I sensed hope. Between the perception of danger and hope, I think, I was once thrown on the surface. But, without spectacles, it hardly made any difference to me except that I regained my ability to breathe and the howling sound at my ears stopped for a while. I could scarcely fill my lungs when I went down again. There was nothing thrilling about it.

When I rose up the second-time, I could see only one friend giving me company. Down again I went….Up. I saw a boat tugging along and a guy stretching his hand out to the other friend who now heaved into sight. Down…. I was making a vain effort to swim with the life-jacket on. I remained still and as expected was shown into air. My face, freshly contorted in horror, bore signs enough to give away my fears. Water had rushed into my ears and nostrils, and a good amount of it was lodged in my stomach.

My friends had mounted the banana. I was struggling to see myself on top. I squeezed the rubber, tried to get one leg on top, but slipped. I would have clawed the rubber like a cat but sense suggested to me that it was not a wise thing to do. The guy interpreted my struggle as fighting spirit. The idiot just wouldn’t help me. I was too tired for words. However, I got on the banana’s back on my own.

But, we were to suffer another shock of life on our way back. This time I put all my thought and energy on not losing the grip of the rubber strap. If the dive cannot be averted, I might at least ensure that it's made smooth. But, to no avail. The motor-boat took a steep turn and we went topsy-turvy. The grip came off as easily as the banana peel. Water can be such immense force! Thankfully, we were close to the beach and my feet could feel the ground.

The life-jackets were unfastened. I was a drooping figure of a bear on its hind legs; I did not even have the energy to wipe the saline slime trickling down my nose!

(1026 words)

After Grandpa Died, He Lived Happily!

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 17:43:00 +0000

His grandfather died! My friend could not attend the funeral. His father decided against it considering the loss of time and money it would incur. Father was rather snotty about his rank and office. He knew well that a son is pleased with inheritance rather than affection. In pursuance of this belief, father never wasted his love on his only son.
Unfortunately, even mother’s behaviour was a little uncharacteristic. She was a mother by virtue of being wedded to the father of the boy. She never persuaded him for a second helping at the dinner table nor entreated him to stay at home a little longer during vacations. The cords of motherly love when under constant strain by a disciplinarian father can sometimes go weak. In her case, they snapped.
Grandfather was the only family he knew. When he got the news of his death, he was inconsolable. His grief was writ large on his face. He used to share everything with his grandfather who always encouraged him like a friend. Now that he passed away, he had nobody to turn to but his college friends.
He walked up to his friend's flat and knocked at the door. All the inmates of the flat were irritated at the disturbance. The newspaper was carefully folded and pushed back under the mattress. The door was opened to a dejected face. The guy at the door remarked, “Has someone done your girlfriend?” There was no reply. The sad figure slumped on the mattress by the shoe rack. No one bothered to enquire any further.
The boys got back to work. The newspaper fold was brought out. Out of the assortment of cigarettes, the small and cheap ones were frisked till all that remained of them was the butt. One of them, master at sifting cannabis, took charge and crushed the weed between his palms. The powder and the seeds fell in different direction as if under the influence of some spell. Such was his acumen. Quickly three joints were rolled and they were ready for a jaunt.
One of them asked the corpse-like figure staring at the ceiling, “Are you dead?” “My grandfather died a few hours ago.” He started sobbing uncontrollably. They could not think of comforting words except those stereotyped expressions - ‘whatever happens is for good’, ‘forget it’, ‘nothing to worry’. One of them handed him out a 5-litre Bisleri bottle expecting that water would do him some good. The mourning friend struggled to open the seal and with great difficulty titled the bottle. Two mouthfuls he drank and a good many mouthfuls drenched him. The awkwardness of the whole business interfered with his tears.
With a mourner amidst them, the inmates thought over the possibility of executing their plan. Instead of blaring music, it was shehnai vaadan by Bismillah Khan. While the tone was being set for the solemn revelry, one of them emerged from the kitchen with a joint tuck at his lips. The twisted tip of the joint was burning bright! Our despondent friend was lost but, thankfully, wasn’t crying any more. The smoke was slowly overpowering the atmosphere. The joint was being circulated among the buddies and 50ps candies, bought by dozens, were distributed among all. Interesting topics came up for discussion and ridicule.
A hand stretched out to our sorrowing friend. It was a very solemn gesture, neatly executed, too serious to be assailed by casual objection. The invitation was duly reciprocated. He drew on the joint as if inhaling a sigh of relief. It remained with him till the light was almost at the butt. A pair of greedy lips waiting for its turn sucked the flame out of existence.
Now, they all had completed a holy circuit and were rising together to new levels of awareness. The results were scintillating. To one of them, languorously laid buttocks gave an impression of kudam (hollow, round section of veena). He opined that veena takes after a female body and must have been the invention of a despised lover who took fancy for his beloved buttocks – the result being kudam; music just a cover-up for his perversion. They started examining one another's kudam. The grandson was unanimously elected as the wielder of the best kudam and they also decreed that if ever he had a chance with a girl his kudam would be his sole recommendation. A smile shone on his lips and died out.
The shehnai had played for long in the background. The number that followed was Eye of the Tiger. One of guys remarked that the beats felt like an elephant thumping its feet. He got on his hands and feet and kept time by vigorously moving his limbs up and down. It was a convincing act. The song ended and there was a heavy banging on the door. It was the chairman of the society. He was unimpressed with the thumping on his roof 12 at night. Before he could vent out his anger, the fate of our friend was conveyed to him and they said that they were trying to cheer him up. Buffeted by sorrow and smoke, our friend was trying hard to comprehend the situation. The boy behind him up was whispering into ears. “Idiot, your grandfather is dead...dead...dead. Till now you were sorrowing so well. Why don’t you do it now!” He poked him with his finger, tickling him and the fellow started giggling. The chairman said very unkind words and gave an ultimatum to the flatmates to vacate the flat in a week’s time.
Poor fellow, the sympathy he basked under a little while ago was supplanted by choicest expletives. Even the dead grandfather was not spared from being made the butt of abuse. Someone also imitated the way he was crying, 'bhaae,bhaae, bhaae'. My friend had a very naive comment: “You are only losing your flat; I lost my grandfather. I am in no mood to fight. Let’s end it here. Let’s roll a last joint before dinner.”
A joint was rolled and they were pulled back into hearty discussions. Somebody’s hand fell on a book that flashed the picture of a noted personality with a verse from the Gita written underneath. He tried reading it out to our friend first in Sanskrit but failed miserably. Then, he read the translation: ‘Weapons cannot cut it, fire cannot burn it, wind cannot dry it, nor can water soak it.’ Our friend retorted, “Go and read it out to your grandfather. Stop bugging us.” Everybody erupted in laughter. Our friend’s lasted a little longer this time.
It was chicken for dinner. Everybody ate to their fill and continued their blabber till sleep overtook them.

(1121 words)

The Wonder Kid

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 06:04:00 +0000

Recently, I had been to Noida. It was a long journey by train and also a journey through ideas that are triggered at the sight of sparse vegetation, shrinking water bodies, vast tracts of lands, burgeoning slums, teeming millions passing under the bridge. I ran through a chugging train of thoughts: the evolution of man, the future of mankind, the problems in society, the solutions thereto, and, then brought it all under a grand philosophical generalization (consolation) before giving up the whole effort and dozing off.

In these intellectual moorings, I put on the airs of a social scientist. Of late, the scrutiny of foundations of human judgement of right and wrong, understanding the dynamics of society, its utility and end have kept me occupied. Swaggering in the pride of my intellectual acumen, I came face to face with a 14 year old kid of standard 9, and, it was a very humbling experience.

My visit to my girlfriend was due for over 2 years and a half. The moment I found that the hot waters I had been all these years had cooled a bit, I set out to fulfill my promise. Accommodation was a problem. I was on a very tight budget. I relied on the munificence of my seniors from college. While in refuge, I had the privilege of meeting this little terror. I was well-informed about his exploits and was seeking audience with him. His maternal uncle, my senior from college, introduced him to me. After a while, the whole family except the boy was out running social errands.

The boy was quite healthy for his age. In shaking hands with him I felt that I had earned the acknowledgment of head of the family. When he sat next to me, he did it in a manner that told me he would dominate the talk. In a manner befitting an elder, he asked the purpose of my visit. I said I was there for some official work. I thought I had quenched his curiosity. I was about to ask him about his school when he asked: "Which company?"

"Clarion Technologies."

"Is it an MNC?"

"No."

" What does the company do?"

"It's an IT company."

"What is its product?"

"It is into web design and web development."

"On which platform?"

"PHP, .Net"

'What is the strength of the company?"

"Around 200."

"hmmm"

"Have you come here for some training?"

Luckily, my phone rang. His eyes were fixed on me. Actually he was looking at my outdated mobile and later remarked that it doesn't go with my personality. I decided that the moment I put down the phone, I would take the position of an interviewer. But, nothing struck me.

"How do you know my uncle?"

"I was junior to him in the college."

"Then, he must have told you about me?"

"Yes, he and many others have spoke highly of you."

"What did they say? That I ride my bike very rashly"

"Y...ya"

"Actually, I love power bikes. I have driven all of them. Just a week ago, my Pulsar was sent to Kanpur. Otherwise, I would have taken you for a ride. I usually drive at 150kmph," he said unassumingly.

"What are your hobbies?" I asked.

He seemed to be a little annoyed at the role reversal.
"Games, Cricket, cars, and computers."

I was quite taken aback when he told me that he is pursuing Oracle certification online and within six months shall be completing the course. I asked him who suggested this to him. He said that his teachers have encouraged him and his other classmates to pursue these certification courses. I was a fool to ask him: "How will this help you now?"

"Knowledge never goes a waste," pat came the reply. "Moreover, 2 years from now I shall take up a part-time job."

I really wondered how much money would he make as a part-timer. He must have read my thoughts.

He said: "I would be making about Rs. 40,000 from this and take control of my finances."

I was reeling at the figure. I wished he would not ask me how much I earn? Otherwise, he would regret the time spent with a nobody.

AND, then emerged the romantic side of this toddler. He asked me: "Do you have a girlfriend?"

I thought over the appropriateness of discussing this topic with a 14-year old. But, neither in his mannerism nor in his talk did he conduct himself as a kid. It was as if he was gradually trying to bring me out of my moral cocoon and then broach upon the secrets of my heart. He was jesting at my non-metro conservatism. I could see him hiding that mischievous smile lest I choose to keep mum on the topic and spoil his enjoyment.

"Yes, I have a girlfriend. Just a friend. Not a serious relationship."

"Actually, that's good. There is no point in running after a girl. Just the other day I ditched a girl. I can't stand their tantrums. An hour before you had come, I was speaking to another girl. I proposed to her and she accepted."

I was puzzled at his finished attitude and he took my expression for a disapproval of his opinion. As if to make up for his immodesty he said sighing: "I am waiting for a good girl to come into my life and mend my ways. I am looking forward to a peaceful and a settled life." He brought a richness to his expression by narrowing his eyes and looking at the ceiling aimlessly.

Me: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He moved on. I was expecting this from him. "Smooch..........Have you?"

My moral clock ticked again. But, it was in vain. The social thinker in me had become an object of amusement for a metropolitan kid. I told him some cock and bull stories. But, he wouldn't be dodged by my description. He wanted statistics.

"Give me the number," he demanded

"17 times till now."

"18 times in the last 8 months."
(1005 words)

Sex Maniac

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 05:57:00 +0000

Yesterday, at a get-together of old friends, some of the stalwarts from our college days were remembered with honour. Each of these stalwarts is an epicenter of widespread unrest and can unhinge, if not ruin, the most organised system if he sets his foot in. To take up the task of sketching the character of these social desperadoes, would be an introduction to some of the impossible sorts that make up our world. People, who haven't ever been under absolute providential mercy in getting their misled lives on track, will find it hard to believe such turbulent individuals do exist in our world. They can bring a prophet to shame if he prides on his abilities of altering minds and hearts of common people. Sinners can be tamed but not the insurgents whose very presence can suck the environment of its natural peace. Such are the individuals I am out to describe. Here is the first one:

I refer to him as sexually deviant. Not that he had queer sexual preferences, but such hunger for sex is unheard of. Please remember that these idiosyncrasies fitted into his student life that obviously got extended in making place for such peculiarity at this station of life. In his words, man's life, at its basic, is a struggle for daily bread and weekly sex. Now, when such a well-founded idea of life is supplied by a monthly cash flow that answers the expenses related to house rent, petrol, phone, cigarette, choice food with inclusion of fruit juice after alcohol had inflicted irreparable damage to health, hitting every new release at theater, how can sex be a rare commodity.

This guy stalked the roads of the city to find the victim. He was always on the move. His eyes were analyzing the sex demographics of the place and the feasibility of investing his energies there.

By the time I came into a close contact with him, he had already mowed many areas of its virgins. He was notorious in the college for his misdemeanour, so the areas and suburbs that were quite a distance from college became his haunts. Only an inkling of a girl's potential promiscuity was enough to set him chasing her. He was convinced that Freudian analysis of human psyche is unshakable - Sex is at the root of human instinct. This conviction was fatal to girls and their partners.

"You have a girlfriend. What for? If it's not sex lurking somewhere down in the hue of friendship, then why not make friends with boys rather than go out of your way to befriend a girl? If you treat her as a sister, it doesn't mean she doesn't crave for sex. May not be before your eyes, but, left to herself, she won't remain a nun all her life." In both the scenarios, he deemed himself justified in arrogating his sexual rights over her. This rationale was given to the juniors in the college. If anyone desisted, it was being selfish and ignoring the favours shown during the ragging period. How could one be so mean as not to part with one's belongings when he voluntary offered his bike when needed. Then, why this resistance when it comes to sharing her? Does a candle losing anything in lighting the other candles!

I remember a scene very vividly. He had endeared himself to some of my batch mates who were very studious, the idea being 'being with a winner makes you a winner'. These guys were so uncompromising in their studies that even I, who was a very close friend of theirs, kept my distance for the fear where my unassuming presence would disturb their devotion to books. Now, he used to request each of them to explain him a chapter or two. This did work for him. He was seen getting into the long neglected academic fold.

He lodged at my friends' flat during the exams. Even I was there a day before the exams. It must have been an hour of a brainstorming session and coming to grips with the vast syllabus, when this hero of the story excused himself to grab a juice at the nearby fruit-stall. He went missing the whole day and we were worried for him as the exam was almost head-on. In the evening, we heard his bike halt at the door. Everyone was seriously revising the subject. There was a pin drop silence, the one that made me very uncomfortable but I respected their involvement with the books and dared not budge from my seat.

He came in disgruntled with thumping steps. When he entered the room, everyone raised his eyes to him and asked, "What happened sir?" He threw his key chain in disgust and shrieked, "That bitch is refusing me!" And, the disappointment withheld his steps to the exam-hall.

Once it so happened that a news leaked that a common girlfriend of the promiscuous folks was visiting the town. Where, how, nobody knew. All they knew was a 'why' and each wanted to answer it himself. This guy raided every hotel in the city but couldn't trace her. Around 5 in the evening he came home exasperated. The Don Juan was at a loss. We started recounting the names of the hotels. He paid no attention as he had been to all of them. During our recounting exercise, someone uttered the name of 'Puskraj' and it infused a flurry of activity in him. He dashed out saying what a fool he was to miss it out.

One of my friends, managed to get behind him and they reached the hotel. He identified one of the boys from the group that had seized her. He hid himself behind the pillar. When the guy went upstairs, he stealthily followed him and saw him entering the room. He came down mulling over the whole episode, approached the receptionist, asked her to call up at the room and tell the girl that her brother is waiting downstairs. That was an end to the orgy and the boys escaped one by one from behind the hotel with the girl left in the room. The uncontested leader went up and found his prey lying unclaimed!

Every girl that he loved, he loved her from the bottom of his heart; after a few days, from the core of his soul, and then it was time for getting maximum returns on love. Sweet words, threats, promises, anything that would serve his end would be employed. He wanted a girl anyhow. If his efforts did not pay him with the good act, he would at least manage out some undignified pleasure that can be had by messing with the girl's person. There were occasions when he would surprise the girl from behind and make such persuasive and nagging appeal to get on the bike that the girl was left with no choice. Now, that's what is called a killing instinct!

Once I asked him: "In so many flings that you have had, did you never take pity on a girl?" He replied, "Of course, I do pity them. But, it's like feeling pity for a beggar - overcome by compassion, you cannot bring every beggar home. Moreover, if I don't screw a girl, someone else would, then why not me."

Finally, he did clear his papers, got into a job and is happily married. Now and then, he does call up his juniors asking for phone numbers of girls. And, all embittered hearts who failed to woo a girl, happily pass on the number. Usually, he plays a havoc at the girl's hostel.
(1272 words)

Folly of Being a Trek Hero

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 11:52:00 +0000

Heroism is not a trait but an opportunity. The opportunity seized me when we were at the foothills of Sahyadri range and were to begin our trek to Rajgad. The other hikers were in no hurry; they were more interested in photo shoot. But, my spirits were raring to seize the fort. The bottle in my hand felt like a sword and the jacket was my armour. I was a commander leading a troop and mounting on my horse-like feet, I galloped towards the fort. Soon, I lost sight of my troop. The voices were heard for a while; I quickened my pace and the voices died out. I was now alone.

As I was scaling the hill, I saw an old lady standing under the shade of a tree hiding behind the trunk. “What is she doing here in the desolation?” I thought. I recently started reading Dracula and an encounter with ghosts had caught my fancy. But, it was an inappropriate place for my fascination to materialise. The oldie had drawn her saree over her head and only a part of her face was visible. The wrinkles on her face were very frightening. I slowed my steps and turned to catch a glimpse of my troop but they were nowhere in sight. I collected myself and proceeded ahead without looking at her. But, what if she struck me down. I continually glanced at her, posing as if her presence did not deter me. I wished that the trail struck off elsewhere before I crossed her. But, it led to her and to my ill-luck there was another old lady at a distance waiting in ambush. I could have wrested with one spirit but two was too much. I was unprepared for such an organised method of haunting. I regretted my stupidity and found my heroism deserting me.

Various thoughts crossed my mind. "Are they forest-nymphs waiting for me to kiss them to replenish their lost youth and seek a release from a curse, or are they blood-sucking vamps?" I scanned the first lady for any weapon that she could be hiding. She did not have any. Next, I looked at her nails (expecting claws) that would be used to rip me apart. Ghosts need not rely on any physical aids to hurt the victim, I thought. Perhaps, bravery would prevail over their evil intentions. Thinking thus, I moved ahead. When I was at a hand's distance, the woman picked up the bottle in front of her and said something in Marathi. I thought they were incantations to lull me...but it was lime juice that she wanted to offer for Rs. 5!

I excused myself and handed out a Rs.10 note. The fear still lurked inside; I unfurled the note to its full length holding one end and maintained distance just enough for her to grasp it from the other end. I crossed the other lady without paying heed to what she uttered. I ignored her and pranced into the direction straight ahead.

I was a commander and a hero again. I had successfully passed the test of courage, boldly facing two suppositious ghosts in guise of old women. Now, there was no looking back. My target was to reach the fort quickly. I thought I would rest for a while and absorb the silence of nature about me, unlike my colleagues who will barely have time to rest before they start marching back. Another intelligent consideration backed my decision: a crowd for company makes one thirsty!

The sun was a little harsh for monsoon season. But, as I ascended the hill, it got cooler. I could hear the voices of trekkers ahead. I was literally running towards the fort. I derived the joy of a discoverer treading the unchartered. I crossed muddy grounds, hard clay, stony tracks, barren regions, dense vegetation. On the way, I could find cigarette buds, plastic pouches and footprints. My enthusiasm drooped a bit on finding these human prints. It was taking away from the joy of exploration. I wished I was the first to tread along this trail. “Never mind, I don't have a company. Isn't it adventure enough?” I reasoned.

I continued my strut on 'the path less travelled'. Reaching a little ahead the footprints vanished. This whet my appetite for adventure. Now and then the sunlight would lose itself in the thickness of the forest. It delighted me. For a moment I thought that I would hide myself in the bushes and frighten my fellow trekkers. But, they were too slow and I couldn't wait for them.

After two hours of brisk walk, it occurred to me that we should have started a little earlier. The fort walls appeared very near from the base but they seemed to be receding now. But, I was determined. I crossed one valley after another. To my surprise, going further ahead, the trail sloped downwards. "If only our ancestors had the modern technology, they wouldn't have laid such a long-winded track. When the fort is yonder up, what is the point in paving a trail sloping a kilometre into the valley. "

The trail was often covered under the trees. But, I wouldn't be discouraged. I cleared my way and emerged victorious each time. I commended my decision because there were also girls in the group. It would have been a task to persuade them to continue walking in such a wild terrain. I was sure that some of them would have stopped half-way and given up the idea of trekking altogether. "But, some boys would definitely make it to the top inspired by my example." Moreover, we had ordered our lunch in the village hotel. Our food would be carried to us to the fort. But, it was scheduled 4 hours later. "It would be very cruel of my colleagues if they had their lunch mid-way and returned without me." But, can a hero be discouraged? No way!

I reached the other side of the hill and it was a welcome relief from sun. As it was rainy season, the soil was very damp and loose. My legs were trembling with exhaustion. My thoughts turned to the poor labourers who must have toiled in materialising the royal ambitions of an emperor. It must have been an unreasonable display of a king's fancy that subjected those labourers to untold suffering in erecting a fortification in such an impassable terrain.

Three hours passed and the fort was now out of my view. Now it happened that the trail suddenly met a dead end. I retraced my path and found another trail and expressed a sigh of relief. But, after some 20 minutes I reached the edge of a precipice. I froze! I had lost my way! I started shouting for help in the wilderness. I kept on shouting names of my colleagues till my throat went dry. There was no network coverage, so I couldn't even contact anyone. I played music on my mobile with the idea that if I happen to miss shouting for help, a passer-by would atleast listen to the music and respond. I sought company in the bottle that I carried with me. I held fast to the bottle as if it were some amulet that would save me from danger. "Do hell with the deceiving trail", I started the climb uphill holding the branches and twigs that snapped in my hands and I often slipped in these attempts.

I started looking for footprints but now I was actually exploring the hill! I strained my ears for footfalls but all I could hear was birds chirping and the sound of crickets. Insects crawled over me and I had to pull them from my skin. When the trees shook in wind, it appeared that a hungry bear or a cruel wolf was advancing towards me with force. I would look around frightened and chant Hanuman Chalisa loudly. I lost all hope of reaching the fort. "I would be lucky if I could atleast make it back to the village." Even that was not to be. I could not even identify my trail backwards. Now, I had a different concern. I was looking for a place where I could spend my night! Under the trees it was risky; near the stream, there were crabs; in the open, I would be drenched in rain. There was no clear ground. I was indeed lost! I slapped myself. Commander, troop, sword, seize were history and I was living in the face of absolute danger. I kept shouting and searching for a place to camp at night. I had no match sticks to burn fire. Even if I had what would I burn – there were no dry sticks.

I gave up all hope and started walking wherever the trail led me. I slipped but now I did not care to steady myself. I was dead tired, sweat dripping from my face. I continued walking with unsteady steps. I thought I would walk till sunset and reach a safer ground. As I continued walking, it grew brighter. I guessed that I was on the other side of the hill. A little ahead, the path branched off into two. Now, was the crucial hour of decision. I told my prayers and took the one to my right. I entrusted myself to providential care.

Gradually, the path opened into a well-laid track. I decided that it would be my resting-place. When I reached the open space, I could see the village down and the fort up and... my colleagues were shouting from the fort. God had saved me! The trek must have been an adventure to others, but for me it served to strengthen my faith in the Almighty. Men, carrying our lunch, were a little behind me.

I halted after every 10 steps. I was never so tired. Only the joy of meeting my people kept me going. By the time I reached the last ordeal to the fort, I could not speak and my face was brick red. Everybody had made it to the top, including girls and they were still chatting excitedly and I was out of breath. They were surprised to see me slogging my way up!

During the rest of the trek, I did not take a single step without someone leading me ahead!
(1726 words)

Deep, Very Deep!

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 14:01:00 +0000

You shall be gone,
Gone in the glorious indifference,
Gone without requiting my love,
Gone, leaving violent memories.

I shall return too,
Return in the shameful sentiment,
Return with dry sobs,
Return, carrying a dying twilight.

You are gone,
I sneer my affection true,
And vow it'll never ever,
Pass from me hence.

Now the anger smoulders inside,
And anguish bursts in refrain:
Do it unto another,
Do it unto another.

Donned in a cold armour,
With hidden swords of insult,
And, sweet allurements.
I am ready to avenge.

To stage the old sentiment,
Trap the love victim,
And, with all might and main,
Thrust the indifference, the insult, the vengeance deep, very deep!
(114 words)

My First Love

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 15:48:00 +0000

In the summer of 1999, my parents had some unusual plans: we were to spend our vacations 900 km away from home at Chitrakut where Shree Ram spent 11 years of his 14-year exile. There was an ashram in Chitrakut and the swamiji heading the ashram was a renowned Yoga exponent. The swamiji also conducted yoga classes in the sacred environs of the ashram. People who derived benefits from these classes spread the word and one such beneficiary also met my father.

My mother had been suffering from arthritis. This made father very anxious and he did everything possible to alleviate her suffering. But, her resistance, to which every devoted wife has a right, which every devoted husband acknowledges, proved a hurdle in my father’s attempts to restore her health. He could neither pull her into the habit of morning walk, nor make her run on the treadmill set up near her bed. When he bought her costly, light-weight sneakers, she poked fun at him saying that he was stepping into dotage. When he pampered her, she would become a child and no reason could convince her. At times, when father had to raise his voice, the quivering tears in her eyes would get the better of him.

While mother was mother to her kids, father knew that his dear wife is a kid herself and demands as much attention and unflinching support like his other kids. He decided to take her to the ashram at Chitrakut. Again, the queen of the house raised an objection. She said she would neither stay at the ashram nor at a hotel. She wanted freedom for her children and not spoil their vacations spent in a confinement just for her sake. My father was about to lose his temper again and we kids wondered how she could be so bold as to impeach such a fervent appeal from him. But, father knows when a ‘no’ is a ‘no’.

This is when he started exploiting his contacts and finally worked it out through a two-month house exchange, house swap as we call it, with an old couple that moved to Haridwar for those 2 months. This ensured that mother had a home away from home and her suzerainty continued uninterrupted.

We reached Chitrakut in the evening. The couple and the negotiator had been waiting for us. They were very cordial and took us around the house and the old lady gave mother some special advice about the household and utilities. We would also have a retinue of three female servants at our beck and call. At night, a requisition was signed by the old man and father and the couple left for Haridwar.

Before we retired to our beds, the maid came along with her daughters. I could sense mother’s uneasiness at the fact that she was a Muslim. Mother’s human concern was, undoubtedly, above her religious considerations but kitchen was bound up with her deeper religiosity and she told the lady - Zahara was her name - that she would prefer cooking herself. The lady got the hint and seemed quite prepared for it. Later, my mother introduced my brother and me to her. I responded with an Adaab and recompensed her, as it were, for the curtailment of her kitchen services.

One of her daughters, Zeenat, was my age and the other, Ashiya, was much younger. The mother and the daughters were very fair. We came from South where a fair skin draws a special attention, and standing before us was a retinue of maids as fair as my mother!

Father reminded us that we were to wake up early the next day and be at the ashram by 6:30am. My mother sulked as she was enjoying the soft breeze that kept the swing in motion. Moreover, she was in the holy land of Rama. To her the very air of Chitrakut was sprinkled with the dust of Rama’s feet, her chosen deity. Only such strong religious allurement could convince her to visit the ashram. We retired to our respective rooms and so did the lady attendants.

The vacation home was quite spacious and had a rich interior. We had the advantage of a personalized setting which could not be possible in a hotel accommodation. I was tired of incessant observation and I soon fell asleep. I was the first to wake up as I always have a hard time clearing my bowels so early. I switched on the lights, drank water from a copper jug, and the door bell rang. I walked down to open the door and that was just when my bowels recorded movement. I flung the door open. It was Zeenat as fresh as the morning air. The sun rising behind worked her face to crimson. I greeted her ‘good morning’; she smiled and waited for me to give way, she sprang past me to the backyard and began spilling water. I was drawn to her and wanted to follow her, but nature summoned me a second time.

We had our tea and started for the ashram. My brother and I were worried that even we would be enrolled for the yoga classes and denied the sweet pleasure of staying late in bed. I hail Swamiji great for that solemn advice he gave father: 'Nothing that is forced is forceful.' He directed us to the mango grove in the ashram premises and warned us against troubling the monkeys that roamed freely there. It sunk into us at that moment that we were in Chitrakut for holidaying.

We made friends with ashram people who were working in the gardens. They were uprooting carrots and radish. We joined them in the labour. They were amused seeing us overjoyed at this mundane task. We also spoke of our garden back home, but that the flora we cultivated did not contribute to our dinner table. The rustic crowd listened to our prattle very patiently.

When we were returning to our vacation home, we saw Zahara and her daughters walking down the stairs of a temple. We were quite taken aback. We stopped by them and Zahara offered Prasad and all of us extended our palms promptly. It was jaggery coated with ghee. My hands got sticky and I was aimlessly looking for something to wipe my hands with. Zeenat sensed my uneasiness and came round the rickshaw and from a brass pail poured water to wash my hands. She was watching my small fingers very carefully and she could not stop herself from exclaiming when she noticed my white nails. I assured her saying that I inherited them from my father. Zahara told my mother that she had cut the vegetables clean and left it covered on the dining table. We took the younger Asiya with us and drove home.

My mother took over the kitchen with Asiya accompanying her. Mother’s hesitation was slowly withdrawing. Father caught with the stream of news on TV; my brother and I were encouraging our holiday spirits by devising plans for the days ahead. I was reclining on the sofa when Zeenat entered the room with a broom. She ran her chunni from across her shoulder taking it round her willowy waist, tied it in a knot and began sweeping the room. I watched her go about every nook and corner of the room gently running her broom twice over.

Zeenat was of same stature as me. She had silky black hair collected in a chignon with a ponytail hanging out. Strands of hair would fall over her face and with a shake of her head she would jig them behind her ear. While doing this she caught my eyes and with an unaffected grace continued her work. She was well-covered and so there was no reason for her to check her person. She was agile and moved so gracefully that even the act of swabbing the floor seemed to me nature’s delight.

I took my bath and was wiping myself when Zeenat again entered the room. I ran back into the bathroom holding the ends of the towel in one hand. The fact she stopped at the door made it clear that she had seen me half-naked. My brother giggled and I felt embarrassed. She informed us that the table was laid and that mother was waiting for us. Before I went down, I first looked for her so that I could opt out looking in her direction and at the same time behave as if nothing had happened by holding my head high in all other directions.

Alu Parthas trickling with butter were served on my plate. Mother found it difficult to walk after her first Yoga session. Zeenat who was silent all this time, approached my mother and spoke in her sweet voice: “We are vegetarians, we take bath twice a day, we fast on Tuesdays and break the fast only after reciting Ram-sankirtan. Please allow me to cook for you. You have come here to rest and regain health. If you continue working here, it would defeat the very purpose of your visit. Please let me take charge of the kitchen. I would follow your instructions meticulously.” Mother was moved at this daughterly remonstration coming from Zeenat. From that day Zeenat took over the reins of the kitchen and at other times Zahara would fill in for her. Both mother and daughter were excellent cooks.

In the afternoons, it was very hot. After the lunch, we usually rested till 4. Sharp at 4:15 Zeenat would call us for tea. Zeenat would stand near the table and mother had to persuade her to sit. This happened daily; she would sit only after a lot of insistence. Mother then set down the etiquettes for the next two months. Mother’s soft-side was soon evident to Zahara and Zeenat. They took her for their eternal mistress.

Father had contacted the locals and was busy arranging for our trips in the fortnight he would be with us. He had his business to take care of and so couldn’t stay for long. Also, my brother would join him as he was getting bored. Father would be back when it was time for us to leave. While he was with us, he wanted that we visit all the places of interest, especially the temples and shrines in the vicinity. In these trips, either Asiya or Zeenat would accompany us. I always avoided visiting temples because it involved conscientious observance of religious injunctions. My parents would get busy performing some puja or other.

During this time, Zeenat kept us company and told me many stories related with the lives of Rama and Sita. With a vermillion mark on her forehead she looked fantastic. She plucked the flower while reciting a mantra; the first flower with her nimble thumb and supple ring finger, the second with her thumb and crane-like middle finger and never using her index finger that was twice bent while plucking the flowers. I wondered how she knew so much about Hindu customs and practices.

I grew fond of her. She took good care of us. Taking us to marketplace, an otherwise quiet Zeenat, haggled with the shopkeepers and paid only what was reasonable and saved every penny for us. She was especially concerned for my mother and wouldn’t allow her to carry anything. In a few days, she also started administering medicine to her at the appropriate time. Mother would pamper her and she would blush like a bride.

In the days ahead, we grew comfortable in each other’s company. After father and brother left there was nobody to disturb me in the morning. Zahara would accompany my mother to the ashram and return with her. Zeenat would come with her broom and wake me up saying, “Chote malik utto” (Wake up Master Jr.) And, I would coil up under the duvet. She would turn off the fan and when it was warm inside, I would throw my blanket. She sang a bhajan while working. She had a nightingale’s voice and I could sense a mocking glee in her voice watching me sulk. If I wouldn’t quit my bed even at this, she would sing louder and move things nosily. I would wake up irritated, but the moment I looked at her endearing countenance, I would be cheered up.

We would chat for long over tea. When Zahara used to call her, ours hearts would ache. But, as soon as she was through with her chores, she would first rush to my mother, ask for her comfort, and, then steal into my room.

During one such private meeting, the discussion brought us to the question ‘who is fairer of the two?’ I declined the obvious and gave her reasons that my complexion darkened due to exposure to hot afternoon sun while playing cricket. She brushed away my argument saying that even she stayed outdoors for work and still she is as fair as Sita, pointing at the picture that hung on the wall. I sidetracked saying that men who are fair I consider them feminine and I found an exemplary of manliness in Rama, again pointing at the picture. At this, she only smiled sheepishly.

One morning I wanted to bathe with hot water. But I could not turn on the geyser. There was problem with the switch and I was frightened of handling electrical appliances. I called Zeenat to help me identify the right switch. She came, entered the bathroom and was looking around when I accidentally turned a knob. Poor Zeenat was standing right under the shower! She sprung towards me, lost her balance, and was in my arms! Her soft body pressed against mine. I could feel the pounding of her heart. I released my hold; she turned the tap off, and walked out with a worried look. This incident invested me with a confidence that Zeenat felt safe in my not-so-fair arms.

It never occurred to Zahara or my mother that something was brewing between Zeenat and me. They left us undisturbed even when we were alone for long hours. Moreover, when mother used to walk up to my room, it always so happened that were discussing an episode from Ramayana.

One evening, mother and I were strolling in the backyard. We walked up to Zahara’s quarters. She had just offered her Namaaz and was rolling the carpet. My mother knocked the door and entered the room. Zahara was very pleased and behaved as if we had come from far off after a long absence. Zahara and Zeenat got into a fit of hospitality. It took some sternness on mother’s part to bring them out of it. It was no mean house. It was decently furnished. There was picture of Kabirdas on the wall in the front, a picture of Mecca on the South wall and Lord Rama’s Darbar (court portrait) garlanded with hibiscus flowers on the eastern wall.

I was intrigued about Kabirdas’ picture - it was unusual to come across him other than in books. Zahar told me they belong to a faith professed by saint Kabir who believed that all pray to the same God and so their interfaith beliefs are not inimical to one another. Mother was impressed on hearing such deeply religious words. Very hesitatingly she asked about her husband. Zahara told her that he worked in Haridwar and took care of the property of the old couple. They also served us dinner and it was very late before we returned to our quarters.

That night I dreamt of Zeenat. In the dream, she would make fun of me and rub her nose against mine. I could also smell the incense that always enveloped her, she was so close. I woke up hearing her voice. I felt like pulling her into my blanket and hugging her tightly. I winked at her, she winked back and I rubbed my eyes in amazement. There was also a naughty side to her, I never knew. Was she the Zeenat from my dreams!

One afternoon Zahar was resting in her quarters and mother in her room. Zeenat was with me. My spirits were drying up in the dull routine. I expressed this to her and she asked me whether I could climb a tree. I said this was much below my enterprise but she would not be convinced till I proved it to her. We went to the backyard where there were 9 mango trees. She pointed at the tallest of them and threw a challenge at me. I was ready, but then, I noticed monkeys sitting on the tree-tops and my courage yielded.

Zeenat was undaunted. She spoke to the monkeys as if they were her friends. She started climbing the tree and rose to the top like a butterfly. Zeenat was uniquely endowed. Though she had a lithe frame, she was buxom. There she was handing out mangoes to the monkeys. This assured me of their harmlessness. I got to the foot of the tree and started my climb. By the time I reached the offshoot I was panting for breath. She directed me to the top and clearing the hurdles, I reached her. Zeenat’s house was visible from the glades of trees.

For the first time, I was so close to monkeys. As a friendly gesture, I handed them some raw mangoes, which they threw away without tasting. I thought I better keep my distance. I went a little ahead when I could hear the branch creak under my weight. Zeenat immediately asked me to shift to her side of the branch. I caught hold of another branch and landed safely next to her. The branch shook and we held each other. Our sides rubbed against each other. Her lips were very close to me and very inviting too. She was in a very vulnerable position. I said, “Zeenat”, she turned towards me and I pursed her lips. She clutched the twigs so hard that I could hear twigs snap in her hold. Her eyes were tightly shut.

The monkeys around seemed embarrassed at this situation. They continually looked at us and turned their gaze towards Zeenat’s house, surveilling the situation. Zeenat would not open her eyes. When she had plucked all the twigs around she caught hold of my shirt and then took me closer (perhaps, to prevent falling). Her breath hardened and her face turned complete red like pomegranate seeds. And, for the first time she whispered my name into my ears. My name was like a spell that brought me to senses. She slowly opened her eyes, looked at me and then looked towards her home. She started climbing down with trembling hands and feet. While she walked towards her dwelling, I could see her frame shaking. I was still on the tree-top relishing the first kiss of my life on a tree-top with my ancestors for spectators!

The next day, Zeenat wouldn’t wake me. But, I was awake and feigned sleep. When she came near the bed, I caught hold of her hand and she was standing before me motionless. I asked her if she was angry about what had happened yesterday. “Not me, but the monkeys are,” pat came the reply and we started laughing.

Thus, began an unprecedented romance that kicked off on the tree-top. I would lay my head in Zeenat’s lap and she would fondle my hair. She would always say that I have beautiful eyes and make fun of my long, bulbous nose.

I never missed my friends in those two months. Zeenat meant world to me. Everyday I hugged her atleast 5 times and kissed her cheeks thrice, forehead twice and her lips once and hands countless times. She had bee-stung lips and one kiss wouldn’t suffice to sip the honey out, so I increased the number to 5.

One day, I asked her whether she visits a beauty parlour as I had never noticed hair on her hands or feet. What she told me was very unusual. She said that when she was a kid her grandmother rubbed her hands, feet and underarms with a dying fire from cotton soaked in spirit. I asked her whether it hurt. She said there was a slight singe but the hair would never grow again.

We had spent 50 days in our exchange home. How the days passed, I have no idea. I would be her in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the backyard except when she was with Zahara.

One day, she was working in the kitchen. I entered the kitchen and found her lunging into the refrigerator. I walked on tip-toe and stroked her buttocks and shouted ‘Zeenat’. When she drew herself up, lo, it was Zahara standing before me! It was a dark hour of repentance. I stood pale with a gaping mouth. I said, “Sorry. Sorry”. But, Zahara was immersed in her own thoughts. I left her and came back to my room and cursed myself for being so careless. The affects were soon perceived. Next day it was not Zeenat but Zahara doing the household chores. I did not leave my bed, nor stir from my posture till she left the room.

I did see Zeenat during breakfast but she maintained her distance. Mother noticed that Zeenat was not her natural self and asked her the reason for same. She answered evasively. At this, mother asked her to take a break from work. I did not see Zeenat the whole day and could not sleep that night. Next day, it was again Zahara. I mustered courage and spoke to her: “Zahara, forgive me for what happened the other day. Zeenat and I are good friends. I….I like her. I am not a bad boy. Please don’t punish Zeenat for my mistake.” Zahara replied very calmly: “I know you like each other, but there are limits that need to be observed. You are from a good family. You need to concentrate on your studies. Zeenat is a servant maid and would be married to somebody of her social standing. But, if her revelry becomes the talk of the town, nobody would take her hand in marriage. She has reached a marriageable age. I am not against your meeting her. But, it’s just that you two are too young to understand the implications of such closeness. And, I have not punished Zeenat either for the intimacy she shares with you. But, she has to understand that she is a girl.”

Father joined us two days after this episode and we were to leave Chitrakut in another two days. My frustration was evident in my behaviour. I think mother also had an inkling of what had passed. She chose to remain quiet on the issue. Zeenat’s absence was raging within me.

On the last day, in the morning, when we had packed our bag and baggage, Zahara came with her daughters. Zeenath had shrunk in grief. Mother embraced her tightly and told her that she would miss her a lot. Zahara also wept when mother hugged her. My father had brought dresses and other things for them. My mother pressed those things into Zahara’s hands as she wouldn't accept them. Zeenat and Ashiya received an envelope from my mother. I walked up to Zahara and cried like a baby. She showered blessings on me. Zeenat was standing by her side. I did not know what would be a fitting farewell. I extended my hand and she received it hesitatingly. I gave a quick handshake and slid a small bottle of perfume in her hands and cried again. But, Zeenat wouldn’t cry.

We sat in the car waving at them. When the car went a little ahead, I turned again, waved at Zeenat who now broke down in Zahara's arms.
(3,982 words)

Memory Remains

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 18:32:00 +0000

She told me that I don’t love her. I am indifferent to anything that happens to her. That I am selfish. That our intimacy, which she with all her power could not shake off, I treat as my victory over her. My stray and light-hearted comments were my inner thoughts lay thus exposed, and that they vouch for my selfishness. The onslaught continued for a while. Then she put down the phone and quite perfunctorily, as it appeared to me then, she bade me good night, disconnected the phone and….... never called again. Six months later came the news that she got married.

I was sipping tea at the cafeteria with a group of colleagues when one of them broke the news that the girl I was flirting with got married. I cried out within myself: "I did not flirt with her but loved her dearly." My stomach started churning. I felt a clutch at my throat and before the moist eyes could betray my feelings, I pretended attending a phone call and moved out of the crowd. Quite unconsciously, I approached a pan shop and lit a cigarette. At the first puff, I started coughing. It was almost two years that I had quit smoking. In that fit of cough, I found an excuse to let my tears stream from my eyes. Now it made no difference - I was attracting attention of people around.

I could not analyse the sorrow till date, not to speak of the moment when it dawned upon me that my sweetheart was gone forever. A great distance fell between us. Something died within me that day. The scars of the unexpected terror raid that massacred my tenderest feelings are still fresh in my heart. The gush of that moment of separation still knocks on my head and I bury my head into my hands for the fear where it would break into pieces.

That moment was steeped in sorrow. With a heavy heart I came home. My senses had quit me. I left the keys at the office. I broke the lock. Got into my room and locked myself. It was not just my eyes, every pore of my body cried for her. I pulled at my hair, squeezed my hands with clenched teeth, blood oozed all over and I sucked my own blood like a lunatic. I was shattered. For a moment the weeping would stop; I thought solace was around, and I would be shown out of this grief. But again, tears would well up and I would be drowned in the grief which no consolation could pierce.

I got up from the chair in which I lay sunk till midnight and moved out of my house and walked into the night. I did not know where my feet fell. When I came back home, the Sun had dispelled the darkness on the way but the darkness of my heart is still as deep as ever though hundred suns have risen and set in the horizon since that day.

People tell me time heals all wounds. I wonder what wounds they refer to. Things don’t register themselves into my mind any deeper as I am always preoccupied with her thoughts. My energies have flown into gathering her memories day in and day out. I hold conversations with her, complaining her of the miserable state she had brought me to and that I deserved something better. But I dare not touch her for the fear when this luxury of her presence would cheat me even in my fancies. Nor do I ask myself whether she still loves me. The question isn’t significant anymore. My life is inextricably woven into her.

Each day I wake up to her dreamy presence and fill myself with her thoughts. She is the flavour of my being. She is here and everywhere. Her remembrance is sustenance; her absence is death. And, my breath shall last as long as her memory remains.
(664 words)

Harrowing Tale of a Wedding Party

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 19:34:00 +0000

Indian weddings are very cordial and flamboyant affair. Careful planning and money go into making them successful, which means avoiding a fiasco. The close relatives of both the parties undergo countless difficulties to ensure that the wedding is spoken of highly for years to come. Also, the larger the turn out, the greater is one’s social standing.

In the olden days, when parties entering an alliance lived in the same town or village, the marriage procession proceeded from the boy’s house to the girl’s place amid a lot of fanfare. The wedding expenses are on the girl’s side and the boy’s relatives make it a point to manage a large turn out at the wedding and make things cumbersome for the girl’s side. These traditional pranks put the patience and sociability of the bride’s family to test. The boy’s side jests at the girl’s side on every trivial issue; if there is none, they create one.

I shall share an incident of one wedding party that had some great plans of putting the bride’s side to test. The girl's family lived in a city and the boy's family was from a small town. The townsmen found an opportunity to torment the urbane. The boy’s parents had booked train tickets for a party of 70 men and women. The party consisted of relatives, family friends, and groom's buddies. There were also thumb-suckers and some of them in their incorrigible age.

None of them failed to avail themselves of the generosity of the boy’s father. It would be an excursion involving no expenditure, and throwing tantrums before the bride’s party, with no holds barred. Everybody assembled at the platform and was very excited about the journey. It was a group booking so the entire coach was reserved for the wedding party.

But, they had great difficulty in finding their coach. It was the last coach connected to the train and was standing beyond the plinth of the platform. People walked down over the bare stony track and boarded the train. People settled on their berths. Noise and laughter filled the passage.They were least aware of what the journey had in store for them.

The coach stood so lonely at the end of the train that people fancied whether it would actually tug along with the engine. But, a slight tug at the coach assured them that they were passengers on the same train.

Men got into relaxed clothing and they formed groups at playing cards. Women were engaged in juicy gossip and children were scurrying from one compartment to the other playing hide and seek. The bridegroom’s friends were carrying drinks with them in Pepsi bottles and had occupied berths at the front end of the train so that they could escape the notice of the elders. The groom envied them and regretted for being the centre of attraction. He would be called often by his folks and had to eke out a smile at the poor jokes they cracked.

There were men who derived great joy in showing off how widely they had travelled by giving out the names of stations and the time it would take to reach the next station. It formed a respectable part of their knowledge base. Women felt immensely happy for their knowledgeable husbands. Children also looked up to their experienced fathers. Only college going boys were not a part of this knowledge exchange. They were busy hitting chances with girls of their age and deemed themselves as their caretakers. These boys occupied the side-berths in order to have a wide angle of the neighbouring compartments.

The train whistled at an approaching station. People were ready to take a break from a long sitting, women started counting their children and issuing orders to their husbands to buy some odds, and boys stood at the door to walk down the platform. The train started slowing down and stopped with a slight jerk. When these people looked out, all they could see were tracks winding across the parallel route – the platform was a very distant sight from where the coach stood. An uneasy hush fell in the coach and people realized that they were an abandoned lot in the train and the next 18 hours would not bring them any pleasanter sight.

It was a 2^nd class compartment, adjacent to an AC compartment, and there was no connection between the two. Even the pantry staff neglected this coach. The folks were unprepared for such a thing. They relied totally on the munificence of the boy’s father and those who had children carried only milk, which was fast running out. A protest was in the offing but was controlled for the fear of offending the boy’s family.

The train whistled again. It was time to depart. The train had picked up speed when the coach crossed the platform. The station was a mocking sight to these people who left their homes to be a part of a long merriment at other’s expense. As soon as the station was past, people slowly raised their murmur in the form of inquiries. After doing the rounds in the coach, the queries piled up before the boy’s father who was helpless himself but held himself morally responsible for all this. Moreover, he had two business partners who were to join them at the next station.

As they approached the next station, hope gripped the hearts. The father was instructing his friend on the phone to walk down to the last coach and that he would have to hurry with the old man. This gentleman was asked to buy some milk, bread, jam, fruits, mineral water bottles and paper soaps for the fellow passengers. The other man was quite old and so couldn’t carry teh oddments and walk fast at the same time. So, he was spared the burden and was advised to walk briskly to the coach. He made it and the train started moving. The other guy had a tough time carrying so many things. When he saw the train picking speed, he was aghast and stood motionless. The folks were screaming for him to run towards the coach. There were a few asking him to board the nearest coach but their voices were drowned in the clamour. He managed to throw some loaves of bread to them and waved at them very sadly.

The milk had run out and kids were hungry. The constant motion of the train, which seemed fun in the beginning, was now disturbing them and they started weeping. All the provisions that were hidden deep inside the luggage was brought out and the children were consoled that at the next station someone would get them milk and biscuits.

Men started cursing the Railway department, brought the government’s policies in question and ranted the railway ministry. Women were sighing in turns. The young boys could not find a better opportunity to strike a conversation with girls. It was time to rise to the occasion and prove themselves as the men of the hour. The groom’s friends were oblivious to all this and were snoring away to glory having emptied their Pepsi bottles. The bridegroom, along with his father, was managing the volley of questions from the distraught relatives and family friends.

It was decided that at the next station some of the men would walk up to the platform, buy stuff and then board the nearest coach and join them at the next station. The younger ones offered to run errands for the passengers but were admonished by their fathers severely, that too, before the girls. They retracted in a corner insulted.

When the train stopped, a few men jumped out. They ran towards the platform. The stones laid on the tracks bruised their sole but they kept pace. But, it was a big station and the train halted longer. Everything was purchased without bargaining and they also made it to their coach.

As if to cheer up the neglected folks, a small coach was joined to this coach. For the next two stations a guard was appointed to signal the train driver by waving a red and a green flag. The fellow pitied at their plight but could not help them much as he was to accompany them only for the next two stations.

In the meantime, people had visited the washroom and the taps ran dry. The stench of toilet filled the coach. The cleaning staff never bothered to refill the water-tanks. When the guard alighted from the coach, the crowd screeched at him to order the railway authorities to refill the tank. He dared not to antagonize them and nodded in obedience. But, the train started moving again and he turned away his face while abuses were hurled at him.

Time would not pass for these folks. Their plight was similar to shipwrecked sailors dying to set foot on land. All of them bore a hassled look on their face. 18 hours later, after spending a sleepless night, they reached their destination in the morning. They never expected that the train journey would suck their energy and water down their spirits. When the girl’s party welcomed them at the station they couldn’t reciprocate their warmth. The bride’s father grew panicky with this behaviour. Only after he learnt of what they had undergone did he take heart and drove them quickly to the hotel.

Word spread among the girl’s side, which amused itself at the plight of the groom’s party. The hunters were hunted down! The bride and the bridegroom were to leave for their honeymoon two days later and the wedding party was to return the next day. Their tickets were booked in advance for an 18-hour return voyage!!!
(1642 words)

Forgive My Prayer

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 04:20:00 +0000

O God, make me worthy in my own eyes. I understand it would be difficult for You to confer on me a new vision. please be informed that I receive no help from Heavens that would bridge the gulf between what I am and what would make me seem worthy.

I always lived under the impression that if not today, at least tomorrow the potential You invested me with would manifest itself. But, if it requires a rigorous effort on my part to harness it, I must say I have been deprived the gift of endeavour. Better offer me a complete package to success and not lay undue faith in my future correction. Justice delayed is justice denied!

You want me to be humble in a world where the merit of this hyped virtue is virtually indemonstrable. A gift as paltry as human life is not a reason enough for celebration. It needs a pinch of misplaced pride to savour its blandness. Nothing wears off as quickly as humility. I ask for a lesser virtue.

You seem to covet order in Your creation. You have instigated physical order, moral order, social order and orders which are beyond the reach of human knowledge. Very well done; but, it only answers Your convenience. The moral order by which You have smitten my conscience is the first that I would do away with if I could. If repentance is the way to salvation, then I pity You, my creator - you could not bring me to it.

As you can see, I have grown a little philosophical with the little wisdom you have been kind enough to part with. But, my philosophical leaning is towards realism. They originate from ‘been there done that’, whereas Your idealism is an armchair mandate, unfit for all times. You do not know where the shoe pinches, but you seem to know of times that I have not walked upright and are unforgiving in your penalty.

You have placed the Sun in the sky to sing Your glories and You fail to see how it hurts me. You have lodged love in my heart without realising the ensuing pain it gives. Don’t You think that You have staged my defenses against myself a little too much?

How do I seek you apart from Your world? My conceptions of You are very abstract. Frankly speaking, had it not been for the feeling of helplessness and sorrow, and a harmless belief that you can placate them, you would have happily escaped my supplication to Thee. Had I been more courageous and held my turf, you would be no God.

O Lord, My God, please forgive this sincere prayer of mine!
(450 words)

The Boredom of Personalities

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 10:58:00 +0000

In our lives, we not only buck the undesirable influences but also override the most coveted influences of personalities, just as we outgrow our once-implacable desires, strong hopes, and love too. All of a sudden, the mental and emotional blockades are thrown down and we move into a space, open and airy.

I have always been careful to avoid making promises, even to myself, lest the natural course of events be unsuccessfully resisted. The state of holding to a promise is very much like grappling with the vow of celibacy alongside the mounting frustration. The fuller revelations of life prevail over the half or partial revelations. Promises made in storm are, indeed, forgotten in calm.

The purpose that drove us when life seemed meaningless changes altogether when we find meaning in our lives and vice-versa. A little feeling that stirs the heart to bind itself to promises for life soon gives way to some other feeling and we feel betrayed by circumstances. We mark out our lives based on what goes flitting past us. One fine day, all the spirit of the good old days sublimates into thin air. With the spirit gone; the energy gone, we wake up, as it were, from a dream, and for breakfast we eat our own words.

We move from one centre to another and each centre, for the time being, determines our circumference. A person enters our life and we feel that there has been an unprecedented expansion of heart. We are full of gratitude for this person and sing paeans to him for bringing such a nice weather into our life. He gains a monopoly over our heart.

Over a time these feeling only cloy, they cause boredom and then an impending revolution.....And, the centre shifts.

Life holds greater promises than a mere parade of personalities. A rebellion raises its head where it is dark, where the eyes of love do not see. Now, love seeks motivation to keep itself burning. It's high when the motivational levels are high and low when the motivational levels hit a low. Motives change and this love is supplanted. All the feelings and promises seem only so much clutter. People run out of our minds and vacate our hearts without our knowledge by some ordained process of natural selection. No imagined pain, no regret, and sometimes no remembrance either!
(392 words)

Loneliness

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Mon, 26 May 2008 05:00:00 +0000

A dimly-lit lounge, bartenders pouring shot after shot into my dangling glass, plush sofas, and gristly bottoms heaving over the leather and hairy hands rubbing against me is what I call loneliness. After years of anticipation and effort what I ran into was always a bunch of males, a sorrow I have cried out my heart at umpteen times but to no avail.

It was loneliness when I had the love and care of my parents who did everything possible to make me see their love, no matter, how contrary my experience was to the truth. And, now when it's my turn to express my love and care, they are unable to come to terms with it. Crashed expectations raise the dust of loneliness before my eyes once I retire home from work!

I have been lavished with great love by the near and dear ones; some of them epitomized selfless love as is only heard of these days. But they are very far now and also old. My love made many unsaid promises to them. Those promises are still with me in their unfulfilled state. These promises quirk my loneliness into a terrible guilt.

The girl I love, I love so dearly, the girl who marks my first remembrance of the day and also the last, is all but a remembrance. If I mention my infrequent visits that completely dwindled in the recent years, it would cast doubts on my true feelings for her, and this doubt raises its ugly head often. My crimson love is but a hapless victim of dark circumstances and all my struggle to rise above them is a dreary tale of inescapable loneliness. Nevertheless her longing knows no lessening either, and I move from being a promising lover to being a deserter in her eyes.

Love has the wisdom of a nominal half-convert half-disillusioned by the worldly enjoyments. All it takes is one pleasant experience to disenchant him from all his ascetic resolutions, and soon, he has another recourse into the world. The most adamantine walls of conscience and commitment cannot contain the resurgence of love, although it feels like the freedom of a escaped convict. But, invading a heart is such a nice feeling that all remonstrations rising from within cannot retard its steps. I took such steps!

Love met another lovable and life was a blessing again. But, soon came the realisation that this fire of love was battling in open air for survival. It does not fit into the ways of the world. My heart was again a child whose happiness was only so much as could be had in limits. My loneliness betrayed me and pushed me into accepting the terrible fate that announced very loud into my ears that I will not be spared for desiring the unattainable and my life will be spent running from and running into incurable pain.
(490 words)

The Curse of Being a Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sat, 17 May 2008 06:04:00 +0000

It happened too soon! I never thought my enthusiasm, like a moth, was jesting with fire. My aspirations of being a writer were throttled by macabre stories that have left my heart aching. Only a callous heart could make merry at such painful experiences and treat them as material for some sensational writing. On hearing them, I felt I was punished for venturing into life with a writer's ambition.

But, life was much more cruel to her who related her agony to me, a split fraction of which has taken away the chimerical peace of my heart. I would have happily suffered hundred whips on my back and would have been still be hopeful of the good times. But, not anymore.

Why God did not appear on the scene and save her from that butcher! She was pricked, tortured and dragged through the mud. All this because she loved that inhuman wretch. The wretch used her, abused her, cajoled her and again abused her. And, love made light of it all and would have happily offered itself again for the worst contempt had the morbid figure only stayed in her life. He left no stone unturned to pay her for every bit of that selfless love. Having inflicted pain in all ways he could think of, he left. Probably, he lost out to her suffering.

Now the pain of unrequited love seethes in her heart and the horror blinks in those eyes. Company frightens her; she feels secure in the distances that people so eagerly desire to bridge. She doesn't even let the heat of those embers reach others for fear that trauma would visit her again, this time, in the garb of sympathy.

Her sorrow is impregnable. Words can describe hunger, thirst, poverty but not the grief of a wounded heart. They cannot describe the murder of love, nor describe how a corpse lays buried in a living body. The writer in me also met his end in her. If anything comes from me by way of writing it will only be a bauble, a worthless piece that cribs for the participation of my heart, which it shall never have. Nothing makes my heart grow fonder and a distaste for life has smitten my senses. The one strong desire raging in my heart is to slit that bastard's throat open and watch him writhing in pain. That is the only way to peace.
(404 words)

A Painstaking Gambler

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sat, 03 May 2008 11:44:00 +0000

That god forbidden instinct took hold of him in his drunkenness - the instinct to gamble! After a successful term at the college, his well imposed academic constraints yielded to the influence of ignoble company of gamblers and hooligans. As it is he was drunk in the glory that education conferred upon him in that small town. That fateful evening paved his downfall. Goaded by a friend, he staggered his way to the gambling den.

The previous evening had adumbrated the doom when he lost Rs. 4000 at one sitting. Gambling is like a bee sting: leaves you with a pain and also leaves the sting buried under the skin. And, another gambling session seems to be the only cure to both. The only wisdom about gambling is avoiding it. Nobody has been able to pass on the wisdom while staking. But, 'fools rush in where angels fear to tread'. The fool staked again that evening to recover what he lost the previous day. After hitting a few chances, he started losing out on four bets at 10k, 20k, 20k, 20k and at the closing was under a debt of Rs. 70,000. Imagine what devil was riding him!

He reeled under the shock of that irreparable loss. The consequences loomed large before his eyes. He walked in as a king and walked out as a beggar who was destined to serve a long period of beggary. Life changed for him in those brief twenty minutes.

The worse part of the story (the worst is to follow) is that he was duped at the game. It was a well laid trap which was found much later.

The worst part was the zeal he showed to uphold the ethics of the game and to save his family from falling into disgrace. The fear of bad name is despicable to even the bad; and the only son of a good family could go to any lengths to save it although knowing fully well he was duped at the game.

Needless to say, he fell on very bad times. The so called friends to whom he extended implicit support in the years at college did not come to his help. He literally begged for money from all those he counted on the most but was coldly denied. With tears in eyes he pleaded for help from all quarters, with promises that he would repay the amount on interest. He woke up to a cruel reality and his animosity for the perpetrators who landed him in the soup grew less and grew more towards his 'friends'!

In utter helplessness, he parted with things he had never imagined to part with. The ring that his late father had given him, he being the only son of the family, had to be mortgaged along with everything else that could fetch some money. His career was in the custody of his undoing; he couldn't move from his town to take up a good job which could be his with academic distinctions backing him. He spent a year before he paid the good amount with interest to the wagers and spent another two years before he could repay the pawnbroker and reclaim his belongings.

In the retrospect, if not for anything else, the hero of the story has my admiration for the respect he bore to the norms of the gamble. The game of Gamble shall ever cherish such a 'painstaking' gambler!
(572 words)

The Irresistible Love

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Fri, 02 May 2008 03:44:00 +0000

She left! Our reunion was at the mercy of a few hours, but it was not to be. My eyes are still running hither thither anxiously hoping against the reality that has struck me brutally. The anguish howls in my ears and my eyes stare into the nothingness that has filled the place. The barrenness of this place will prick me as long as I am here and I have to bear with it every moment of my stay here.

She kept asking me why I didn't stop her. She wanted the prayers of my heart to issue from my lips. I forbade from doing so, for lips spell commitment and it is something I cannot stick to now. I am torn between desiring and disowning; crushed between her overpowering love and the devotion of my first love; hung between the liberating love and the binding commitment.

Why does my heart reach out in love to her? Why does she beat with my heart? Why every spring of love invites me to bathe in its waters? Am I not cheating on my previous commitments?

Let the questions remain and let love remain too. Perhaps, the questions would bind me to the commitments and love would give me power to rise above them. I can't help missing her as much as I can't help the prick of my conscience. I do not want to part with her fond memories nor grow out of my maiden memories of first love. May God give me strength to face the guilt and to pass the love forward.
(264 words)

A Writer's Reward

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 09:51:00 +0000

In the last three days, I have been called a lecher by two girls. They were parallel flings and coincidentally both fell apart almost the same time. Let the readers be informed that there was no physicality involved. It was a misreading of my intentions that led to estrangement. Well, I am not depressed at all. I was cognizant of such a glorious end from the beginning.

Flings move onto being love affairs provided the prospects aren't treated as human resources. But, people interest me only so long as a sense of mystery surrounds them. Having proceeded in the right direction, out of experimentation, I take the wrong steps and invite a doom to a relationship. But, I don't regret the disaster because now I am a writer who welcomes even the untoward with open hands. It's just another fortress decamped after a raid!

Now, when people narrate the sorry incidents of their lives, they pledge me to secrecy and to strictly desist from making their tale a subject of my writing ambition. I am seen as a threat to their private lives. I have people telling me that a writer can never be a good friend.

A writer wants to outlive the variety of experiences that life offers and freaks out at the possibility of infinite more. From feeling love for a stranger to feeling repulsion for the dearest one, are feelings that again display amazing variety in themselves. Each strand of emotion has to be carefully observed before getting it down to writing.

In a fling that rises from infatuation, or, may be, even lust, a writer scopes out the emotional landscape to plant his experiences and later reap them in his writings. He accepts the paradoxes of life. He doesn't rule out that lust and love could simultaneously exist or even that one can be present without the other coming into picture.

This attitude could be perceived as coldness. It's not coldness but an ability to scorch oneself in the sun and gaze at it steadily before giving rise to a perfect portrait of the blazing sun.A writer stakes his image, suffers neglect, goes against the dictates of his conscience, roots out the desire to be loved. It's not all that easy. You will often have words like lecher, egoistic, obstinate, callous attributed to you. All this is the reward of your commitment to writing.If you have never been framed for such behaviour, you have not taken up the vocation whole-heartedly yet.
(417 words)

Cover Letter to Google

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 09:26:00 +0000

If passion is what counts to make it into Google, then I am a monument of passion in the field of my interest. Going by the testimonials and the penchant for talent that Google speaks of, I decided not to exaggerate my professional flair over my personal talent. Google would be the best judge of my suitability for the role of xxxx when I am given an opportunity to prove it.

My academic career speaks little of my passion for language. I did not fare well as an engineering student. But, all that I learnt was utilized in breaking the intellectual moulds that mind so often gets into when ideas stop flowing by or a homogeneity of ideas narrows its vision. I have a strong philosophical interest and my education just served to broaden my philosophical outlook. I resist overdose of facts, and, at the first cognizance of facts attesting truth, I stop pursuing them. I distinguish between curiosity, which is vain, and inquiry, which is fruitful.

Language holds a special charm for me. I call it a science of meaningful expression. Deriving emotional value out of language is a connoisseur's delight. In my writings, interspersed over the years, I have been trying to harness this aspect of language. My blogs are an example of this.

Working in a professional environment helped me bring precision to my writing. Technical writing made me keenly aware of the simple style of writing and I came full circle from long-winded constructions to appreciating simplicity. I owe a lot to the company I am currently working for. Working here, I felt that technology is the second miracle accomplished by man after God-realization.

And, now, I wish to work with people who are pushing the technology frontier further ahead. My ardency is the most trusted reference I can provide.
(304 words)

Office Romance

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sat, 05 Apr 2008 08:49:00 +0000

Love passes through many phases from filial love to parental love. Of all the phases, romance is the youth of love. Lifestyle changes may have trimmed romance to its bare minimum but the charm it holds is undimmed by either career pursuits or the dictates of professionalism. Wherever goes man, romance trails along. And, in my case, the rigours of workplace only added to its tenacity.

Being bound to corporate decorum, workplace romance never gets into the excesses of courtship. It is like a dew drop that perishes in the warmth of work and settles again in the moments of leisure. This is what makes it is so agreeable. The decorum and discipline tone it up.

My hesitating steps ultimately took a leap of courage. Luckily, I landed safe. This time there were no wordy traps laid, no systematic plan of action. I was full of energy that takes one over when failure is most certain. The lover in me was playing the last game of the evening in the hope that he will have a sweet tale for many nights to come. But, night followed day.

She was favourable - in the language of a sailor waiting for the winds to unfurl his sails. The company infrastructure came handy in striking this chord of friendship. It all grew from anonymous pings on chat. Her acceptance of my friendship was vital for my confidence that was going down in years, zero on opportunity.

Workplace romance isn't easy. It has to be done hiding from the gaze of other colleagues peeping into your chat window. Constant vigil is the price one pays for a fortune. Unfortunately, all your alertness cannot deceive your neighbour who quickly sees how her movements guide your actions. You never leave your desk while she is at her's. Your time to socialise is when she isn't around. Only a moment ago you were hungry, asking people to join for lunch and the moment she is at her seat your hunger suddenly vanishes. You catch up with her, munching cookies and chips.

But, it's all worth it. The theatricality of ignoring each other's presence in a crowd and exchanging the sweetest smiles when meeting in a vacant lift has a joy of its own. Observing her facial expressions at every message I send across sitting cubicles away is even more exciting, although what I get to see is only her cheeks bulge in smile from the screen of her loose hair. When I told her of this conquest of my side-glances, she shied away by placing her palm on her cheek.

My hunt for a new job has hit a sudden low and job satisfaction is back again. Every task seems interesting as long as she is around. Retaining her in the company would mean retaining me (a word to the HR).
(474 words)

A Peek into My Person - II

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 06:38:00 +0000

I cannot abolish the questions that seek an answer to my place in existence. The 'why and how' takes away from my enthusiasm for life and laughs at my attitude towards it. The value one places on life is a thoughtless assumption. And, how is it that we are so sure of its purpose that we foray into the world to achieve our life's end! Our knowledge fills our minds but not the blank from where life emerges. Adding more and more meaning on one side can keep us busy but cannot bury the question 'why are we here?' rising at the other end.

We compromise with this 'why' that never leads to an answer. Pushed into the waters of life, we choose to swim rather than drown our existence. Slipping into life, sometimes, is like wearing wet pyjamas to sleep, such irritable feeling life is at times. I believe not all suicides result from unhappiness, they could also result from an indifference to the game of life; bored of wading one's way through the wetness.

And, it's often failure that pushes you to inquire, and success when reaches its summit, which is rare, also brings you to the same question 'what is it to all this struggle and competition'. This small interval of introversion can topple you from your sense of achievement. As they say, it's very lonely at the top. It's also very lonely at the very bottom.

Coming into existence and being snuffed out of existence is the alpha and omega of our lives. In the meanwhile, is the ambition, the dream and the hope of outliving our time. There are specks of emotion, of action, of inaction, of understanding, of ignorance and then extinction. Helplessly we arrive and helplessly we depart!

My engagement with life sometimes falls out of interest. My actions seem hysterical. My passion fizzes out while my expectations recoil and life seems to be 'a sexually transmitted disease'. But, now that I have begun, let me march on till the final exit when I will be gone with my questions. That is all to it!

"Ye mere kwabo ki duniya nahi sahi lekin,
Ab aa-gaya hu to do din kayaam karta chalu"

(352 words)

A Peek into My Person - I

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 09:35:00 +0000

In this post, I intend to capture the tints that have coloured me. People who have described my writing as straddling the fence will see a reason for it. I am afraid you would be bogged down after reading this.

Discontent has been my long companion. As a child there were few occasions when I could free myself from its hold. Nothing could completely fill the blankness that I met at the other end. I always had to encourage the feeling of partial happiness to appear as a thrill. I felt that my inner being was an unhappy traveller lamenting his itinerary through this uneasy world where every happiness is attenuated by dissatisfaction and where 'we find not half the pleasure in possession that we propose to ourselves in the expectation'. I could reconcile myself to the utter helplessness in accepting such an existence, but the inner one was inconsolable.

Kids of my age derived great satisfaction in eating the raw guavas stealthily plucked from the neighbour's tree. But, when I set my teeth into the hard crust, I doubted whether the risk and the effort involved in the ordeal were worth it. Antagonizing my father and playing cricket in the hot summer sun seemed overzealous. In the evening, even before sense could be slapped on my cheeks, I was ashamed of my unfounded desperation. The belt thrashing came later than remorse.

Eccentricity to me was a reprieve from the dictates of the inner man who disapproved my preoccupation with things. Frustrated I would revenge on him by disobeying him. He expects me to realise the emptiness of the things around. He never has a positive mandate; denial seems to be his watchword. His attitude frightens me, especially on occasions when after my pleasure bout he remarks as to how unbecoming it was of me to yield to the paltry hunger of the senses.

It doesn't mean that my fellow being is a crook. Perhaps, he belongs to a different world order. the memory of which hasn't faded for him. Strange that after such a long stay with me he is still unsullied and goads me to a beyond. In trying to look beyond what I see is a continuation of this very same existence. Earlier I used to walk up to school, now I walk up to the office. Earlier, I felt love for my aunt and uncle; then, for my teacher; today, I feel love for a girl; tomorrow, it would be love for my child. Nevertheless, in all instances of love, my inner being responded well. But, he had more to do with the feeling than with the person, for he never misses anyone of them! His love forges no attachments and sometimes when I find myself treading his path, I question the practicality of it although I find it very liberating.

I find this inner person happy being with himself. He is happy doing nothing. There is nothing he ever desires, ever contemplates, ever misses or ever regrets. He is not swayed by the physical hunger or the fleeting emotions. It is I who has to put up with these hard knocks. And, he is always a judge and I am always a criminal.
(540 words)

Say No To Regionalism

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 10:54:00 +0000

It came as a blow to my healthy efforts at wooing my female colleagues. Can you believe that for girls in my company a common nativity is a reason enough to make friends with guys and feel safe in their company? Why is beauty prejudiced? Let beauty know that it has no value in absence of a beholder. I think it is the fate of all girls to falter before they move in the right direction; to choose waywardness and mistake the call of my heart for somebody else's.

Nobody in the office has waited so earnestly for their arrival as I did. I broke the jinx hanging on our workplace as only a few months had elapsed after my arrival when some darling faces joined the company which was suffering the brunt of male population in the form of workplace dissatisfaction. With my coming, came the girls and the enthusiasm. And the first encounter with all of them was love at first sight. If only they gazed a little longer into my eyes they would see the overflowing love for them. But, they seem to take me as a pervert.

Just to catch a glimpse of them, on the pretext of grabbing a cup of coffee, I frequently walked past their cubicles. My commitment never slacked off even when not a single eye raised in acknowledging my presence. Too many cups of coffee caused acidity and deadlines at work tightened on me. I bore it all patiently till I witnessed this unreasonable fondness that girls had for guys who hailed from their hometown. The advantage of birthplace mitigated my advances. I was humbled by insipid guys whose only worry in the world is correcting bugs in the program. This is how things are: Gifts of heaven are given unasked to the undeserving and the prayers repeated over years by the competent remain unanswered!

The girls get to know of their boys by their surname and turn to them for help. Who can better cater to their needs than I can? Who could be more concerned for their well-being? And the undeserving rascals lunch with these girls while I eat my grub watching the girls joined at the hip to these guys.

Well, I am not the loser. It's the girls who are losing on a generous and loving heart. Will someone tell this to them that I am not a bad choice for friendship? To boys I say, "Only the brave deserves the fair." Respect this saying and, willingly or unwillingly, show them the right person. By doing this, you will have done your greatest duty as a friend. Thanks in advance!
(444 words)

The dream of justice

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 06:28:00 +0000

There are days when sleep quits you at its usual hour, but sloth pins your head to the pillow and dreams brightened in the daylight float by. These dreams do not need a Freudian interpretation as they scale out from the real world. What differentiates these dreams from thoughts is that they deny subservience to practicality. Some of them turn out to be wish-fulfilling. They avenge the past injustices meted out to you, or they offer a pleasure ride, a jaunt to the inaccessible object of pleasure.

Today, as I slept in, a dream drifted in and left me with a sense of empowerment. Let me give you the backdrop before narrating the dream. I was as an English language trainer with a spoken English institute, Elixir. Being an undergraduate then, I was not a trainer on papers. So, I was entrusted with the task of counselling candidates who came for inquiry. Interestingly, my first counselling session with a candidate resulted in on-the-spot admission. The villain of the dream, the centre manager, was praise of me. My success came as a surprise even to me. In the evening, I repeated the feat.

While everyone appreciated my convincing skills, I knew in the hearts of hearts that the outcome was favourable only because candidates stepped in tune with my explanation. I was right, because in the days that followed I fell short of the expected performance. Reasons: I did not appreciate the mode of teaching; I could not make false promises, and I never played on the candidate's impulse. Additionally, I was also filling in for the trainers who were absent.

My way of teaching interested the students. From being a part-timer trainer I rose to a full time trainer but my remuneration was not raised. I tried to talk to the center manager but he was a milk-man-turned-manager, so have I heard. He was out-and -out miser. He only held out long term promises while getting me work for him 9 hours everyday.

For the first time in my life I suffered throat ache due to continuous lecturing. But, once I entered the class I would be possessed by the spirit of a teacher and students would listen to the nuances of English that I imparted to them. The number of students began to grow in my class. But, my pleas for a hike fell flat on the ears of that stout bumpkin who couldn't speak a single sentence in English correctly.

I never appreciated his walking into the class to check the fee receipts, a discourtesy he never desisted from. One day he walked into the classroom while I was explaining the use of auxiliaries and modals. I went on and everyone was transfixed except my lips. After a while, he quietly walked away. That was the only gesture from him that I appreciated in all the months that I was in the institute.

But, he was not ready to shell out anything for my performance. The wickedest thing he could do to me was withhold my salary. I kept calling him, paying visits but all in vain. Unfortunately, that was a time when I was unable to afford two meals a day.

Today, I dreamt avenging him through my blog. In the dream, I sat before my PC and unburdened my wrath on this villainous employer. This post quickly made the rounds and was also brought to the notice of the head management of the institute. In the beginning, they bullied me to withdraw my claim but when they found me unrelenting and tarnishing the image of the institute through my readership, they unwillingly paid me the good amount and the centre manager was thrown out of office. I had the satisfaction of a victim who has his grievances redressed. The dream brought me victory.

Dreams also bring pleasure. They have an inimitable vibrancy that comes only next to a joy good real world experience.

My Introduction to Information Technology

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 08:15:00 +0000

I am an avid learner and my interest lies in grabbing concepts underlying details. Over the years, I have cultivated a state of mind that is receptive to any form of knowledge and that quickly recognizes the universal behind the particular. I reach for the comfort of generalization rather than labouring under the details. I enjoy abstract flights that take innumerable facts in their stride and offer a last word on their existence. I developed a natural taste for philosophy as it perfectly answered my aptitude. I couldn't relish fiction that hangs around characters to unfold the theme.

During my school days, the chapters in the text-book ended with a summary that read 'know to learn', and it never appealed to me. I was happy knowing rather than learning things. This attitude continued throughout my engineering. I did extremely well in my practicals and viva voce as the questions asked were mostly conceptual. I remember my digital electronics viva in which I was asked questions on chapter that's generally left out by all students - logic families. And, my entire viva was from that one chapter. It was one of the days when my intelligence and intuition were at their peak. I was asked to describe the internal circuitry of an inverter. I had no answer to it till then. Common Emitter Configuration that gave 180 degree phase shift, was my spontaneous reply. Later, I was asked to relate the input and output pins of the AND gate with the internal circuitry and I also answered it correctly. That viva was a reward to my conceptual approach although I failed in that paper thrice in the written exam!

The learning aspect involved in the knowledge process was puny before my eyes. It is a price that a mind pays to move from the known to the unknown, I thought. This attitude had its own disadvantages. This is what made me a jack of all traits and a master of none. I was a misfit in the world which paid great attention to details. My aversion for technology, which had minuscule value for me, pushed me into a dark age. And, my current job exposed my antiquated beliefs much to my embarrassment.

I was introduced to blogging and my creativity received a lift. I came to know about SEO (Search Engine Optimization), about RSS Feeds, networking sites, etc., A whole new world opened to me and I regretted turning my back to the information technology revolution. I was amazed at the well-laid structure of a world, whose developments do not reach over many past decades, a world that recognizes no boundaries. A world that is filled with its own adventures and thrills. A world that has brought alive the myths through firewalls, the wizardry through search engines and a virtual reality through online presence. It is indeed an intriguing world out there!

This job taught me that excellence is in details. Each day was a peep into a world that I was grossly ignorant of. I felt like a Rip Van Winkle waking up to a totally new world that has redefined its progress. A world that has moved from harnessing technology to exploit material resources to technology focussed on harvesting information. The all-pervading spirit of information manifested through the body of a computer. And, pretty soon, humanity will conceive a digital scheme in its origin with God holding the source code to the dynamic web pages of our lives.
(585 words)

Telepathic Connection

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 10:31:00 +0000

He was a devotee and a troubled heart, factors that invariably co-exist. The worldly dross started falling away from his person and the divine made way into his life. He could feel something unearthly taking control of his life. For such is the nature of devotion that His grace and power start manifesting in those who seek refuge at His holy feet. The impersonal polarizes into a personal being to help his devotees even though the hankering for the worldly gains consumes their breath.

It happened during an interview. He was worried but not nervous, for he had learned to accept whatever circumstances he was put through. When things would go awry and his last plank of safety was about to deceive him, some unseen hand would intervene and save him from the untoward. So, he couldn't disregard the timely help and arrogate his demands. He was facing the interviewer and suddenly another channel opened to him. He could read the mind of the person before him!

The interviewer in her characteristic smile asked him to have a seat. But, the warmth that was to accompany the gesture was lacking and he could sense it clearly. She was morose as her cheque had bounced and she had received a call from the bank an hour ago. A woman that she was, the news sounded like the news of death. With an unsettled mind she tried to run through the resume but couldn't focus much. She preferred: "Tell me something about yourself." The devotee sensed it all.

He talked about his education, history of his job stints, and hobbies. A pause followed. She was of the opinion that an introduction is incomplete without justifying ones suitability for the job. He quickly answered her thoughts. An assurance ran through her. This time the smile came from within and our hero also beamed up.

He was caught unaware by this strange faculty. She grew slightly fond of him and to those she grew gracious she wished to know about their family. He talked highly of his mother as the HR seemed to appreciate such regard shown to mothers. Her father was never supportive of her; it was her mother who encouraged her to pursue her MBA. Our hero went gaga in praising his mother. But, professionalism demanded that she curtailed her feelings for the candidates. The hero immediately got into the chicken image from the 'feel at home' comfort that he enjoyed a little earlier. She asked him to wait in the lobby while the director was busy at a meeting. The director was actually late!

At the lobby there was another guy who had applied for the same position. His conceit received a blow when he knew 'the diviner' had given his interview and was asked to wait. This implied that he was considered for the job. He asked for the hero's experience and was given an exaggerated figure, but was, later, also consoled by saying that company gave no importance to experience. The security personnel was eagerly waiting for the next guard to take over. He wanted to get home before his children turned up from school and wanted to share some private moments with his wife because the whole week he was doing a night shift. Our hero sympathized with him.

He asked the guard way to the loo. The guard directed him deriving joy from the fact that he was sought-after. As he was passing the cubicles some of the employees raised their heads to catch a glimpse of the new candidate. Some of them wore a very grave appearance trying to impress upon him how they slog at work. Girls looked at him from the corner of their eyes. The girl sitting near the door which opened into the loo noticed him from behind. She fancied men's butts. Her lechery saw him till the door closed and the last thought that reached him was her desire to snuggle suggested in her drawing up the office chair till her breasts pressed against the desk.

Standing next to him, at the loo, was a tall guy who was cursing his boss who, he felt, was an undeserving rascal. But, he has to keep his calm till the appraisals, he thought. The guy left, but lusty vibes emanated from the water closet. A guy was fantasizing furious sex with a lady in the neighbouring office. He had set the story in his dingy room laying her on the heap of clothes on the bed!

The director was carrying his meeting and wouldn't be available for the day, according to the HR. He was asked to come the next day at the same time. And, hurriedly she went in to catch up with the gossip exchanged among her colleagues.
(803 words)

Between a Boy and a Girl

noreply@blogger.com (Amit Durgapal) — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 06:52:00 +0000

Can a boy and a girl just be friends? The friendship between a boy and a girl is a potential love affair. While it has all the ingredients of love, it lacks the opulence of emotion and the touch of closeness. It is yet another possibility to discover love and yet another mutuality waiting at the doorstep.

It is self-restraint that prevents it from trespassing the love zone. The relationship that begins with love limps on infatuation. It opposes the realism of personalities and seeks solace in the optimism of syrupy sentiments. It's a shrub nourishing the dream of a tree while cattle are grazing around it. A little mindfulness, and the hollowness of their relationship echoes in the distraught heart of the lovers.

But, the love that graduates from the checks and balances of friendship is a new edition of love, spurned of mushiness and surplus on understanding. It has no traces of fussiness or the snares of pretense. Friendship doesn't come tip-toeing; it walks with steady steps that inform its arrival; knocks your door, pays its respects and leaves you without pining for more. It doesn't walk the gait of an unappeasable damsel drunk in the pride of her beauty. It walks humble in its genuine concern for the other.

I have been in such friendship with no intentions of breaking away the girls from their men. But, I do not know at what stage our relationship overwhelmed their love. I could see them emotionally lost, for my touch arrived very near to being the touch of their beloved. My touch was cherished, but how could it be relished without their being guilty at heart? I stepped back and they had a reason to reinstate their love. Love won over in this war of 'dearness' but through unfair means. What pained me was the mud-slinging; my friendship was called a trap and, they believed, it was the sheer power of their love that saved them from an ignoble association. I felt love stooped very low to achieve its end.

Such love corrodes the generosity of hearts. It halts all emotional progress by blinding your sensibilities. How is it possible for one in love to feel the pain of one's beloved and be insensitive to the pain of others! One fine day, the love you feel for your beloved starts eluding you and all you could do is to play ostrich, bury your head in sand and refuse to accept the situation. I am happy that I did not deserve such a barren love.
(428 words)