Thought Detonation

Thought Detonation #26 - The last post

2012-07-09T19:26:00.000+05:30

Hey folks. This is my last post on this blog. This blog was result of an experiment (which has been successful *smiles*) and like everything that has done it's job, even this has to retire.

I am feeling a little uneasy while typing this. I had left it dormant for last one year, yet today when I say good-bye to it, its not easy for me...

I would like to end the story on something I wrote today..

Goodbye people. Thankyou for all the love you gave me...:)

You can find me on -

[top 5 social networking sites in order of appearance so you never miss me *laughs*]

Thought Detonation #25 - Gadgets and Personality

2011-07-09T13:34:00.000+05:30

Another contest organized by Indiblogger (www.Indiblogger.in) and Dell (http://bitly.com/inspiron) and another post from Thought Detonation as well. Now this contest is called “Change is easy”. Why? Because Dell just came up with a lappy that can beat chameleons when it comes to changing colour and wanted to market it. That simple. Now the contest is to describe how your gadgets reflect your personality. However I will have to eliminate a few flaws and make a few assumptions to let you all know the point. So bear all this silently. You can play loud music if you want, but I am not hearing any of that. So it’s better to stay silent, isn’t it?

08 July 2011, 22:15 hrs, In Delhi Metro Yellow Line, Somewhere between New Delhi and Chandni Chowk -

I stood like I was hung to the grab rails as I waited for Kasmere Gate to arrive early. All seats were occupied and I was the only person standing in the coach. This is the story of my life in fact. I hung on the grab rails, thinking what could I possibly write for the Gadget competition. I had read long ago on web, a few weeks earlier in TOI that your gadgets reflect your personality and also decide what kind of sauce you prefer and what kind of partner you find tasty. Well I guess it must have been sauce-tasty and partner-prefer but this mistake make sense a lot better. All this is blah-blah shit actually. Why don’t they say that my sauce & girls determine the kind of gadgets I use? Anyways, I hung on the grab rails and was thinking what could I possibly write for the Gadget competition. It was getting late, 22:20 that time and I was a hell lot sleep deprived. Moreover the delayed results of my last contest entry were actually pissing me off a bit. We are Indians and we love working that way. We just love it. Anyways, I still had to write something for the contest. I did not write it till now because I am an Indian, I just love working this way. I am not going to win anyway, especially when like a 100 vets and seasoned bloggers have already given the best shot and many of them have cute DPs. Damn!! Even my facebook profile doesn’t have a DP. Still, I really need something original and out of the box to write about. I just can’t write normal stuff like ‘my Iphone – my love’ or ‘my HP – my bitch’.

While I thought the most rotten things, I was constantly bugged by beeps and trashing sounds. I just hate beeps. It reminds me of my alarm and detonable dynamites. Well, actually both are similar. I tilted my body a bit forward to look what this girl was doing on her laptop. She was a short thin girl. In a black tank top and black skirt. It actually took me some time to differentiate between the two. It’s like a sandwich you see – white skin, black cloth and white skin. She had a Lenovo Ideapad Y series. Now that’s cool. It’s a really interesting thing to have. I leaned a little bit more to see what on the Earth was she doing that made this cute machine beep every five seconds. As I grabbed the view of her screen I was startled and words came out of my mouth –“What the….” She was playing Tetris!! Wow…You have got a lenovo Y series in your lap and you play Tetris!! Why don’t you try finding nemo now?

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep* *Trrrrraaaaaasssssshhhhhh*

She lost again. I had been hearing similar sounds since past half an hour which means she was a pathetic player. A five year old kid would have played better on his first time.

*Nokia tune*

She took pulled out her purse and kept it on her laptop’s keypad. She didn’t care pausing the game. I guess, the game would last a little longer if she wasn’t on the control. She took out random things from her purse and put them in her lap. In some deep dark corner of the universe, possibly in the stomach of ogdru jahad, she found her mobile phone.

*Nokia tune*

It was a message. She was in no hurry to read it. She neatly packed her stuff again and zipped her purse. She put her purse around her arm again and then sat blank for a few seconds. This commotion was too much for her brain to take. She came to her senses in like 4 seconds and took the mobile phone in her hands. Sony Xperia X10. “Oh my god!!” I just couldn’t stop myself. I was about to faint.

What is my cutie pie doing right now? (: (:

Oh wow. I am just loving this. This made my day, or night, however you call it. She typed this thing below on her Xperia and sent it to a guy called Maddy.

Cutie pie is playing tetris on lappy.....
Lappy is cutu....I love purple colour....:) :) :-*

What can I say? Lenovo Y series…Tetris…Xperia X 10…Nokia tune…

This girl downloaded Nokia tune from internet to make it her message ringtone. That too on an Xperia X 10!!

I wanted to hit her hard. I was so agitated to snatch that lappy from her and give it to that guy. (I ‘ll let you know who that guy was, in like 5 minutes.)

Ohh...gr8...Tetris huh? I was wondering if you want to play with something else that sounds similar ;) ;)

Well, it was none of my business to read anything after that. However dumb she is, she had a right to privacy.

So this is what we have people – Lenovo Y series & Tetris and Xperia X10 & sexting.

PS : 1) Please don’t disgrace technology. I feel miserable for each molecule of silicon in that lappy. Please buy technology only if you know how to work with it.

2) In some cases, gadgets can be misleading while determining personality.

***Just a little earlier than the above incident***

08 July 2011, 21:55 hrs, In Delhi Metro Voilet Line, Somewhere near Central Secretariat -

I was sitting in Metro Train and it was late night. I just wished I made it to my home before 11 o’clock. I really don’t want to wake my parents up from sleep. I anxiously looked at my wrist watch. There was so much to do the next day. I was making things-to-do list in my mind that I would print on paper when I reach home. I also needed to sleep for seven hours or else I would not be able to work the next day. Moreover I had to write a blog post as well. So it means I must be totally in control. I don’t even have a topic by now. No plot, no theme. All has to be done at once. I don’t wish to write fiction again. I want a real story for this.

“What do you mean you can’t make the header?”

I overheard my fellow passenger speaking on phone. This statement was made with higher amplitude than rest of the conversation. It, kind of, itch my ears. I hate it when I am disturbed while thinking.

“How can I do it? The company provides me with this netbook and…”

“No I can’t Mr. Nitish, I can’t run Photoshop on this netbook. It has a Celeron processor. Photoshop will not work fine on this. It will be very slow. I can only do the coding job…That’s it”

After a few more yes and OKs he hung up and banged his netbook top with his palm. I could feel seismic waves propagate as I sat just next to him.

He had to restart his machine again.

“Bloody provide me a pencil & paper next time and ask me to predict rocket trajectories.”

Even his curses were geek. I looked at his screen. He was doing some HTML business. He was a web designer I guess. He was making something like a forum, a journalism website maybe. He had a netbook from a company I do not recognize by name. More importantly, an Intel Celeron sticker stuck on it. The geekish dude kept on cursing his company for the brilliant stuff it provided to its engineers.

“As if I am a Computer clerk rather than a computer engineer. Akshara was such a nice company. I don’t know why I came to webtechs.”

I don’t know both the companies to be frank. Was he talking of Infosys and Microsoft? I really do not know!! This guy was in such a desperate need of a better resource. I could see it on his face. He wore a NIT t-shirt, which means he was from a good college and had a good degree. His speed was actually quite respectable. He finished his job and was looking at his previews. I wished I could gift him some high end Lappy. It did make him happier than having sex with a girl. You need to trust me on that. How about a macbook? Nothing turns on a geek like a macbook. A slightest smell of mac and they are turned on like a dog on morning walk.

*Nokia tune*

Boss calling....

“Yes sir the work is done.”

“Absolutely Sir…I’ll do it by tomorrow morning…Yes sir…Yes Sir…I’ll do the graphics as well…Sure Sir…Thank you sir..”

His boss hung up and simultaneously he uttered – “You mom was a common bit*h Mr. Boss”

He stuffed his phone inside his pocket. Nokia 1100. It’s a brilliant phone I tell you. Two languages – English and Hindi, plus a torch light, plus 140 character SMS support, 500 phonebook memory, 20 last calls history and 200 SMS memory.

My stop had arrived and I got down at Central Secretariat to change for my next metro.

PS : 1) Please provide technology to those who need it like their next breath.

2) In some more cases, gadgets can be misleading while determining personality.

Moral of the story –

Your gadgets reflect you personality only when –

1) You are not dumb.

2) You are not a geek working on company issued netbooks.

My personality matches a few of most-raunchiest things ever created. Like Y2K, a personal PARAM PADMA to play CS, Mc Laren F1, F-22 raptor flight simulator, EKM class subs and a million other most-raunchiest things. K

*shrugs*

All a writer’s heart wishes is readers. If you find this work interesting then do share it liberally within your network.

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Thought Detonation #24 – A ‘Flight’ with Colours

2011-06-26T14:58:00.000+05:30

I came through a blogging contest called “Take flight with colours” which was organized by Indiblogger (www.Indiblogger.in) and HP (http://www.hp.com/in/laserjet). It asks us to think of something black and white which we would love to see in colour. Good thing is, it never said it must be limited to just one thing. How could a flight be restricted anyway? *Smile* A flight must have no restrictions; of time, space, meaning and vision. So I just sat down thinking and came up with this weird list. These are things I would love more if coloured.

I wish these white-washed walls of my cottage were a bit colourful, probably like wings of a butterfly. I love when the shades change when they flap them. I wish the blue ink my pen spills was a bit colourful, probably like G-Force visualization. I love the way it randomizes itself. I wish the cold pale water in my glass was a bit more colourful, probably like a young lady’s painted lips. Who would not love water droplets on colorful lips which change colour every day? I wish my wooden door was a bit more colourful, probably like an art gallery. I am tired of brown paint on brown wood. I wish a break-up was a bit colourful, probably like a first yes. How can you forget the feeling when whole world gets mute and only thing you hear is her voice …“Yes”. I wish my heart was a bit more colourful, probably like the feelings it holds. Feelings holding a million colours don’t quite fit in a pale heart. I wish the seas and oceans I see from a beach were a bit more colourful, probably like the youth I behold while I stand looking at it. Colours would defiantly add to the music and the hush only sounds of waves can create. Not to forget the thrill of watching it on a full moon night. I wish my purani jeans was a bit more colourful, probably like a hug from the old mate who gifted me that. If only I could spill all my colourful memories with pals on my jeans, I wouldn’t have wished this. Who can forget old mates, the selfless concern and love that they can create? I wish these skies were a bit more colourful, probably like syllables of urdu. I wonder how the world would look if all sounds change to colours. Could we actually ‘see’ what we utter? I wish the air around was a bit colourful. So a child’s innocence could be answered – “bhaiya, agar hawa hoti hai to dikthi kyu nahi?” I wish this city crowd was a bit more colourful, probably like their ‘clothes’. I wish pain was a bit colourful, probably like an artist’s colour pane. I wish music was a bit more colourful. So I could let my eyes ‘watch’ the “eargasms” created by dead sounds. I wish the uniforms of soldiers in a march-past were a bit more colourful, probably like belly dancing. It would have been such a treat to watch instead of enjoying potato chips. I wish the gun’s lead was a bit more colourful. I wish the hospital’s bed was more colourful, probably like a bed of flowers. Yet the only colour we see on hospital sheets is red. I wish if blood was a bit more colorful, probably like the first kiss. That is the only time when your ‘eyes are closed’, yet you see colours flared. Rest time it is all temporary darkness, if not for ever. I wish if dessert sands were a bit more colourful. I wish if the dry rain drops were a bit more colourful, probably like a fat wedding in Punjab. I wish the white plastic chairs lined outside a mortuary were a bit more colourful, probably like first love. When colours spill out and there are no mourning and no wet eyes. I wish the white mint in my pocket was a bit more colourful, probably like fireworks. I lose my freshness the moment I see pale mints. I wish silence between dead couples was a bit more colourful, probably like late night vodka they shared earlier. I wish shaking legs in anxiousness before interview was a bit more colourful, probably like tapping them on dance floor after being promoted. What can match the party you through when your salary is increased? I wish my daily routines were a bit more colourful, probably like pizzas on a weekend. I wish the dentist-in-white-coat was a bit more colourful, probably like a nurse-in-white-skirt. Now this white thing is so damn colourful. I wish fractured bones were a bit more colourful, probably like the touch of velvet, or maybe like a love letter. I wish ‘middle-noon sun’ was a bit more colourful, probably like ‘an early sunrise’. I wish the black tinted glass of my car was a bit more colourful, probably like dark chocolate. I wish my ‘colour-blind’ eyes were a bit more colourful, probably like an old women’s gossip. I wish my life was a bit more colourful, probably like picture post cards. Everything seems so perfect when still and colourful. I wish my blog was a bit more colourful, probably like long-dusty-bound-free-roads, but it is not…

PS : 1) The only thing I actually wish is if this monotonous world was a bit more colourful. Everything else is just a corollary.

2) And I did love to see Sri 420 (movie) in colour. Precisely, the song “mera joota hai japani...”

3) Each line has a double plank. Think about it…

All a writer’s heart wishes is readers. If you find this work interesting then do share it liberally within your network.

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Thought Detonation #23 – Devotion

2011-06-23T23:33:00.003+05:30

It has been nearly five years since Ryan’s last visit to a temple, or any other religious place. Today he found out why it was so, and why he never missed god in his life.

Dear diary,

I was sitting in a bus, DTC’s red AC bus to be precise. As usual I was busy with my thoughts. (When you manage a blog this serious, with no one else’s help, because you think they might interfere with what you actually wanted to say, you keep thinking all the time). Anyways, I was sitting in the DTC’s red AC bus. It was a cool morning and the tinted glass windows made it a treat to look at the skies above, a light brown colour sky with light yellow colour clouds. It seemed perfect like an edited photo, with perfect hue saturation. The bus, though a ‘new bus’ - like we call it, was now rickety. It doesn’t actually matter what you gift the people in metro cities. They just personalize it in their own ways. DTC had procured high end busses for Delhi roads, but Delhi roads are quickly turning them to blue-lines again. They were dented badly, thanks to the ex-blue-line drivers who now drove 60 lakhs of Indian tax-payers, apart from being government funded, with utmost devotion to god, sticking posters of lord Sai and Krishna all over their dashboard and non-authorized advertisements at other places. The conductor had drawn an arrow to point at his seat and had scribbled ‘Candacter Seet’ (Conductor’s seat) with a nail polish. So brilliant – a posh looking red TATA Marcopolo with red nail polish graffiti – so wow! Anyways I was in DTC’s red AC bus just sitting idle, thinking to kill my time. I feel so broken now-a-days that I don’t even care checking out girls. I barely open my eyes full; neither do I shut them completely while I sleep. So I guess I always stay in a ‘half sleepy’ mode. I have grown a little beard and I plan not to shave again in my whole life.

“Do you mind getting up?” a soft voice asked me from behind. I came to my senses, strained my eyes to open wide, managed to keep my equilibrium and turned around.
“Can you please get up? This is a ladies-seat.”
“You mean it is a seat reserved for ladies, right?” I got up with some difficulty and made way so she could move in. Maybe I should start eating from today. I was turning weak and I felt dizzy when I got up suddenly. I almost felt like I was blacking out. I had to move my feet a couple of times to keep balance.
“Bloody Drunkards” the cutie yelled and rested her bums on the seat. I smiled at her in pity.

So there I was – in DTC’s red AC bus, now standing because some trendy chick got me dislocated within 30 seconds and the bus was passing by a temple. The way my hottie prayed, I knew she was a Hindu. She joined both her hands and put them in front of her while she murmured some things. I liked to see her lips move. Not because she was a hottie, but because she was ‘my hottie’ now. I knew I was going to write about her stupidity tonight. It somehow made me constantly look at her and smile foolishly a couple of times whenever she looked me in eyes. I was making her quiet uncomfortable as she pulled her bag and half-hugged it, so I couldn’t stare at her ‘assets’. She looked at me again; she knew that I knew why she had done that. Now this was too much for me. I didn’t even look there once. It wasn’t my intention in the first place.

“Are you alright?” I startled her. She was too scared I guess. Tall brown guy, unshaved, heavy eyelids, shabby hair, dizzy and dead slow at his actions, and I am so good at scaring chicks – wow!
“Excuse me!!” She hugged her bag tighter.
“I asked if you are alright.”
“And what makes you presume I am not?”
“You think I am drunk?”

She kept silent and kept drifting in her seat to get away from me. I rested my hands on her arm-rest. I blew air on her face. Apart from my bad breath she couldn’t smell liquor. Well how could she? I hadn’t had a sip in ages.

“So you think I am drunk?”
“No. Not now. I thought…You couldn’t stand straight and you look…” she paused.
“I look like filth?” I smiled again, this time close to her face, “Guess what? Even my girlfriend is mad at me.”

So till now the scene is such – I am in this DTC’s red AC bus, I have a girlfriend and I am fluent in English. Though my hottie was stupid, but she wasn’t stupid enough to still think of me as a drunkard.

“Actually I am diagnosed to be suffering from chronic dengue. Some air-headed mosquito decided to new pinch me an early morning. Now I have some serious drop in my blood platelet levels. They say it has no cure except popping paracetamols and resting. So they will be admitting me today. I threw up every time I ate in last 4 days and I can’t sleep now-a-days due to this high fever”, I put my hand in front of her which she touched and was shocked.
“You are hot!!” She couldn’t control my temperatures I guess and shouted this loud enough to let the whole bus hear it. Many heads turned towards us with a look – ‘if he is hot then I gunned down Osama’.

“I am so sorry. You should have told me to let you sit. I am so stupid at times.” You see she admitted. Didn’t I tell you my hottie was stupid? She was about to get up to let me sit.
“AIIMS” (read-aims) the conductor shouted.
“Perfect timing baby. I am off here.” I just smiled at her, more important, she smiled back.
“I am really sorry for this. I had no clue or else I would have let you sit.”
“My girlfriend would love to meet you. I did write about you tonight if they let me use a laptop. You are not only stupid but blind.”

She was startled by my sudden unappealing choice of words but tried to smile half heartedly.
“Next time you grab your ladies-seat make sure the guy is not a drunkard. He could load you with enough curses to compensate for your 100 hand-joints.”

She understood what I was referring to. Joining hands in front of a temple is just not enough if you piss off someone who was as sick as me. I was bugging the lady a lot I guess. Moreover she was hot. Hot girls, generally, aren’t supposed to be bugged by guys.
“You know you are pretty, but like this DTC’s red AC bus; Marcopolo outside but blueline inside. It doesn’t matter however pretty you are in these metro cities, the city personalizes you to be cocky. Such is the similar analogy between chicks in busses.”
“I said I was sorry. Please don’t be angry.” She made a face which pulled out mother Teresa out of me.
“It’s cool. I am not angry at all. You are too much of a chick to make me angry.”

I got her smiling again and blushing. We had reached our stop and the automatic doors opened. I raised myself from leaning onto her and started to walk towards the door.

“Hey. Stop. Can I have a number, email id maybe?”
“Not too soon dear.” and I kept moving. She had risen from her seat and walked behind me. I got down from the bus but she didn’t. Of course it was my stop, not hers’.
“Hey. Wait. I don’t even know your name. Listen.”

The automatic doors shut and I winked at her. She stood near the gate and kept looking at me till the bus went out of my sight.

So there I was – Outside AIIMS ready to get admitted, in style.

PS : 1) I wonder how people in the bus might have thought her to be mad. She felt and ugly-sick guy hot and ran behind him to get his number. I totally love this thing about girls.

2) This is precisely the reason why I never visit religious places. I don’t deserve to be there. If I look inside, I am even more stupid that my hottie. Whenever I visited a temple (though it was a long time ago) I felt ashamed. I had abandoned my friends when they needed me most. I had compromised with my life to please a few people. I had done wrong to those less fortunate than me. I know I was not clean enough to be at a religious place. When I stood in front of god with my eyes closed, it made me feel ashamed. I didn’t want to replay all my bad memories in which my inability to act right had hurt people around me. It was painful and scary. I could have stood beside them if it were some other time. Everyone needed me at times when I was broke myself. I was too busy sorting out my own life when they needed me for support. How could I support them then? I had no way but to pretend, to be even more stupid than my hottie in bus today. She didn’t even know that she was offending. But I knew I was wronging the people I cared for, yet I did it for a few personal benefits. It’s all fucked up. It’s all messed. I guess its remorse. It does not matter how insightful you are, or how true are you to yourself, or how good hearted you are; this world just personalizes you to be betrayer. Such is a funny similar analogy between buses, chicks and life. All are bitches.

All a writer’s heart wishes is readers. If you find this work interesting then do share it liberally within your network.

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Thought Detonation #22 – Hospital ‘Breakthrough’

2011-06-22T13:09:00.001+05:30

It was a damn hot afternoon while Rohan and I waited for Ankita and Sakshi besides the subway. The worst part was we were in Rohan’s car - An all-angle-dented-Grey Santro.
“Dude you car sucks big time! I feel like peeing on its top to cool it down.”
“Why don’t you just stay shut up? It’s 48 degrees outside. How the fu*k do you expect the AC to work? We have just started, not even 10 minutes yet!”
“Well I hate your car. That’s it. It sucks really huge. Last time you blew up a tyre at Milakpur. I m glad I am still alive. I bet the patients in this hospital enjoy better cooling than us”, I said as I pointed to the five storey hospital building on the opposite side of the road.

Rohan raised an eyebrow. “You think you want to check out?” He smiled at me as he said this. I knew what he meant. We had lots of time to kill as we were waiting for girls and parking was not a problem as we were stuck in traffic. Traffic in Delhi moves with a speed of inches per hour. So it wasn’t any trouble. Rohan pulled over to the pavement and navigated through the pedestrians to park the car in the park beside. (Yes you can do that in my city.)

We got down and walked across the road. Traffic on both sides – like a zebra laid on road wherever you want. You can cross roads blindfold because you know no car would move. It’s just the reflected sunlight and heat that radiates off the car bonnets that almost dehydrates your face while you walk eight lanes. But we did it. As we were done crossing we realized that we actually stood near the subway.
“Dumb*ss, Why didn’t you tell me we had a subway built here?”
“Well even you were eyed enough to see it, weren’t you? Don’t give me reasons to make you donate your eyes at this hospital today.”
“You how stupid was this? It was like peeing a public urinal to aim at the phenyl balls.”
“Oh so you have done that as well?”
“Come-on everyone does that.”

So there we were – at the main entrance of hospital. It was a modern building covered all with glass.
“You know why they put glass on the building?”
“Umm…So you can comb your hair looking at it?” Rohan pulled out a comb from his pocket and started doing his hair.
“Hmm…No. Because they want to save the cost of plastering the outer wall.”
“Oh is it so? My bad.” Rohan made a face and slid back the comb in his pocket.

We went in and passed through the reception area unnoticed. As soon as we were in corridors we knew that we had gate-crashed the hospital successfully. We ran across the subsequent doors maneuvering between doctors, nurses, patients and assistants.
“Can you please let me run behind you?”
“And why so?”
“I feel like Rose running away from Jack this way. That way I would feel Jack chasing Rose.”
“Such a sucker!”

We arrived at the surgical ward. A place full of broken/cut-open/torn/stitched/mutilated people. One old folk turned towards us while in his bed and said, “Looking for someone?”
“Oh no! We are just hanging around”, I confused the oldie.

There was another middle-aged dude in his bed. “Son, can you please set the time and date in my phone? I just gave my phone to someone for making a call and he fiddled with the settings.”

“Nah its cool dude”, I took the phone and set date and time.
“Check out his memory. This guy looks a pimp”, prompted Rohan.
“You see that plastic bag hanging over there?”
“Yeah. What’s that used for? What’s that yellow fluid in there?”
“He pees in it.”
“What!! In a plactic bag?”
“Yup. Can you guess why?”
“Probably his shaft doesn’t work”
“Yup. So I am not wasting my time searching his memory.”

I returned the dude his phone with a wink. “Auntyji must be having a tough time with you”, clarified Rohan. We left him mesmerized and pondering over what we just said and moved out of the room. A little further in the gallery we came across a huge glass door. In fact, there were three successive glass doors one after the other and then there was a glass window. We peeped in through glass doors covering eyes with hands to avoid our own reflections in it and get a look of what was inside. A curtain was drawn on the glass window, so all we could see was a couple of shoes removed in front of us and many green colored apron kind of things, more of a convocation dress than an apron to be precise.
“Should we go in?” asked Rohan.
“Have you gone nuts? You know why there are successive glass doors here?”
“Nah. It’s like a lab of some sci-fi movie.”
“Dude all these consecutive sections are to sterilize any possible microbes on the visitors. I guess cancer patients are kept in this ward. They have nearly zero immunity. At times a simple fever can kill them. You see not even shoes are allowed inside and you need to change to these green clothes before entering”, I said as I pointed to the changing room on out left.
“That’s so sad. How do you know about it?”
“Read it somewhere, maybe online I guess.”

We were in midst of our knowledge exchange when a middle-aged dark man came out of the room. He was coming towards us. Initially we thought of just moving away but we didn’t. He came close to us and just the glass door was between him and us.
“Why are you here?”
“We are looking for our relative. Even he is admitted in this ward”, he didn’t look like the hospital staff so we could lie anything.
“Only my daughter lives in this ward. She is four years old. She is suffering from blood cancer since last two years. It was treated once but now it has reappeared. Doctors will be transplanting bone marrow from my elder daughter into her. So we are hoping she will survive”, he told us everything in one go. He wasn’t complaining or angry with us because we lied to him, or because we were sticking around. Probably he was too preoccupied to be angry with us. Rohan and I were feeling a bit uncomfortable. His mellow sadness flowed from his eyes to ours through the glass door.
“Can we see her, uncle?”
*pause*
“Sure beta. Just stay here while I ask Rajini to open the curtains”, he said to us and moved back inside.
I could see him telling his wife to slide the curtains so that we could see her daughter. She slid the curtains. A little girl in yellow dress was standing in her bed. She was jumping on it as she watched cartoons. Uncle moved to us again and said, “Only her mother is allowed to be with her. Even I can go just till the last door. They don’t allow me to enter the room.” She was still jumping and her mom pointed us to her. She turned to us and started waving her hand. She was saying something but we could not hear her. Her dad smiled back and waved. Rohan and I were perplexed and stood still as if we were frozen.
“How old is her elder sister?”
“She is thirteen. Doctors will be taking some bone marrow from her body.”

I actually never asked him the latter part; it just showed me how disturbed he was. But he never showed. He smiled fully and looked normal. Rohan and I were in sweat. The air conditioner was so perfect there, unlike in Rohan’s car - The all-angle-dented-Grey Santro, but still we were feeling restless and choked. The girl had blood cancer, was in captivity and would probably die. Reoccurred cancer is rarely treated perfectly again. Yet she was happy and nothing was stopping her from jumping in her bed. She was happy and she could show world that she was.

“Please give me way”, said uncle as he moved out of the glass door we were standing next to. He was carrying a toy set which had replicas of a doctor’s instrument.
“They didn’t allow her toys also. Now I am going to the sterilization facility to treat them. They will allow then.”

This was too much for us. It’s so sarcastic. She wanted to play with those toys. She would probably die in front of a doctor!
I couldn’t take it anymore. Rohan shook a bit as he suppressed his sob. We saw uncle move away from us and we looked at the girl for one last time.
“Let us get out of here.”

We went back to our car. This time we used the subway of course. We saw Ankita and Sakshi standing there.
“Where the fu*k have you both been?”
“Sakshi just get in and no f-words for next 20 minutes.”

We all got in the car and drove away.

PS : I hope that girl survives. I did love to see her grow older and never be in hospital again.

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Thought Detonation #21 - Nightmare

2011-06-11T11:35:00.006+05:30

It was 19th of May, 2013. Lieutenant Abhay was first officer to the Naval Chief. He stood with the Admiral at the Howrah Bridge as they saw red flares flying from the Bay of Bengal into the skies above.

Lt. Abhay pulled out a reference “Sir, shooting a bright red flare during a sail…”
“Indicates distress and need of assistance.” The Admiral turned his face towards his first officer.

His look was grave. Like a father who received the news of his son’s death.
“This was our last destroyer. How many K-Class are still ready for sail? What is the army up to? Fix me on line with the centre.”

They had lost all their destroyers since last December at regular intervals. And this red flare today, put an end to their count. The Navy was crippled now. Lt. Abhay knew that he was alive only because he was first officer to the Admiral. Had he been a regular Naval Officer, he would have been firing that red flare.

Time wasn’t good. It was war, a different kind of war, with a different kind of species. They were trying to claim their authority over earth. These were closely associated with homo-sapiens but had nearly ten times their thinking power and surprisingly efficient mutation capabilities. Their enormous thinking power gave them extraordinary decision making capabilities and swiftness. They had taken to war against humans in last December. Since then the causality ratio had been traumatizing, 1: 11,49,876. UNO was dead. The joint military did not stand them for more than five days and went down in seas. That was when all nations pulled out from UN and decided to save their territories individually.

These were literati-sapiens (as called by homo-sapiens). They looked exactly similar to humans, with two arms, two legs, two eyes except for the fact that they had a swollen skull to accommodate their brain and their skin was sensitive to light and had taste buds. literati-sapiens had an exoskeleton structure, only .50 caliber sniper bullets could pierce them and yet it never killed them. Their essential organs were protected by a second layer of skeleton structure. We know it because military could manage to get two dead specimens of their type. Average weight was estimated to be 180 kilos and their physique was scaring. They had an average height of 7 feet. This species had striking similarities between each of the specimens. Their identification codes were sketched on each sample as simply looking at them could not help to distinguish between them. Moreover they did not have male or female sex. This meant they reproduced by cloning the daughter cells from a parent. Something like tissue culture. So each parent could actually breed to give a thousand more. They had incredible learning speed. Back in February when they got over the USS Arleigh Burke in midst of its sail, It took them an hour to reach the shore and it took US Navy next eight hours to evacuate the port of Virginia. They were lethal. They already had taken over half the world – most of the west and now most of Asia was under their control. Within their short activity period of six months, they knew 32 international languages, fluently and it took them seconds before they could decipher military communication signals. All nuclear power plants were taken over by them and most of the dams built were destroyed. The thermal stations weren’t a problem; they could shut them any day, if needed. They powered their own equipments with them. The gulf was under their control and oil production was down. ‘Still-independent countries’ were trying their best to produce enough energy for their military. Some countries had even taken to mass cycle-powered generators to charge submarine batteries. With no fuel, most of Indian warships were floating ducks. Russia had withdrawn all its naval assistance and now there were no nuclear powered vessels to guard the Indian coast. Global population was 2,654,557,800. Yes, the time wasn’t good indeed.

“Sir, the rail track on this Bridge has been checked and your train will be arriving in a few minutes. The centre has issued orders to relocate you and the three Vice Admirals to New Delhi. This train has been specially built for military and can withstand up to 1500 kg/cm2 of pressure which gives it ability to stay unaffected from mid-range rockets and grenades. However, if the train derails then you are advised to lock yourself in this chamber in carriage no.3 from the direction of motion”, said Abhay pointing at a shaded block on the blue print. The naval chief pushed the instructions away from himself, “That’s fine Lieutenant. I’ll go through it later.”

The train shuffled in and stopped right in middle of Howrah Bridge. It was in 1971 when a train ever ran on these tracks last time. The service was closed due to heavy traffic on Howrah Bridge. It’s so ironic that today there was not a single fellow on the Bridge. It was captured by the Navy and used as a depot. Losing that bridge would mean giving access of all Indian rivers to the enemy. Indian Navy just couldn’t afford loosing this bridge. Probably this was the reason Admiral himself had his shelter on the Bridge.

“Sir, and you are to transfer the charge to other senior officials at Kolkata. Your preferences maybe Rear Admiral Kaushav, Rear Admiral Sanjay Yadav, Rear Admiral Ramakant Swamy or Commodore SK Singh. I have got no instructions to accompany you to New Delhi so I will be staying here with the fleet.”

“What’s the news from Mumbai and Visakhapatnam?”

“Sir Mumbai can withstand the attacks for a couple of more days. They are deficient to resist Admiral Kuznetsov and Admiral Ushakov which were gained over by ‘them’ 12 days ago. There has been no evidence of ‘their’ capability to fly Sukhois yet. But they do have 8 Sukhois onboard which is a great threat. Cochin has been taken over yesterday 5pm IST and orders of mass evacuation have been issued. There is no data indicating the loss/causalities yet. However, safeguarding civilians remains our first priority. The Visakhapatnam port has been jammed. They sunk two of our submarines at the mouth of passage which have made it hazardous for our large ships to sails over. There is no clearance for heavy vessels to move out of the port but lighter C-Class vessels are trying their best to resist the attack while the debris is cleared.”

The admiral laid his hand on Abhay’s shoulder and got into the coach. He knew what that touch mean. Dr. Hasan Ali, scientific advisor to Prime Minister had called it a ‘natural event which was ought to happen someday’. Humans had claimed this world because of their intelligence, and now someone else is doing the same.

The Admiral got into the coach and the train began to move. Lieutenant Abhay stood there as he looked the train shuffle by. Getting the Admiral out of Kolkata meant India knew it was going to lose Kolkata soon. Abhay stood there as the train went away. He kept looking at the yellow cross (X) mark on the last coach which flashed blue light….

Hell!!!! Wait a minute! Trains flash a red light not blue! Damn!!!
I woke myself from sleep and got up in shock. I was in my bed.
“F*ck! What was that! Probably I need some water."

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Thought Detonation #20 – And he moved out

2011-05-27T20:11:00.000+05:30

“How many times have I asked you not to shut the door? Idiot!” yelled his father as he banged the door Sudhakar had locked from inside. Sudhakar opened the door halfway, “What is it now?”

“You heard what your son has just said? You hear him, don’t you?”Grinded his father at top of his voice so his mother could hear.

“What is it father? I am working. Why don’t you go and watch TV? Please let me be at peace.”

“Shut up you fool. Ever looked at what other guys your age are doing? It’s time for admissions. The university cut-off will be out in a few days. Doesn’t that bother you? Name a single good college you have enquired about. Is it my job to get you admission as well? Eh?”

“I will let you know when I find a college. I am working now, please” and the door was shut and locked simultaneously.

Sudhakar was back to his imagination, the sparkling light blue pattern that swirled like a fisherman’s net paused in air, the way he used dark shades with yellow to add depth to its shadow, something like northern lights. He dipped his fingers in paint and rubbed them on canvas. The light colour was soft, used in a deliberate manner like the falling feather of dove. He put grey colour on his palm and splashed it on canvas and rubbed the tip of his fingers all over. So one could see dark grey shade so surplus, but between the slight gaps that the layer had, one could also see light shades, with their lucid shadows. A feeling of something real and sound yet hidden propagated as one looked at the canvas. He stood there watching the shades flow (yes he could, more importantly, only he could). It was his eighth canvas in series. It was like playing music, high and low notes simultaneously. Sudhakar was a master of contrasting layers. The emotions of his canvas went pass through him like spring breeze. There was a deep dark grey splash on top trying to capture the free and flying blue air beneath, exactly like jail bars trying to capture a soul. The onlooker would see the terrible grey splash first which would let him know the pain of being hidden, like a diamond which always remained buried. Yet one can see how the lighter shades beneath pierce out the greys to symbolize optimism, like a sprout raising its head from the soil. This was Sudhakar’s finest work, which brilliantly conveyed the iron will he had. There were grave grey problems which encircled him, but he was like the sky blue shade beneath. His art was subtle and soft. He carried his passion like the wind would carry a leave in autumn. He stood there looking at the master piece he had just created. He took the wiping cloth in his hands, unlocked the door he had closed and started moving towards the drawing room.

“Found yourself a good college? Phaw! Stupid guy, I am not paying for framing what you just scribbled. You get that? You and your ugly paintings!”

And next day, he just moved out.

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Thought Detonation #19 - Pain

2011-05-26T21:54:00.000+05:30

Is it like being rowed up by the deathly harrow,

Something sharp, maybe like guillotine?

Is it like apple of Adam surfaces and dips to swallow,

Something burning, maybe like kerosene?

Is it sharp metal edge that can cut,

Kill with one strike, maybe like lightning?

Is it flash from a glock with Teflon butt,

Soul shattering sound, maybe like followed striking?

Is it like the rain drops falls and eat through like acid,

Gulp in all and just leave teeth behind, maybe like tooth fairies?

Is it like it could rip stillness of placid,

Which is sweet but kills, maybe like poisoned cherries?

Is it too thick to flow and viscous,

Hard to digest, maybe like betrayal of beloved?

Is it appalling and painful to fall on,

Planar and flat, maybe like a cemented floor?

Is it like the wind from dessert so scotching,

Dry as buried bone, maybe like a heat stroke?

Is it like stiff cold mummy dead of freezing,

Or deep red in colour, maybe like warm blood?

Is it like corner of the brick that hit you,

It hurts not because it was, but maybe because it did?

Is it like a rock climber fell from the Egyptian tombstones,

Kind of sarcastic, maybe he ends like its owner did?

With all these dark imageries I associate with Pain, I hope someday new leaf buds open and the dry weather passes away.

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Apologies for no post today.

2011-05-25T23:43:00.000+05:30

Apology to my readers for not posting today. I am battling against food poisoning and have just come to my consciousness. Hope all my readers understand.
Apologies again.

Thought Detonation #18 - The going got tough and tough couldn't get going

2011-05-24T18:27:00.000+05:30

He threw his hands back in air and they slammed the Monitor top as they came back. “Fu*k you dumb box! I hate it when you do this.” The whole workplace turned at him while they still murmured a number of things in their headphones. So basically you could just hear a hummmm…, apart from the bash his hands just created. He was Sameer, a 24 year old working in a call centre. He wanted to be an air traffic controller, but the job just didn’t want him. So he ended up here. He restarted his PC which had just hung and put back his head phones. His job was simple. People called him from Canada and US, and he trouble-shot their problems like…

“I cannot hear any volume in my speakers.”

“Maam’ are you sure you have connected the green jack in its port behind the PC?”

“Oh no my son removed it last night, am I supposed to put it back in? Will I get volume then?”

… He couldn’t take it. Actually, nobody in his call centre could. People replied all doors were closed when asked if any ‘window’ was open, and then Bill Gates is also in US. People tore their hair out at this kind of intelligence of their customers. Everyone wanted to just run away from their lives. Sameer didn’t find a single person who wished to work there. Everybody was just stuck because they had nothing else to do. A few people had left to look for better, a few had started their business, a few tried share markets and basically everyone tried something before ending up there, but all of them came back, some on same wages and others on lower. Sameer had moved from his hometown a long time ago. He aspired to be a pilot then, but never cleared PABT of the IAF. He had some problem with his hand angles, so he was always rooted out in medicals. Then he did engineering and tried to become an air traffic controller. He was quiet intelligent and, no doubt, talented. He had made himself a Ham-radio at age of nine. He knew how the technology worked. He had an appreciable GPA in his college. But he never got what he wanted. He wanted to take a drop and try again, but circumstances didn’t want him to. So again he never got what he wanted.

His father was old now and mother was infirm. His elder brother, too, didn’t have a good job. The money he earned was just enough to feed his wife and children thrice a day and assure minimum things like school fees and electricity. The only time their family talked of savings was when he got a bonus. Sameer couldn’t take a break. He worked as a counter boy in local restaurant to meet his own expenses in college and joined the call centre job just after. He earned 15,000 of which he sent home 10,000. He had lied to his family that he earned much more. Frankly speaking, 5000 in a sub-urban town will not even pay for your residence. He lived with his three friends in a rented PG. He didn’t own anything, except a mobile (which he rarely used to make calls, he just liked the FM feature) and a bike. His bike, a third (or maybe fourth hand Yamaha RX 100), was probably the only thing that gave him solace. It was his, he owned it. He loved going on rides on his bike. He skipped dinner for two days in his mess and that let him save enough for a 50 Km ride in outskirts of his town. But right now, his bike was parked outside a building while he sat in the basement taking calls. He had his mobile FM switched on which he put to his ears between calls.

A guy from NY had called him. He wished to know if he could play his videos in nero that he had just installed.

“Yes Sir you can, it’s very easy to do that.”

“But dude whenever I double-click the video, you know double-click not a single click, I double click them, Windows media Player opens and I hate it.”

“What kind of videos are you trying to play Sir?”

“That’s none of your business faggot. I have just recorded my girl on tape. Why do you care huh? You prick!”

“Sir I just wished to know which format the video is of. To check if it is compatible with your software”

“I know what you wanted to know fool. Bloody Indians. Black small stinky guys. You suck! Know what dude, You suck big time! Connect me to your manager.”

Sameer switched off his PC and pretended that it had hung again. He just couldn’t take it anymore. With adrenalin flushing inside him, he closed his eyes and grinded his teeth to let go off the anger. He turned on the PC again and put FM to his ears while the windows started.

“Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bose DK Bose..Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bhaag..

Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bose DK Bose..Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bhaag..”

He loved this song. He wanted to run too. He wished if some aandhi could lift him off this place and put him somewhere else. Any place in this universe could do but not this one!!

“Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bose DK Bose..Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bhaag..

Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bose DK Bose..Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bhaag..”

His ailing father and mother went through his mind. So did his poverty and insecurities. He had a girlfriend who was married now. All his friends had families, and if not a family, then fun for sure. “This version of windows is not genuine. Please go online to resolve the issue.” His PC popped. Damn his job man. Damn his PC. Damn his situation. Damn his Windows. Damn Bill Gates who made it. Damn the US which called. Damn India which listened. Damn his family. Damn every fu*king thing in world. Damn you. Damn myself. Damn GOD. Damn everything…

“Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bose DK Bose..Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bhaag..

Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose DK Bose DK Bose..Aandhi ayi hai….”

Yes there was storm. He pushed the monitor down on floor and laughed as it shattered. He picked up his phone & keys and ran towards the door. Everyone stood still and watched as he keyed his bike and went away. Somewhere he could live his life. He never returned to his mates, or to his family, not to the call centre, ever. I just wish he had an asylum of peace.

*Aandhi ayi hai* *Bhaag DK Bose*

*****************************

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Thought Detonation #17 - Great Expectations

2011-05-23T19:48:00.000+05:30

The voltage fluctuated and the refrigerator made sounds. Mrs. Gupta said in an annoying tone, “I am fed up with this now. We urgently need a stabilizer or fridge would just blow up some day and take me with it as well.” Mr. Gupta laughed and nodded in assurance. He had a comfortable job now. He was just back from Qatar after his training and was expecting an appointment letter soon. He was a prematurely retired railway engineer. His work in Railways was tiresome and he was just paid 30,000 for that. All his three children were grown up and both daughters were to be married. Their son wished to do B.Tech. The kind of salary he was getting in railways, frankly speaking, couldn’t meet all of that. Moreover they didn’t have a voltage stabilizer. Mrs. Gupta needed a washing machine, her wrinkled palms did, but she never asked for one. Mr. Mehta had a scooter. When the whole family wanted to go for shopping to Sarojini Market, Mr. and Mrs. Gupta would invite their youngest daughter, who was 18, to accompany them on scooter. To which she would just agree by silence. Their son and other daughter would board the metro train. The special thing about this family was that no one ever complained about all this. They always switched on the old fan when they couldn’t take the silence. Their daughters rarely talked to the colony guys or to each other, its generally rich sisters who gossip and discuss their crush. They just wished to be married off somewhere while still clean. Their son desperately wanted to complete his B.Tech and engage himself in some job. A 2,00,000 rank in AIEEE did assure him of a 15,000 .p.m job after four years. This was a mild family, who preferred yellow light bulbs over CFLs.

But all this suddenly changed when Mr. Gupta got a job offer from some company in Qatar. He enquired everything about the company, and made sure the company was established and had a repo. The company had been digging oil rigs since last 25 years and had a total work force of 1500 Indians. These folks always prefer Indians, because they demand less and settle for whatever they are allowed to have. But converting Dinar to INR was kind of mesmerizing to Mr. Gupta. Even if he sent home just half the money he earned there, he would still send 50,000 every month. This was a lot more than what he earned all his life in Railways. It didn’t take him much time to decide his priorities. He packed his bags and lifted off to an all-paid trip to Qatar. He stayed there for a month for his training before he came back to Indian. He was told to wait for his Joining Instructions and Appointment letter. Since everything had been smooth like butter, he could easily give a nod to voltage stabilizer, with a smile. He promised his son to buy him a new Laptop and assured him that he wouldn’t need to apply for a study loan. The daughters were happy and had started spending a lot of time together discussing their prince, and how hers was better than the other hers. One can always talk more freely of such desires when one is backed by money. A marriage to poor is just the about the music band, stage and the jaimal. A poor family rarely thinks beyond this when it comes to marriage. Compatibility and intimacy is possibly the last thing in such circumstances. So basically the wheels were turning for Gupta family and everything was going fine and perfect.

It was so, until Mr. Gupta came to know about the restlessness in Libya and adjoining countries. He knew that the only way it could affect him was in a slamming way. And worst part, so it did. He got a call informing him that all the recruitments of his batch were cancelled and he would not be sent any JI or Appointment letter. However he will be notified for any further vacancies that may appear. They were thankful to him for understanding them and his cooperation was appretiated.

*Dreams shattered like glass fell on concrete*

*The flying bird was shot*
*The fruit laden branch fell*

*The diver got trapped in wave as he was picking the pearl*

Now again Gupta family switched on the old fan and now, sisters didn’t talk when they were alone in room. Now Mr. Gupta’s son has applied for a study loan which includes expense of a laptop and Mr. Gupta got back to editing his resumes and is looking for a new job.

*These are great expectations*

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Thought Detonation #16 - Water puddle days

2011-05-22T20:17:00.001+05:30

It has been a heavy downpour at my place since yesterday and Indian roads are so filled with emotions towards the first shower of the season. They won’t allow a single drop off to the channels. India is so full of love. It’s a lovely land. In this lovely land, and the lovely love between roads and first shower, there is another lovely thing as well, a little boy with plaited hair. He is bright white in colour and is extremely happy for something I don’t know. He is accompanied by his mother who cannot run as fast as he can and he is extremely charged up by evading pursuit. Now how can a celebration of a 4 year old on a rainy day, with roads loving the showered water, and on a beautiful garam pakode wali evening be if I can’t see splashes? And here he goes *splash* *splash* He kept jumping in those water puddles, till he was as wet as the road, and even he was loving the first shower exactly like the road. Everything thing about splashing water from a puddle is so good when you are 4 year old, except one. You actually cannot run while jumping in puddles. So your mom, who can’t run as fast as you can, can always catch you when you keep jumping at one place. Seems that kid didn’t know that. His mom came running with an umbrella in her left hand and slapped him twice with her right. He stood still. No one is loving the rain now. I just watch this happen and I want to say something. Something like, “Please let him play; he is having the time of his life. Once he grows up he may write about jumping in a puddle but never feel it again. He is loving what he is doing, which he rarely will after growing up. Please let him do what he loves.” but I couldn’t. “How many times have I told you not to do this? For whose sake have I brought this Umbrella? Don’t you know what can happen to you if you keep splashing this dirty water?” said she and pulled him by arm and dragged him out of my sight. I wonder if he ever asked his mom to carry that umbrella for him. I saw he was so thrilled getting wet in rain. I wonder if he ever wanted to know what will happen if he splashed dirty water that way. He just wanted to jump in those puddles. It were his ‘water puddle days’. He was allowed to have an umbrella, which he never wanted. He was made to know the potential threats of jumping in dirty puddles, which he never wished to learn. He just wanted to jump in those puddles, which he wasn’t allowed to do. He earned two slaps for following what his heart said.

*Period*

We all have earned slaps for following our heart right?
But I still follow my heart. Never kneel down buddy. It’s like nil down yet you lost the fight. Do what your heart says. We ourselves are so weak that we let the world mould us to dummies. To make us a clone, like it did with million others. Look at the way we are brought up. How unknowingly our million desires are crushed. Then we give long lectures and presentations on things like “stereotyped thinking” and “thinking out of the box” – crap.

Let a child follow his dream. Let him love his dream. Just don’t slap him because he loves to jump in puddles.
Never kneel down India.
Keep ya head up and follow your heart.

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Thought Detonation #15 – It’s faith

2011-05-21T18:20:00.001+05:30

When people read my work like this one or this one, they ask me how I speak so openly about beauty and whether it affects my personal relationships with “people”. To this I reply straight, “I have a girlfriend who trusts me”. When I say this I feel pity for the kind of amazement these folks show me. So in my way, I have a story to show them how blind trust could be.

…It was three in the afternoon when Vinay ringed the door bell of his house and his girlfriend open to him. It had been 6 months since he was on tour and was just back home. Life of a Naval IT Engineer is sort of exhausting. Ankita, his beloved girl, knew he was arriving which made he do funny things like washing her hair, applying lip paint when in her house, spraying over two bottles of air freshener and a million other crazy things. She made sure that the bathroom was at its best and nothing was short there. She had set up the DVD player and had lined nearly 4 movies to watch back to back. But as for now, she just clung to him tight and pushed her nails deep in his back. There was a desperate hug of two hearts wanting to meet. Vinay closed the door behind them as Ankita came to her consciousness. It has been six months since they had seen each other. Both were in a live-in relationship. Their parents didn’t know about that. But they had let them know that they were dating each other. So it was a half clean and half hidden sort of a relationship. Vinay worked as a Marine IT expert while Ankita was perusing her Master’s degree. They made a cute couple, a rare couple in which the girl is duskier than the guy. Both had been loving each other for last 7 years and living together for two. The kind of faith they had in each other was unshakable.

It was late evening when Ankita was done with enquiring Vinay about his trip and the places he went. You know these guys are always on sail. They never know where they are going until they reach there to work! So it is always a curiosity for girlfriends of such guys to enquire places their guy had been. So it was for Ankita. She was just moving towards the couch and was about to touch the remote when Vinay called her and said, “I wanna be with you for some time. Ain’t no movies this eve. Baby Please” as he stretched please to pallleeassee. Ankita came near him and asked if he wanted to tell her something. She had felt him a little preoccupied today. Was it a problem at work? Or something else? She had tried to guess but his travel tales shadowed all of that and she never asked about it. But now, since he wanted to be with her and not watch movies, it was something of weightage worth asking. “Come on. You have me always with you.”, she said as her tongue touched her upper lip in a playful manner. Vinay pulled her towards him and said, “I gotta tell you something dear. You will trust me with what I say?” What? Why is he talking this way? Something fishy? Did his parents come to know about their living together? “Hmm sure. I will trust with anything honey.” she said as she sat in his lap playing with his nose. They both smiled at each other, and Vinay continued…

“ Back in Feb. when I was in Cape Town I had a day off you know. We guys were free to just roam about and drink and all you know. So I was in that music lounge with my friends you know. And then we had to come back to the hotel. You know only 5 guys come in a sedan…ummmm..so I had to pool in with someone else you know.” He was kind of uncomfortable speaking this. Ankita knew he was so because he was too concerned about carefully putting down what he was saying. She didn’t know what he was going to say, but she was assured that whatever it was, it could hurt her. This was the only reason Vinay was so careful with what he was uttering. She moved her hands on his shoulders and reclined on him as she kept her head on his chest. She was a great listener, and knew that this would give him assurance to speak out whatever he felt. “I was offered a lift by a girl. She was 21 and an Indian as well. Her dad worked in some metal works factory there while she worked part time in the cafeteria beside. She was kind of nice Indian girl. And you know her mother had passed away. She told me about her family. Nah m saying? Even I told her about you and you know, how we were planning for a marriage and all. She heard everything about us. She asked for your number as well.” Ankita was getting a bit anxious. She pressed herself tight to him asked, “ Did you had drinks that evening?” as her voice broke down a little at the end. Vinay quickly gripped her and said, “I wasn’t drunk dear. Nothing happened honey. I just had squash. You would never be out of my mind even if I was.” This put aside a lot of confusions in Ankita’s mind as Vinay continued, “Know that girl was sad. She didn’t show it. But, you know, you would have known she was. She left her studies after she was 18 and started working part-time. Part-time from morning 8 to evening 6. So you know, she was just working. Her second boy friend had recently dumped her because she was Indian. That dude from US was kind of shoo away to Indians. He just dated her for two months every night and then left her. So basically she was sad. You nah how she must be feeling right?” Ankita nodded in return and looked straight in his eyes. Which meant she was drinking every word he spoke. “We reached the hotel I was staying in, It was nine in night” he continued, “I was about to get off when she asked me to stay. She said that I was the best person she had ever met and she was grateful to me because I listened to her. She wasn’t able to tell all of her story to anyone. And I had been like an angle to her. I was actually about to get off her car, you know, when she caught my jacked and pulled herself close to me. I really wanted to just leave, you know. But if I did so then it would have shattered her, you know. A milk-butter guy had left her to weep sometime ago. I just didn’t want to do the same. Even she was an Indian honey. But trust me you were in my mind even then. I never lost the thought of you. I always knew I will tell you what ever happened from then. I was conscious and trust me I didn’t have drinks. She just moved to me and hugged me tight. I wanted to just move away, you know, but she started crying. I just couldn’t move myself. She hugged me tight and wept over me. Then, you know, I was trying to say something like ‘It will be alright’ or something when I found her lips on mine.” Ankita just gulped in her throat and rubbed her moist eyes on his shirt. Vinay was feeling terribly torn apart. This could spoil his relation which was nearing a decade now. He didn’t know if he was going to lose Ankita. He didn’t know how she would react. He just avoided looking to her as he watched the ceiling fan rotate. Did he hurt Ankita for the sake of not hurting a random girl? He was confused, but not ashamed of what he did. He was standing by his act and told her everything that had happened. “That’s all that happened before I left her and went to my room.” There was a killing silence for a few seconds. Vinay left his fate to Ankita’s judgment as Ankita assessed the situation while tears rolled down her eyes. She just got over Vinay and said, “You are the best person I have ever met, but be grateful to me cus’ I have listened to you.” She had listened to him so well that she knew the words of the girl exactly the way she had spoken. Vinay was moved by what his love had just done. He entangled his fingers into hers and said, “You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You are the best choice I ever made.” It was an emotional moment for the couple. Ankita hit her forehead on his and closed her eyes as she slipped in his arms saying, “Looks like you found a new blog post today.” Vinay smiled back at her and lifted her in his arms and moved towards the couch.

*It's faith*

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Thought Detonation #14 - Just Stay Happy Fella

2011-05-20T22:06:00.009+05:30

…Today I am so messed up. Have been really frustrated and dipped in anger all day. Nah, don’t ask me the reasons. Dipped enough to forget writing the blog as well! So you see I am really preoccupied. When it comes to me, being preoccupied can just mean thinking, and being even more preoccupied, even more thinking. I am a thoughtful fool as many folks consider. Since I was so in filth, the thought was also about being messed up. I guess I have found a new caption for Sallu Bhai. We must replace “Being Human” to “Being Messed Up”. It’s a lot more apt that way. I am so head-cracked and nobody cares, you see that eh? Nobody cares….

…Since the thought on being messed up was a lot messed up itself, and of which, I don’t remember a single point, I will just tell you what I came up with. Even if you are all messed, just stay happy; at least pretend that you are happy. Now come on, how? I don’t know. Just stay happy and wear that smile eh. Just let people keep trying to make out from that smile if you want to bash them or hug them. Keep fooling yourself and pretend to yourself that even if you are robbed off your car or left roofless, god will have better plans for you. You see God? He actually doesn’t have much work and he is so vella that he starts to come up with good plans for everybody in universe! That is roughly 6,775,235,700 people; and he has a better plan for each one of them! WOW, efficient working han? Just if my state’s Police were quarter that efficient, trust me I really wouldn’t have needed your better plans Mr. God.
Know what? If you accidently drop a coin on road and lose it, it’s your mistake; but snatching money from someone’s pocket, throwing it on road, driving that person away out of sheer fear and then picking up the bank notes is called robbery. *Sticks a tongue out to the world* You robbed it fool, you didn’t find it! That guy was robbed and just didn’t lose his money. I want an FIR of theft to be filed and not of me losing my money. Get that darogaji ? Kya ? chai-pani? Kyu bhabhi ne nahi banaya? Bhabhi se bolo banaye, aur aapko tiffin me pack kar ke diya kare. Apko chai ki bahaut bhook hai na?*smile* Ek baalti le ke aya karo saath me.I really want to gift your wife a tub you know, or maybe a drum. So that she can make lots of chai-pani-nashta. Aap bahaut khate ho na? Kam khaya karo. Apko pata hai diabities ho sakti hai mota hone par? Aur blood pressure ki bimari to ho hi jati hai. Kuch nhi hua to heart-attack to aa hi jayega apko, fir apke bacchon ko ghoos ke paison se kon padhaega? *smile*Ye ghoos me mili gadi kon chalayega? Fir hum jaise logon ki help kon karega? Drogaji thoda kam khaya karo. Aur bhabhi se bolo apke liye khana banaya kare. Ap hamara itna khate ho ki bhabhi ke paas koi kaam hi nhi hota.Wo bhi aaj kal moti ho rahi hai. *wackiest smile* Maine bataya na blood pressure, heart-attack. Ab bhabhiji ka heart-attack to mai bardash nhi kar sakta*smile*…

* darogaji traumatized*

Now you got darogaji in trouble. His company is laughing at him and he probably wants to kill you. He has a service pistol, which I guess would be rusted, and moreover a guy who asks you to bribe him a 100 bucks and later settles for 50, can never be man enough to shoot. So this means half the service pistols in country would be rusted right? Darogaji is still trying to make out what happened, as his fake dignity spills out and just flows off in the open sewage besides the road.

This is the real beauty of pretending to be happy when you are messed up. You can always transfer the mess to other guy and back-fire the trouble to the trouble makers themselves. Moreover, then, nobody can use your trouble for his benefit.

PS :
1–When you are fu*ked up early morning, start smiling like a fool; and other people would get fu*ked up trying to guess what you had last night.
2 –This is actually the last weapon left for us; of traumatizing the trouble makers with a smile when they expect you to drown in tears.
*Smile to traumatize*
*Just stay happy fella*

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Thought Detonation #13 – Real Beauty

2011-05-19T16:20:00.008+05:30

You know I was thinking to write something about beauty today. To my greatest surprise, I wasn’t able to “judge” what beauty is! Trying to write about real beauty, when you don’t know what beauty is in the first place, is actually something dumb. There were a few things that I could associate with beauty; like mother’s love, selfless and tender and white in colour. It is beautiful. Or a walk in dark as the night sky is illuminated by a million stars, without caring of what was back home or what you have to do tomorrow, when you actually live that moment and look at the stillness of moon. This ,surely, would be beautiful. How about sitting ashore a long lonely stretch of coastline, watching the sun dip behind waves, with orange sky and red horizons, as the sea sings you a constant tune and steady hush. How would it feel to reduce the tempo of your thoughts to the rhythm of hushhhhh…Beautiful. What about being a three year old as you see you daddy bring home ice cream. Even more beautiful. How about watching your three year old eat the ice cream you bought? How about finding the girl who just teased me and went away that day? I would get me mad, beautiful. How about sitting in garden early morning as you watch the bees collecting nectar from you flowers, and you let them steal it without slightest of reconsideration, without a phone or a reminder to disturb you, so you could just sit and ponder upon what beauty was. How about revisiting the time you first touched a girl? Feel again what you felt when lips touched? Ah..Heavens. Does it really matter to know what beauty is? I am still not able to generalize what beauty is, would it be objective? Can a person declare that a thing is absolute beauty? I don’t know, and I am no body to declare what beauty is. But this doesn’t stop me from recognizing things that are beautiful. It’s like I don’t how to fix an engine but I know how to drive. I don’t know what beauty is, but I know my bike and me on a lonely highway is beautiful, I know memories of youth with a pal who got shot down in riots are beautiful. These might not be “beauty” themselves, but they are full of beauty,”beauty-ful”.

As I continue writing, a lot of my own perceptions of beauty are changing. Since I am not writing from a judge’s point of view, I am writing down the whole thought process, and also sorting out my own feelings as I proceed. I always thought of beauty to be something rigid. Though I was thoughtful, and what people consider to be a man of deep thoughts, yet I always thought of beauty to be like a solid block, or table; which had distinct boundary, so that we could judge if something was beautiful or not beautiful. But what if I say that something is beautiful and you don’t agree to it? The analogy of a block must have a flaw. Then is beauty more of a fluid that can flow? Like air? Perhaps it is. It must be just the way we look at the world. Surely there might be a few who find all the air in world beautiful, who would be amazed by each and everything they see and feel happy for everything that exists in this universe. But I haven’t met anyone as such, have you? I know even you have not. No one can find anything beautiful in a slap rendered by a random fellow pedestrian without a reason while walking down eight kilometers to home after your car broke down on flyway.(Not to mention you have forgotten the flat keys back in your car. It always happens this way.) So beauty isn’t something solid, it isn’t something fluid, so what is it? And why the hell am I bothered? I have already burned enough of my blood thinking on this (probably of more worth than the prize money I may win in the World’s best blog championship).

*Silence*
*Thought Detonates*

“Beauty” is a variable.
We all have our own boxes of beauty; our own blocks what I am just casually calling beauty-sensible domains. We all keep our boxes in different orientations, and our boxes have different sizes. And these boxes or domains of different people intersect obliquely with each other. That’s the reason why we may have same, or different views regarding beauty of a subject. It may so happen that your box and mine may have a common volume, if so, then we both will feel a thing beautiful which fits in that area. It’s like saying even you feel roses are beautiful like me. It means “roses” fall into the common volume of our domains. However, there may be parts of your box that do not share common volume with mine. So it would be though you love roses, I don’t. It means in this case “roses” are not in our common volume, they are in your beauty-sensible domain, but not mine. So the mystery is solved! What falls in your box, looks beautiful to you; and what falls in mine, seems beautiful to me. It is just a matter of chance that a subject may fall in our common domain, so we both feel it’s beautiful. We must not get stereotyped just because most of the people have a large common domain. BEAUTY CANNOT BE GENERALISED. Just because a hundred people said something is not-beautiful doesn’t mean the 101th person will feel the same.

So great was the soul who said “beauty resides in the eyes of the bearer.” It truly does. This is the “real beauty” of “beauty”. The kind of variation it inherits. It is truly a variable. It is a feeling, and it cannot be generalized. Real beauty, to me, is a big box. Your domain of seeing someone else’s beauty is your real beauty. The bigger your box, the more beauty you possess. It’s not waxed skin, painted lips or face pack. It is a way to live. “Real beauty” is “real” beauty.

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Thought Detonation #12 - Something for those eyes

2011-05-18T10:43:00.001+05:30

I was hot under my collar today morning as I saw the feedback my blog was getting. Statistics didn’t impress me much but it was the reader feedback that was making me proud. I was on a verge of getting over confident. This happens to be one of my weaknesses and I try hard to keep it under a check. I was just surfing across a couple of blogs when I found this (http://joshidaniel.com/). This guy has beautiful photography skills. I just love the way a few of his pics speak for themselves. What specifically caught my attention was this (http://joshidaniel.com/2011/05/08/137/)

(Image courtesy: Joshi Daniel)

“In these eyes so helpless
What I see is depth

Questions eco in those little ears
“Why am I here”, yes I can hear

Something for the pain, that he doesn’t ‘know’
May be he wasn’t ever happy, or never showed
What those frozen lips might utter, when curtains of dumbness slide across
If they knew a little of how to express, that soul wants a flight of albatross

This world must be fake, or blinded by the bling
But I do care, and I think”

When I look into his eyes, I see a strange mix of innocence and helplessness. I was feeling too proud just moments ago, but it all seemed so callous now. At most I could get a few clicks on my blog and make some money. That is it. Will I ever be able to take helplessness out of his eyes? Even if I end up in millions, will I be able to help him? Would he ever go to school? Would he ever be in a job? Would he ever look up to himself? What makes me so happy when I can’t help a million children like him? Would he ever be a “chooser” in life? These questions assail me as the pride melts and I feel ‘weak’ for a million others who were not as lucky as I am. The vulnerability in his eyes overpowers my pride as I start to write.

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Thought Detonation #11 - When three friends part

2011-05-17T10:59:00.003+05:30

Today I was again at Central Market, but not like that day. It was three of us – Mehroz, Pulkit and me. After mad fun ranging from Nehru Place to Lajpat nagar, it was time to part. It wasn’t a “see you tomorrow bro” kind of parting. We all would be leaving to different places after today. So technically we were meeting for the last time. It truly was a different kind of parting. We all had known each other last two years and our knowing of each other was subject to what we call friendship. I never thought these two years would be so swift when it came to slipping away. It’s like we remember the first day we met, so clear and vivid. It was nasty jokes and loud music when Mehroz came to drop us at the Lajpat Nagar metro. We had different ways to go from there, we technically had. Pulkit would go towards Badarpur end while I would go to Central Secretariat, opposite sides you see? While mehroz would just go perpendicular to both of us!! It was making us laugh, it still does. Too much of drama right? There was elaborate hugging, elaborate enough to get us noticed to the passing crowd. “Gentlemen, it is nothing the way it looks like” cracked Pulkit at the gentlemen.
We bid Mehroz a goodbye and he drove back home. At the metro platform, it was me and Pulkit at opposite ends. It was kind of dramatic, as all the memories flashed in my mind, how we had been equally rated, equally fucked up and equally nasty. We had blowed our lives big time, but I really don’t care about that much, I have earned two friends. There are rare things in this world that mesmerize me enough to let me want to cling to it. As for now, I really wanted to cling to my pals. I had most beautiful friendship ever, with them, and now that we were meeting for the last time, it was all butterflies in stomach. I looked at Pulkit as we waited for our trains on opposite platforms. We really don’t know when we would meet next, would we or not? I had similar partition two years back, in fact each of us did; similar feelings were then as well – butterflies in stomach. But life is more of a cobweb that entangles you so much, that even one call a week seems a lot to ask for. How buddies get lost, and friendships fade away with time. Pulkit will be back in Kanpur, and Mehroz will leave for Kashmir in a couple of days. I really don’t know if we will ever meet. These two guys were the most awesome guys to be with. These guys complete me.Yes there were mates and co’s but I never called them friends. These were friends; true, special and exclusive. I could see my train arrive and before it could make me disappear to him, I waved a hand at Pulkit and acted like am typing. He smiled waved his hand in return. He knew I was going to write about it, it’s the only way I keep them timeless to me. We waved each other a good bye as my train rushed between us. I got in and looked at him through the glass window, and kept looking so, till train moved and he ran out of my sight. I really feel I had an awesome security and support system - these guys. You realize the worth of a thing only when you lose it. I was a bit emotional, like I am now. Not that I want to cry or let other know that I am, but I just want to keep feeling this. There is a kind of contentment in air around and a feeling of having earned something. I have earned two great buddies.

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Thought Detonation #10 - The Way She Went

2011-05-16T20:18:00.000+05:30

IMPORTANT: The following is a work of art, and by no means a cheap erotic story. If you don’t understand the difference between the two, please feel free to switch to other posts. Though this material is moderate, I still recommend readers below 14 years of age not to go through it. Not to mention, the following is a work of fiction.

I at times feel that the fairer sex get an undue advantage of us males. If a lady is young, beautiful and cute; we males just give in to whatever she says, and why not? A woman has a bonus when compared to men, the only bonus, that she’s a woman. *Smiles*. How they reap the most strangest of benefits from a man; and them being addictive, they can keep doing so. This makes me recollect a little incidence at Lajpat Nagar Central Market. Go ahead read it as I put it down for you all.

…I was with Rahul and Pulkit wandering about in the Central market. We were near one of the check gates and just trying to figure out the place we should start from. I was crowded as ever and presence of cuties soothed our eyes like they always do. These are the times when I am die-hard feminist. Women deserve a chance!! Bloody they rule the world. It was a cool evening and we mocked ourselves around as we threw popcorns on each other. Apart from a few exchanges of smiles, the girls had kept us quiet calmed. We, as like every damn guy around us, needed some chic to turn the heat up. Tank tops and swirling mini’s are OK, every one needed a change. This was the time we were joined by couple of girls from out group, Hema, Arushi and Avantika. They were back from window shopping troll and we were glad about it. Girls eat a lot of time. Well this is the only thing they eat without fearing their weight!! We were moving towards the 3 C’s mall now; plan was to watch a movie. Since the production banner didn’t pay me a penny for publicizing the movie, I am not telling you its name. You can take it to be a normal Bollywood romantic drama. We were making random guesses about the timings of show and guess what? The show started.*smiles*

Pink scooty pep plus, two fair angels, no helmet and flying hair, laughing their breaths out and best part, crossing us. We three kept our palms on eyes of our female companions. I wonder why we did that. I must have been the other way around. I guess we didn’t wanted to see them what we were looking at.*smile again*. The rider was a medium heighted, slim, fair and cute-expressional girl may be in her later teens. To guess, I think 18 or 19. She looked bomb. She was dressed in skin fit denims, stick-and-reveal top and a contrasting hair band with trendy slippers. All good and hot. But the center of attraction remained the pillion rider. She was taller, curvier, fairer and most beautifullest thing I have ever seen till date. Never knew a blue salwaar kamiz with crystal-ends on chunni could be so dope. Her clothes kissed her body as they stick to it, and lied so gelled with the curves to bring the best out of her. Definite 10 on 10 material. All guys gulped the saliva they had accommodated in their mouths as they saw the angel pass by. The whole road stared at her, including the stones that lie in the corner and every brick that was fixed to make that mall. The whole testosterone group bulged an eye as the estrogen group burned to ash. We could see girlfriends kicking their boys in anger and red hot faces that were so fair just seconds ago. We had eyes set on her as the two girls rode away on their pep. There was no revealing business, both of them fully covered, yet there was something that was turning on hunks so badly. The kurti-kudi, as we named her later, was a hot shot seducing machine. I wondered how she would look when she just woke up from sleep. I love girls in that look. I was imagining a couple of fancies as suddenly my eyes were locked on something else now! Her Back! DAMN DAMN! She has a rhombus cut on her salwar. ‘Dude look at that!’ I shouted as I watched her bare back, just a square inch in size but enough to get a guy in raunchiest of moods. She heard what I had said; she turned back and moved her chunni to give me a better view of that “white rhombus”. Then she turned front again and kept both her hands on the rider. Both girls were laughing as she teased me to hell and slipped both her hands on her rider’s tummy. Every guy watching had a heart attack. She knew I had one for sure. She straightened her back and raised her head, the rhombus slid up with her kurti. I didn’t find presence of any strap on her back. As the rhombus slid, it showed me how flawless a girl’s back could be. This beauty had just a kurti on, in public. She knew she could kill, and kill ruthlessly. She had her victim. I knew it was just one layer of cloth between me and eternity. She knew that I knew it. I stood there with my lower lip between my teeth as all guys around whistled. Yes I deserved a few, after all I was the one who made them see on-road-scooty-seduction act.*smiles again* Girls around me clapped and hooted at my desperate madness while I just smiled and closed my eyes to all the fun that was going around…

PS: I still go to Central Market every week, in evening, exactly near the 3 C’s mall, but never found her again. I just missed a chance to be with a just-one-layer-white-rhombus-killing-angel. That day it was two girls and just a rhombus cut Vs the whole crowd. Guess who dominated?

A girl truly is finest creation of god, they “raunch” you up like never before. With the kind of playfulness they bear, they deserve to be respected for that. So one big up to all the beauties that make existence a lot spicier for us guys.
Love and respect to all the feminine, especially for my fictional just-one-layer-white-rhombus-killing-angel.

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Thought Detonation #9 - Ringing laugh

2011-05-15T16:36:00.001+05:30

It has been nearly 6 months since I have been editing Rajinikanth Joke Books ; I am remarked for a characteristic subtle humor and my mobile phone is full of joke SMS right now. I read them, assess them whether classic or OK or PJ, and then delete them. I may like them of course, but they never make me laugh. You know life of a teenager trying to make something out of his life, it is kind of stressful, especially when people call you talented and expect a blast every time. Keeping up with expectations all the time squeezes each drop of you and it is then that your smiles don’t last longer than half a second.

I was just about to leave for a meeting. Dressed all in formals, I sat in my balcony, polishing my leather shoes and making a strategy for the day. I was nearly 9: AM. I was thinking of making a few more reference eBooks for my other website, I had to write a review, call up Anuj in evening, and tell Pulkit of the new hosting that we were going to use. I was trying to fix my schedule. I hate doing it. A guy can plan his life, have a time-table, monitor his progress, have goals, check success rate or just key his bike and go on an early morning ride to somewhere far between the hills and across the rivers. I am naturally of the later type, but I am acting to be former. You know we all need to do it right?

I was lost in my thoughts when my neighbor toddled in his balcony beside mine. Seeing me he increased his toddling speed and tried to stand by holding the balcony grills. Nah, he didn’t say anything, he can’t speak. His teeth aren’t out yet. He is just 10 months old. Looking straight in my eyes, he smiled fully and clapped his hands as he sit right next to me (neglecting the wall between us). He couldn’t speak but had a ringing laugh, loud and clear like we say. His eyes had a shine and seeing him clapping his hands in joy, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. I don’t remember when I had laughed last time. I had pretended to be laughing may times. Like we wear a smile while a hand shake, I laughed at hundred PJs cracked during meetings and tried to be charming. That charms works you know, but it doesn’t really make you happy. How can it?

Contrary to me, the toddler didn’t have to attend any meetings, he laughed only when he was happy, and actually he laughed all day. He was in such a better place than me. His expressions were loud. When he was happy, he could tell everyone that he was happy. If he was sad, we all came to know that he was sad. He never hid something within. Unlike me, he was “see through”. I wondered what I was doing. I never wanted to attend those meetings. I was running self sufficient and work was going fine. Why did I need to pretend so much then? Could I just bust out and all the frustrations run apart. I really didn’t want to be here. This all was merciless and totally a run down. I was flushing myself looking at that kid when my mom exclaimed, “Its 9:30 already. You are getting late.” I put on my shoes and left.

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Thought Detonation #8 - A Phone Call

2011-05-14T20:45:00.002+05:30

Even our firm belief in someone is shaken by petite things. The strongest of bonds are broken over smallest of issues. When faith becomes too finished, with no rough edges in a relation, like still water, and then; a small scratch is enough to dismiss the whole finished art, a slight ripple is like a tempest.

It’s like a dusty road may lead you to the same destination like a marble road would, thought with lesser comfort. But the dusty road is less prone to damages than the marble road. While on a dusty road, you would never care of a new puddle. A new puddle would never be significant in the journey. You would reach the destination as usual and will not notice new damages. Even if you do, would wouldn’t care about them. On the contrary, if you travel on a marble road, each small puddle will be noticed, each small bump would hurt, this journey would be opposite to earlier ones, you would not get the comfort you were used to and expectations would be hurt.
It’s like you don’t bash a mate for forgetting your birthday but breakup with a fiancée for it!!

This short story of mine tells you how little influence mixed with high expectations, can shatter a flawless relation. The more you expect a thing to be perfect, more imperfect it seems.

…Mehta family owned a 2 BHK flat in the up market area. Mehta ji lived there with his wife, two sons, two daughters-in-law and a grandson. Mr. Mehta had booked the flat after he retired two years ago, pouring in all his earnings that he had earned working as a postmaster for 40 years. He could manage 14 Lakhs after draining all his savings and his PF account. Rest 6 Lakhs were managed from a housing loan. It wasn’t too much, just 7,000 per month while Mehta ji was still receiving a pension of 12,000. His elder son worked in a steel plant as a shift engineer and had a decent pay. He was married and was blessed with a son. Mehta ji’s younger son was also married but unemployed.

Though with not a bling-bling financial status, the family was happy. Mehta ji’s grandson was very close to him and the family gelled in together very well. The family was contended and peace loving. There was trust and love blossomed among the family members. Even small decisions were discussed openly and each member’s view was considered. Even matters like buying jewelry for spouses were shared openly by the men. There was nothing to hide. Each young couple had a room of their own, Mehta ji slept in the guest room with his wife. It never hurt him, he had bought the house for his children, and he knew he was not taking it with him when he died. All that was his was of his sons. He always let them have their privacy, moreover, the daughters-in-laws were good hearted and at a service to the aged couple. So the family was healthy and joyful. Everything was fine and smooth until one day, the day when Mehta ji received a call. That call was about to change the fortune of entire family. Mehta ji’s work colleague had called him. It was nearly two year since Mehta ji had retired. No one from the work place or any other place, in fact, had ever called him. An old post master is generally better disposed off at peace. He is not interesting enough to be called. But now he was on phone and his old pal was telling Mehta ji how his life after retirement had been. How he was discarded in his own house and how his son had betrayed his trust. They made him sleep in the guest room and fed him only twice a day. He was made to carry children’s school bag everyday and brilliant was they was his son ordered him to do it. He called it his “daily walk”. He had to fetch grocery from stores as well. With all this pain he was gifted, his son also made him pay for the regular maintenance of “his” flat from his pension. The old man as rather troubled. Mehta ji consoled him and diverted the conversation to other pretty things of life, like “the old good days when we were young….”.

That night Mehta ji thought of his friend’s condition, and his own condition. Even he slept in the guest room. Even he walked his grandson everyday to his school and carried his bag. Even he bought grocery and household expenses were met only after pooling his pension. His situation was so alike to his old pal’s. Were his sons going to betray him as well? His wife, at times, helped their daughter-in-law in washing the dishes; she did even wash clothes if the young lady was ill. So was the old couple on the track to a betrayal? Moreover both his sons had forgotten his birthday! Only his grandchild remembered it! Mehta ji was feeling uncomfortable, as if he was chocked. His face started to sweat. His son had recently asked him to transfer Rs.20,000 to his account. Was it because he was going to throw him out later? He also had a little property back in his village. And oh god! A few days ago his son had talked of selling it too! So that Mehta ji won’t even have an option of going back to his village! Oh God! Why couldn’t Mehta ji see through all this earlier? His friend was about to be kicked out and was considering to move to an old age home. Now Mehta ji was convinced that he will have to face the same. How his son was gradually getting hold of all his money. He never showed his account statement and never talked of his own salary to Mehta ji. It was a year since Mehta ji was gifted a new kurta, neither his wife had got a new saree. How could he miss these signals? Couldn’t he see that all plans were in place and both his sons were planning to throw him out? How he had trusted them. How he had faith in them. Mehta ji couldn’t take this anymore.
That night he collected all his bank cards and took out the property papers from the safe. He checked all his documents and locked them in his almirah. He was the man of the house now. He was going to teach these betrayers a lesson.

Next morning as his elder son came with the day’s newspaper to wish him a good morning and read out news to him, he was told to get lost from Mehta ji’s sight. “Get away from me you scoundrel. You think you can fool me? eh?” He dindn’t seem to understand this and the whole family rushed to the guest room horrified, and startled. “I know what you both are up to.”, looking at his younger son now, “ You and your wives will never get this house. This is MY house. You both get that? You can never kick me out of here. Pack your bags and get ready to leave before I slap you to make it clear.” The grandson hid behind his crying mother and started crying himself. Mehta ji’s wife tried to speak something after holding her tears, and to cool down her husband’s temper. “You don’t need to speak woman. I know what I am doing. I dindn’t turn grey all of a sudden. I have seen this world and many like these scoundrels. What are you looking at? Haan? Pack your bags and leave!”

The house was evacuated that afternoon.

The next time his sons saw Mehta ji was at his funeral. Mehta ji had come to a painful end, exactly like the family had, a long time ago.

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Thought Detonation #7 - Fakers in Saffron

2011-05-13T07:28:00.000+05:30

Today I was a little worried you know. It was nearly 1 in afternoon and I wasn’t able to find something to write about. I don’t want to break my consistency so soon. One article a day is going so fantastic and people are loving me and sharing my work. So basically I was desperately searching for something to write about since my consciences don’t allow me to just forward second hand content. That very moment, “God” came to rescue me. How? Just find out yourself as I turn my encounter with those ‘two fakers in saffron’ into a short story…

…And the door bell ringed. I lifted my face to see the clock in front and shouted, “Nothing today. You can go”. I started reading again, but suddenly realized that the garbage collector had already come earlier. So actually I had treated some guest with the hospitality of the garbage collector of our locality. I jumped from my chair with an “oops” and ran to the main door. I opened the door and saw two men dressed in dhoti and kurta of saffron color. One of them was tall, dark, dirty, and skinny; and looked like bark of a neem tree. His brown-half-broken-and-other-half-about-to-break teeth gave me an impression that he had been punched hard in face. His eyes were yellow and watery; and his neck dipped down in his shoulders like he had no neck. Overall he looked no sage, he looked more of a beaten up street fool. The other one was short, fair and had a decent mid 30’s physique. He was clean and wore a constant smile, apart from his saffron clothes. Basically I was in front of two rouges who were pretending to be sages. The clean guy was the ‘master-mind’ and the stinky was aide. I had a thought of chasing them away but since there was nobody home, I wanted to take a chance, and have some fun.

I called them inside and asked the clean guy to make himself comfortable on sofa as I showed a wooden chair to stinky. I am cleverer rogue fools. The clean guy sat down comfortably and moved his bums a couple of times before finally coming to rest. Hah, I knew that. He was sitting on a sofa for the first time. Damn I am so clever. Holmes? It makes me laugh now, but getting back to the scene. Stinky said to me, “Arrival of a saint *points upwards* God’s signal. A miracle happen now. Bring my lord water. *Shows me his pointing finger* One glass enough,” I was startled by his broken-English-confidence. I joined my hands in pretence and said, “Ji Guruji”. I went into my kitchen and brought two glasses of water. I wasn’t scared of them lifting something from the guest room and running away. My ‘pretended foolishness’ had made them expect something even better. I was quiet convinced that they had no weapon and even more convinced that they could not outsmart me. I brought them two glasses of water from the kitchen. The clean guy saw me coming and stopped murmuring to stinky. He smiled at me as he picked up the glass of water from the tray I held with both my hands. I also returned the fake smile he threw at me. He said to me, “Such a decent young lad, your parents might be proud of you. Where are they?” I rammed him by saying that they both worked and were at their workplaces. Starting with a few general questions while he cooled himself in my AC cooled room, he started his tricks. He told me in a grave tone, “You know, there in nothing a sage owns, a true sage never needs anything of his own. The ground below is his bed as the skies above is his shelter. Look at me son. Even the kurta I wear was gifted to me by my follower. This is world you see, a person never dies of hunger here. God is above to feed him. He sends farishtas(angles) in form of young men like you, who take up the responsibility to keep the thoughts of sages like me alive. I have thousands of followers, they gift me money, jewels, land and I don’t know what more; but I neglect all that.” Phaww…Too much of play old man. I was just standing there pretending to be mesmerized by his talks, while my soul rolled on floor laughing. He continued, “I have never asked a lal paisa (penny) from anyone. I am on my journey to shidri on my foot. I don’t take train or any other transport. The life of a sage is all about sacrifice. We lay above all the filthy pleasures of this universe. I didn’t marry, but I have thousands of children. Each of them follows my preaching, inculcates my teachings in his life and moves towards the prime goal of life, as we all must.” Man…Unlike stinky this dude has some cool wordplay and nice language. “When I was young”, I let him continue, “I knew this unreal world won’t fetch me anything. So I went on my way to find the ultimate goal of every life, to reach within myself. That is the place where all gods stay and all demons can be slain. The power to rule this whole universe and destiny remains within us. Fools are those people who run for the outer knowledge. My preaching is all about inner feelings and inner wisdom. The feelings of life are million fold. They cannot be tackled just by reading a few books or ‘reading’ internet.” Sh*t….sh*t….He was giving me Goosebumps now. I stood there shocked while his aide joined hands in front of his master. What was happening to me? WTF I mean? I knew he was fake. His ‘preaching’ was by hearted and his aide was hired by him just to support his ‘character’ in case the listener did not. I knew his tricks. I knew he was here just to get a few bucks out of me. I knew he was dumb. He would never go to shidri, I knew he didn’t have a single follower. But accidently he had said something that stuck my mind. The feelings are too manifold

indeed. Generally we are just happy, or sad, or low; but how do we describe the feeling of an athlete, who wears his old shoes again, after recovering from a fractured leg. Or how would an obese teen on diet feel when she slips back in her old jeans? How shanti would have felt after getting back her beauty, and what about her father. How I had felt when I found out that red cosco ball. This crapman’s words detonated a new thought in my mind, something about complex feelings. Something inspiring, not just happy, or sad, but something which was there to stay. It looked as if I had moved up a step. I, then, knew what complex emotions would mean. It is like being lost somewhere in Thar dessert, left only with one sip of water, when you have to decide if it’s you, or your fiancée, who will be having a sip. I was getting carried away by my thoughts and was readily feeling it, complex emotions. I had a thought now, I desperately wanted to pen it down.

“There was nothing I wanted from you as well, only if my kamandal(stoup) wasn’t lost. This great sage has never spread his hands in front of anybody except god, but today I you beg you to gift me one kamandal. Just one kamandal, of bronze, not of steel, of bronze.”

I slightly lifted the table cloth beside me, lost in “my” thoughts, and handed over 500 bucks to stinky which were kept beneath it. As soon as he got the money, the master mind lifted his bums from the sofa and hurried to the door saying, “Bless you my son. I will donate some money to the temple trust in shidri by your name.”

He was out of sight within seconds. He had reaped what he wanted and I got what I needed. This was the character of my new story – “Fakers in saffron” The emotions of life are complex indeed. They can make you give away 500 bucks to a faker and in fact, detonate thoughts.

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Thought Detonation #6 - On Corruption

2011-05-12T06:19:00.000+05:30

I frequently wonder why people choose to go corrupt. Practicing corruption is something like compromising with one’s dignity, like begging with hands and legs in place. It is actually the worst kind of begging. Every penny that is dropped as bribe is actually like a sweet poison. With a million curses coated with that meekest of smiles be held by the victim. Only the hands giving the bribe actually know what the heart would be yelling when saying “Sir ye le lijiye kharcha-pani”. Moreover it’s ultimately of no use. The biggest corrupts are the victims of corruption themselves. Corruption actually doesn’t differentiate between the commoner and the babu. Is affects all of them the same way. It all ends up in same place. Exactly like in this short story.

…He was a prematurely retired office clerk, in his early forties, with grey-black hair and a dense moustache; Bent a little forward, and thin. He had bifocal glasses on, with black square frame and thick lenses. His hands were dry and wrinkled, and the nail of right thumb broken. He was dressed in khaki jacket and dhoti and wore torn black shoes. He was a prematurely retired office clerk called Sharmaji waiting outside the city police station. His forehead displayed lines of anxiety and discomfort. He was shaking his left foot in impatience and repeatedly looking at his mobile phone, going through his phonebook and recent calls list in nervousness. He was waiting for the constable to “introduce” him to the Station Inspector.

Suddenly the wooden doors flung open and the short, round and dark constable took a step out. He bent towards the wall corner and spat the beetle he chewed, while signaled to Sharmaji that he could come in. Sharmaji rose from his seat quickly which was instantly grabbed by one of the three other men who were waiting for Sahrmaji to vacate. As they both entered the room, the SI sitting right in front of them smiled to welcome them. He had his legs on a chair beside the one he was sitting on and two buttons of his shirt undone. “Bahaut garmi hai sharmaji yaha pe”, the SI exclaimed. Sharmaji dint reply to him and stood there nervously. There was silence for a few seconds. “Accha haan apka kaam yaad hai mujhe. Maine ladkon se baat kit hai. Apka kam ho jayega”, said the SI in a consoling tone.

Sharmaji had been robbed nearly a month ago. He was carrying his wife’s jewelry in a khaki bag when two men on a bike snatched it away. Sharmaji wanted to sell it off at the local jewelry shop. His son wished to do an MBA and Sharmaji wanted him to do that as well. But since the jewelry was stolen now, the fate of the Sharma family hung loose.

Sharmaji went to the police as soon as the incident happened. He requested the men there to file an FIR. They insisted him to “look around” for a few days. As filing an FIR was a “long” process and even if the bag was found within a few days, he could not get it till the court allowed him to do so. They told him that the process usually took three to four months and it was better to let “them” handle the case “themselves” rather than filing a complaint. They made Sharmaji pay Rs.4, 000 as the “search expense”. Now it had been over a month since the robbery took place. No FIR was filed yet and neither the “search” was finished. They said Rs 4,000 was too less an amount to look for it in the whole area. All the money got consumed in that locality itself. After all who pays for the fuel in their motorcycles? Should they pay for it from their own pocket? The government sanctions them fair of a bus. Would constables board a bus to look for thieves? What would the people say? “Dekho darogaji bus me ja rahe hai”. There was no AC at the police station. They sit in scotching heat all day. There are millions of works to do. Look at those files, there are fifty more. They have to reach court by Monday. Should they go on a beat and look for a khaki bag instead of finishing this work? Moreover Sharmaji had paid them only the exact cost of “search”. Shouldn’t he keep those men motivated by giving away a few perks? Who pays for the afternoon teak break? And what about the samosas? Even they have started costing more. Now Ram Lal sells it for Rs 5 instead of Rs 3. Even the size is reduced. How could Sharmaji expect these men to work in 4, 000 bucks that he had provided? Such a fool.

Sharmaji stood there in silence, in front of the SI. He joined hands and tears rolled down his eyes. He took a control of his breath and said,” My son will lose a chance to study. I could never give him anything. I could never prove to be a good father. This is my only chance. He works very hard. He has qualified after four attempts. If you find the bag, his future will be bright. It’s all in your hands now. Please help us for god’s sake. My pension can’t pay for all his study cost. Please don’t make a father helpless in front of his child. Please help us.”

The SI told him not to break down and that his boys were working very hard and it would take them just two or three more days; and only a little more money to nail the thieves. Sharmaji helplessly handed over Rs3000 to the SI and strolled out.

But the bag was never found, nor were the jewels, and Sharmaji’s son took a job of counter boy in the nearby mall. Sharmaji never went to the police station after that noon.

A few years later, when the times were changed, the former SI was now retired. He had married away his daughter in most fashionable of ways and had loaded the bridegroom’s family with dowry. After all 10 Lakh of cash plus a safari wasn’t a small deal. The bridegroom was a “businessman”. He had six trailers working for some transport corporation and owned two petrol pumps. So he was a rich guy. Young, father gifted rich and out of control. Everything was going fine, until one day. His petrol pumps were shut down as the land acquired to build them actually belonged to the reserved category and the authorization papers had loop holes. This was the time of the global recession. The transport company with which his trailers were working was shut down. All of them stayed parked in his courtyard. The drivers were fired as he could not pay them. Looks like the 10 lakh dowry went all in drinks and puffs. There was no work. They managed to run the house for a few months until they ran out of money. The bridegroom’s family had restricted the bride from informing her father (former SI) about their critical condition. Talking of bad financial situations to in-laws was considered against the family pride. Things were getting worse. Former SI’s daughter was about to deliver her first kid. But there was certain complication with her. Local doctor had “advised” the family many a times during checkups about the quality of food and hygiene. Her in-laws excused all this by saying they dint have enough money to buy her “comfort”.
That night she was supposed to deliver the baby. She was at the local hospital. Things got really bad. The little clinic established by the government didn’t have good infrastructure to help her. The doctor on duty was at his clinic in other part of the city. He didn’t care to pick up the phone as well. She was hanging between life and death, of her and the child she bore. His husband lay back in the house drunk, unaware of all this. The family and hospital nurse just stood there horrified. Nurse had called the ambulance from a private hospital. It was on its way to clinic…

But the ambulance could never carry her to hospital. Her family did; to the cremation ground, Where the lady and her child were burned. The former bridegroom married again, and now his new wife’s dowry runs his family. And the former SI is seen walking alone in the nearby park every evening, half shattered, half horrified and fully in remorse. He curses the doctor who didn’t do his job; like Sharmaji cursed him, like someone curses someone else, and that someone curses someone else.

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Thought Detonation #5 – The black boy on rollers

2011-05-11T19:08:00.002+05:30

After my routine jog for a kilometer I went to the center play area of the park, like every day, for those twenty pushups. It had been nearly four months or so since I had the same exercise regime. Neither more, nor less. I had tried a few times to do a little more than that. After all improvement is the basic essence of any work out, isn’t it? I had always failed miserably. Running out of breath in just next few meters after my standard one kilometer. And after this I actually never tried to increase the number of pushups and neither the intensity of other exercises. Since I was building a good body anyhow, I dint feel the need to strain myself further. So basically, today’s jog seemed nothing special, just like other days. One kilometer and 20 pushups plus some exercise. I wasn’t thrilled. My face had the expression of the concrete track below. Flat and non-lively. Well I do look that way when I am shook out of my dreams. But In all this “inactive” state of the world, there was something that was going to catch my attention and detonate a new thought.

I was pushing the ground below while I puffed number 17… damn just three more 18… fu*k fu*k 19… again……..20… I was just about to get up when I heard a dash.
Like steel hit the road, something I hear on Delhi roads when drunken guys play go kart. Still inclined, I tilted my head on my left to see the issue. A little guy learning to skate had had a nasty fall. Worst part was that he had fallen backwards. It is always advisable to make a front fall when you lose control. A back fall hurts really badly. It may prove to be fatal at times. Wait a minute!! How do I know all this? Well it is because I am a skater as well. Back when I was in Visakhapatnam, some 2-3 years ago. In fact even before that, when I was 10 or 11 maybe. I was the star of our local skating rink. Though now, I was worried about that kid. I was still on my “arms and legs” while I wished he just got up. He not getting up would mean worse. Rear of the skull is weaker than the fore part. And during a back fall generally people land on the head. But to “our” great luck, he got up, looked at his mates who were all laughing, and started laughing himself too. Even I smiled seeing this. God knows how many falls I had laughed away this way. At times, holding less knowledge keeps you happy. It makes a little careless though, but still you stay a lot happier. Like that black boy on rollers. He got up quickly. Rubbed his head while he laughed. And started again. The strain of that fall, which actually made me loose a breath, couldn’t stop him from giving up. “Childness” is the biggest driving force I guess. A strain of twenty pushups could drain me but a fall couldn’t stop him. Genuinely speaking, he wasn’t a good skater. He had no safety equipment. Cheap rollers and bad technique. No sporting gear, just ordinary t-shirt. I had my adidas on, I knew what I was doing and had read everything about an exercise regime. Still he continued while I gave up. I lacked the child-like driving force. The force that keeps you going towards improvement. To learn more. To reveal more “secrets” and the motivation to keep pushing harder. I lacked all of that. I was feeling kind of ashamed as I saw that black boy on rollers skate away. He was poor, not much educated as well. Didn’t have nice shoes, neither a jogger’s kit. But he taught me something. Unknowingly, not by uttering a single word. No preaching or whatever. He just “showed” me a way to never give up. All this happened in a jiffy, like 5 seconds and I counted 21, 22, 23…

PS:
*1 : I did 40 pushups today.
*2 : When I think of that black boy on rollers now, I feel he had all qualities of a leader. Like confidence, humor, consistency, blah blah blah…

Looks like we all are born leaders. Only if we think about it this way. We can do whatever we set our mind to. Never give up those skates mate. Push harder. God bless the reader. J

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Thought Detonation #4 - Varied perceptions and deficient conclusions

2011-05-10T11:27:00.010+05:30

As I sat all cool skimming through today’s TOI & reading about the Ayodhya issue, I felt that all these problems prevailing in our country, mostly related to religious groups, casts and communities, are because each group is “intra-monotone”. Most people within a group have similar kind of thought process and perceptions. Safe to say, they have same paradigms. But when the same group interacts with another group, the paradigms differ. In fact what could be beneficial for one group might be a loss for the other. Inter-group difference reside in the roots of our nation, and in a varied country like India, it is bound to reside in future. A simple version of this thought can be applied to each of us individually. Each of us has perceptions different, and at times repugnant, to a fellow being. In a world which is so intense, these differences in perceptions can prove to be grave. Especially under provocation. The following fictional short story of mine describes how the variance in perceptions formed and the deficient conclusions drawn from them are actually stupid, still they compel us to prepare “most craziest” of overviews.

…It was 8:30 in the morning and I was walking to the nearby shop to by the day’s bread and milk. Shops shutters were just starting to open. There was not much activity in the vicinity. With just a few people, newspaper boys, a few plump women on their morning walk and sniffing dogs. In these passive surroundings, the by footer on the opposite pavement was rather interesting. She was dressed in a red salwar suit, which fit right on her, with a couple of red bangles in each hand, Red nail paint and little silver earrings. She was traumatizing fair than any other thing near-by, which gave her a unique glow. With long black hair swaying loose, she could have killed anyone by her looks. She would have been in her early 20’s. I glanced over her for seconds and then withdrew my sight before it turned a stare. But the guy walking behind me wasn’t sensible enough, or maybe was too excited to decide what was right. He just waved his hand to her and winked. She saw it. I was paused for a few seconds as I was convinced to see a high voltage drama this morning. The guy just stood there like a rogue with his lower lips between his teeth and with penetrating sharp eyes set on her. The girl gave a blushing smile, looked down on the pavement and hurried her steps away from the scene. Exactly at that moment a middle aged man, I guess in his late 30’s and looking quite rural came closer to the girl and started walking with her. It was her father. Now this further convinced me of my thoughts about the high voltage drama and the guy behind me was nearly dead. He quickly got away from the spot and made sure he dint match an eye with her father or the pretty lady. I continued to look at the girl and her father. The girl was still smiling, looking down to pavement. Her father just watched the guy go away, not with anger, not with hate, he dint even respond to the situation. He just had a calm expression on his face, with sober eyes and pale flat forehead. I wondered what made him feel so relaxed when some random guy just winked at her daughter and ran away. What kind of disgusting parent was he? I mean it’s OK for a girl to smile after being winked, but not for her father to look satisfied and contended. I just mumbled “What the Hell. Pimp shit.” in disgust and continued on my way.

Later I was back at my house and it war nearly 10:30 in morning when our maid arrived. She had box full of sweets and looked as happy as never before. She yelled to my mother that her daughter’s surgery was successful and she got her face back. I had once overheard our maid telling my mother that her daughter’s face got burned when she was 5 years old. It was a Degree – III burn and they were having trouble regarding her marriage. All boys in their community had rejected her. And they dint want to marry her to a lower caste boy. She was going gaga over her daughter’s new found beauty as any other mother would. She called “shanti. Aaja”. In her unique accent and a girl stepped up the stairs on my floor and appeared near the door. My jaw dropped. Shati was the girl who got winked this morning. It was she who smiled. It was her father who stood contended. And would he be not? He had every reason to be happy. It was like lightning struck me. These folks had put together each rag to make up the cost of her plastic surgery. And now she was beautiful, beautiful like goddess. Any guy would say yes instantly to her proposal. I wonder how god could give a burn to such a beauty. Did he have no logic? Suddenly all my thoughts got reverted. How foolishly, without knowing the basic cause, or the whole story behind, I just drew atrocious conclusion about her father. How a father could not be contended after all his hard work, earnings and sacrifice earned his daughter her lost beauty. That wink had actually set a seal of success on his hard work. He knew it. Hence he was calm and contended. I did not. Hence I was disgusted.

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Thought Detonation #3 – Dead Rose

2011-05-09T11:38:00.005+05:30

Of the 12 plants that I own, I had bought two rose plants last month. The good thing about these plants was that they were very alike. I always love symmetry. Both were equally tall, equally green, equally dense and showcased one rose each. Both plants started equally well, placed strategically in middle of all other plants, in my balcony. Exposed to equal amount of sunlight and watered equally twice a day. But the thing that drew my attention to all the history of these plants is the fact that one of them was dried up. It was dead.

Gardening is one of my hobbies. And I always stay concerned about the health of my plants. I could not stop myself from wondering what might have caused the little plant to die so soon. I guess it was aging. The sapling might have belonged to an old plant. Or maybe it was just by chance that it ended up dead.

On the contrary “its brother” was green and beautiful. Bearing a flower as well and one bud just about to open. How could two similar plants, in the same house, of the same nursery and probably from same parent; could end up so differently? I was feeling as if that dead rose plant was an Artist who never made it to the stage. Like a scientist who never published a paper. Guess some guys never make it. Some stars remain hidden, in some darker part of “our universe”. Some songs are never sung, some stories are never told, and some plants just end up dry.

So exactly it fits in “our scenario”. You never know whether you would make it or not. You never know if that blind shot would be on target. In fact, with such uncertainty, each targeted shot is a blind shot in the first place. Though put into utmost care, the plant ended up dead. It’s like my efforts didn’t matter even a penny. The situation would have been same if I would have left it under the sun without watering it. So where did hard work go?

It’s the appalling uncertainty that surrounds each of our actions. Since we mostly get a result from our work we tend to take it for granted that our gains would increase in proportion to our work. But we never know how all this could be disposed off. And all attempts would just end up in nothing. There is no “guarantee” that one can make it big in this world. It is, more or less, a matter of chance. Same efforts may lead you to ‘bloom’ or to ‘dryness’. This sounds crazy and demoralizing, but is the truth. Even if it is, then, it just proves that we actually live in real world. A world with everything encouraging would surely be a fairy land.

PS:

To those who make it – Thank your luck first and then your hard work.

To those who didn’t and never will – It is the way it is. Some roses do end up dried. You are a rose. That’s your achievement. You are dried. That’s just a bad luck. Keep your head up because what you own is not by chance. Anything you are left with is because of your untiring effort against the bad luck that accompanied you. Even the subtle green color that my dried plant posses, it is all because of its determination to never give up. Unlike its brother who just took it by chance and bloomed.

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