C'est ma propre perception.

I Just Saw Death

2015-01-27T03:31:00.001+05:30

I just saw Death
In the chilling night

Manacles choking my breath
Killing with His might

Where was I made to atone?
Were those snowy roads in Shimla?
Were those picturesque lanes in London?
Was it just my cold villa?

There he was with his mug of coffee
Glancing at me - from my window seal
There I was addicted to smokes of poppy
Raising his fist in wild vengeance - to kill

I knew it was Death
Bells were ringing over in the citadel
I guessed He was Macbeth
She was no victim but an infidel

Three Tales of Three Cities

2013-12-13T22:47:00.000+05:30

(Caution:You might find it too cheesy)

Tale 1:Bangalore

This is where the "intelligent" people work !

He came out of the Embassy Golf Link Business Park in Domlur. Paused for a smoke. It was Friday. The day you don't need to dress up in formals in your capitalist companies. He decided to walk, all the way to Koramangala Sony World. He looked around. There were hundreds of them leaving their offices for the weekend. Many of them wearing T-shirts of their fancy colleges. There was a lean young man with high power specs in his IIT-Kanpur T-shirt. Another lady in her IIM-Lucknow attire dropped her cigarette and walked towards her office cab. And as usual there were a couple of BITS-Pilanis around. This is the city where the so-labelled high IQ people work. Sacrifice their days and nights, sweat and brains for capitalists and churn out a handful of money.What do they do with this money?

He walked towards the legendary Legends of Rock in Koramangala and found a score of them sitting there. He ordered a pitcher of draught beer. He gulped down a few glasses, staring at these branded young people.He filled his fourth glass when a text message flashed in his mobile.

"Zyada mat peena :P" ("Don't drink much")

He kept on staring at the message for a long time. He couldn't recall the last time when someone had asked him to curb his drinking habits. He searched for the picture of the sender. A cute, little face. He couldn't drink any longer. He knew she doesn't exist in his world. It was just a digital electronic message in this silicon city. But he decided to obey.

He didn't realize it was cupid striking.

Tale 2: New Delhi

This is where the "powerful" people work !

He was walking downwards the Raisina Hills. On the straight road that led to the India Gate. He looked around. There were the majestic buildings. Built in the regal British style. The Ministry of Finance, the Ministry of Home Affairs and what not ! Not very far away, there was the Parliament House where the so-labelled powerful people decide the fate of the nation. On the other side, there was Pranab Babu's home. The Rashtrapati Bhawan.

He glanced to his right. She was walking with him. In her own graceful manner. Dressed in her loving red kurta and giving smiles to him. They stopped a few yards away from the Central Secretariat metro station. Sat down at a pedestal. The lake in front of the President's palace right behind them.

He looked at her and gently said, "Can I kiss you?"

She was taken aback, "There are so many people around"

He replied back, "So what ! We will always remember that we kissed right in front of Pranab Babu's palace."

The next moment he implanted a deep kiss on her lips. For a few seconds, he was in another world. A heavenly world. The next moment he opened his eyes. She was not there. Whatever comes must also go away one day. He was left alone, gazing at the wide roads and the colorful crowd at the India Gate.

He didn't realize it was cupid striking.

Tale 3: Mumbai

This is where the "rich" people work !

He started walking from the Charni Road station all along the Marine Drive. It was night. And this is another India. Far away he could see Ambani's giant Antilla. This is the kingdom where the so-labelled rich people live. Tata, Birla, Ambani, Bachchan, Khan, Tendulkar ! You name them and you will realize this is their Paradise. He was heading towards the Nariman Point. There were a few royal chariots. Chariots that charged in dollars. So that the foreign tourists could boast of a ride in a horse-driven chariot in this land of snake-charmers and magicians.

He looked at her. He always wanted to take her out for a royal ride in a white horse. He paid two grands to the charioteer and got into the chariot. She was smiling at him. He got into the chariot and held his hand out for her. For a moment he could feel her soft hands. Touching his hand. And then there was no one. He was all alone in the white-horse driven chariots that took enthusiastic foreign tourists for an extravagant ride from the Marine Drive to the Gateway of India. She had vanished into the thin air. Far away in the Arabian Sea, a small boat was struggling against the mighty waves.

He didn't realize it was cupid striking.

Bombay - The land where land ends

2013-10-26T10:48:00.000+05:30

“Baarikhar Rati Tumar Kobik Monot Porene Arundhati” (Translates to: “Arundhati, do you remember your poet on a rainy night”).

It happens only once in a blue moon that the lines from an Assamese poem or song strike such a chord. Probably you need a rainy night for these lines to reverberate within you. Surrender yourself to the rains – on a rainy Bombay night. In the country’s westernmost end. The land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

Look around at the Bandstand in Bandra. On one end you will see the sea. The never-ending darkness it carries. You will see lovebirds chirping and holding hands merrily, oblivious and unconcerned that is raining. It is 11 in the night. It is weekend. And the city has just woken up from its week-long slumber. The gentle sea-breeze will hit you on the face, soothe you and also shake you. Sea-breeze cocktailed with doses of intoxication. Cans of alcohol and packets of cigarettes will seem trivial? Only the deep sea can cause the effect. This is the land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

This is the land where millions of dreams get lost. Look around at the statues, inscriptions and finger-prints. You will find the great Raj Kapoor standing and smiling in his “Mera Joota Hain Japani” attire. The man who could dare to stand up against the conservative Indian society and set his own everlasting trends. The “awara” who could dare to strike his own dad when he realizes that the man is not worth being his dad. The joker who could make you smile and laugh even when his own world was getting shattered into pieces. The man who could direct a Bobby in a bikini or a Ganga in a transparent white piece of cloth and still make the make the Indian moral police respect his art. Millions come to this city, aspiring to reign over the dream-world. And what happens? Get lost in the crowd of billions, heavy traffic and terrible downpours. Not very far away, you can hear a band performing. A young boy in his teens singing in his sublime, God-gifted voice. What will you feel? Jealous – because you can never ever sing so well to the Arundhati of your dreams. Respect – because the young boy deserves every bit of it. This is the land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

And then you see her. The Arundhati of dreams. Moving around gracefully. Did she look at you and smile? Probably she did. For a moment your heart will leap with joy. She smiles at you, she cares for you. The next moment you see a fancy limousine coming out of the Taj Lands End hotel. The car stops in front of her. You can see the rich and famous man coming out. He holds her hand, opens the car door for her. You can take a quick glimpse at the car. You can hear wonderful music playing from its imported music system. You will see bottles of expensive liquor near the front seat. She gets into the limousine and goes away for a drive. What do they do? Savor the pleasures of good music and expensive liquor in an imported vehicle? Make love? You don’t deserve to know. You will never know. A pauper in black shorts and torn slippers will never have the right to know what the dreamy Arundhati does in the rich man’s limousine. The city of Bombay strikes back. This is the world where a pauper can smile at his dream girl and see her go out with the man from Lands End. This is the world where you will realize your limits and your rights. You never have the right to know what happens in the world of Lands End, fancy cars and imported wine. This is the world where the slums of Dharavi and the Taj survive so close to each other. This is the land where land ends and the vast sea begins.

It Happens in India

2012-08-22T22:33:00.002+05:30

Three strikingly similar incidents I faced in three different corners of the country - in less than 6 months.

I had accidental rendezvous with a Marathi couple in Bangalore, a Sikkimese Lama in New Delhi and a Tamil Brahmin in Guwahati.

Incident 1

Yesterday. Near Domlur Flyover. Bangalore.

It was almost 5:30 PM. I was returning from my internship work at National Aerospace Laboratories, waiting for a bus to Koramangala. A couple approached me. There was a young child with them. They were decently dressed and didn’t seem to look like beggars.

The Husband (to me): Sir…Hindi..Hindi ?

I replied: Haan, haan. Hindi aati hain. (Yes, I can follow Hindi)

Husband (in Hindi): Sir, we are from Nagpur. We had gone for a pilgrimage to Kanyakumari. Our entire luggage got stolen in Yeshwantpur Railway Station. All the money we had was in one of the stolen bags. So we were left empty-handed.

Wife (in Hindi): We’re not beggars, sir. But our child is very hungry and we don’t have any money to feed him.

I looked at the child. A four-year old boy and he definitely looked hungry.

Incident 2

May 2012. Near Meghdoot Bhawan. Guwahati

I was coming out of Meghdoot Bhawan the largest post-office in Assam when a young man approached me. He was of the same age as me and he indubitably didn’t look like a beggar. He had a long lines of sandal paste on his forehead – a typical Tamil Brahmin.

The young man (to me): Sir…English aata hain? (Sir, do you know English)

Me: Yes.

Young man: Sir, I’m from Tamil Nadu. I am a worker in the NHPC power-plant in the Subansiri river. I was returning from home when my luggage got stolen in the train. I need to reach the place called Gerukamukh in upper Assam but I don’t have a single penny with me. Sir, can you please give me some money. You can give me your bank account number. I will return back the money to you once I reach Gerukamukh. I can’t comprehend the local language here and I am really feeling scared.

Incident 3

March 2012. Near Old Delhi Railway Station. New Delhi.

I had just arrived in Delhi from Pilani for some one-day work. I was heading towards the Chandni Chowk metro station and was talking to a friend on the phone. I was speaking in Assamese. Someone gently pulled me from behind. I turned back to see a Buddhist Lama.

The Lama (to me): Brother, are you an Assamese ?

Me: Yes, I am.

The Lama: I’m from Sikkim. I belong to the Gurkha community.

Me: Well, I can also speak your native language Nepali.

The Lama (in Nepali): Brother, I am in serious trouble. An hour back, I arrived from Dharamshala in Himachal Pradesh. And my entire backpack got stolen in the train just before it could reach Delhi. My mobile, ATM card everything was in the backpack. I have a train to New Jalpaiguri tomorrow morning. Can you please give me some money so that I can take an auto and go to my friends’ place in Delhi? You can also give me your account number. I shall return the money to you as soon as I reach Sikkim !!

The Spark

2012-04-01T15:26:00.001+05:30

Living with 24x7 internet connection in the hostels of BITS leads to one advantage. One gets access to some of the best movies in the world very easily. Being engrossed in a world where Scorsese, Kubrick, Tarantino, Eastwood and Francis Ford Coppola are the talk of the day, it took me a long time to realize that it has been years I missed the awesome palatable food made at home. Had I not made an accidental trip to Delhi a few weeks back and had I not bumped into an Assamese film festival near JNU campus, I would have remained oblivious of the beauty that is Assamese cinema. The cinema of my native land that has garnered many national and international awards. The cinema that has given birth to legendary figures like Bhupen Hazarika !

One of the remarkable movies I got to watch in the movie festival was ‘Firingoti’ (which translates into English as ‘The Spark’). An award winning movie directed by Jahnu Baruah, the movie won lots of acclaims when it was released in 1992.

I grew up hearing about Moloya Goswami as a lecturer who taught my mom during the latter’s college days. Although Ms. Goswami is more popular in the north-east as someone who won the National Award for Best Actress for her charismatic performance in the Assamese movie ‘Firingoti’.

Moloya Goswami receiving the National Award
from President of India R Venkataraman for Firingoti

Set against the backdrop of the Sino-Indian war, Firingoti narrates the tale of a young widow who is sent as a school-teacher to one of the remotest parts of Assam. On reaching the remote village, she realizes that the village children had not had the privilege of attending a school since decades. The movie chronicles the struggle of this young lady as she sets up a school for the children of this village which had been deprived for so long with the blessings of education and knowledge.

If someone like me – from a generation that grew up on Hollywood and Bollywood flicks would sit to watch the movie, one would keep presuming how the turn of events might take place. A hero might enter the scene and start running around the trees with the protagonist. Some high-voltage drama might take place in the climax!! The new-generation spectator would keep making wild guesses as he sits watching the movie. And he would get it wrong every time. This is where the movie shines. No romance, no action, no high drama and still the viewer would end up watching the movie of a life-time. Firingoti lights up the spark within the viewer with a simple tale narrated in a simple manner. The audience is left enamored in the end, thanks to the brilliant direction of Jahnu Baruah.

PS: Watch Jahnu Baruah’s only Bollywood venture Maine Gandhi Ko Nahin Maara (2005) to see his crafty style of direction. Maine Gandhi….. bagged the Special Jury award at the National Film Awards and also won many awards in various international film festivals.

An Evening in Delhi

2011-11-25T02:12:00.006+05:30

(To Whomever it May Concern: Most of the characters and events mentioned here are fictional. Any resemblance to those living or dead MIGHT be or MIGHT NOT be a mere co-incidence. So please don't try to screw my life :P)

“Is this the real life?/ Is this just fantasy?/ Caught in a landslide/ No escape from reality/ Open your eyes/ Look up to the skies and see….”

The Bohemian Rhapsody echoed through the walls in Namit’s room. His twin brother Amit was furiously playing his favorite tune on the guitar and humming the song. The view of Amit sitting on the balcony with a guitar made Namit restless. How could this eccentric fellow be so tragic on a Diwali afternoon!!

“Amit, your packet of cigarettes is burning out. I can’t believe you finished the whole pack while playing the guitar.”

“Yes, my dear brother. That’s what life does to people. Can’t help it.”

“What!! Come back to senses you ……”, Namit tried to lower his voice, “ I can’t comprehend your intentions when you come to Delhi? Obviously you don’t come here just to meet me. You go out and party hard with every second beautiful girl you meet here. In fact, you know the girls in my college better than I do….”

“….Yeah, and then I come back to your room from the parties, pick up the guitar, take a smoke and sit down as if I am the biggest loser in the world. I know that my dear. Say something new bro.”

“Amit, why don’t you just focus on your career? You are in such a good position. A little bit of dedication now can take you to great heights.”

“Namit, I never knew doing honors in science can make someone so unromantic like you”

“And I never knew doing engineering can make someone a hopeless romantic like you”

Namit gave a grim look and continued, “Have you heard of the association called FOSLA. You join that. I can bet they will make you the president there.”

“FOSLA!! What is that?”

“Frustrated One-Sided Lovers’ Association.”
*************************************************************************

Delhi! The mesmerizing capital city of India. Far away from the balcony in Mehrauli, Amit could view the towering Qutab Minar. It soared high like the pride of this city which has borne the brunt of many a generation; this city which has been the seat of rulers over centuries. Rulers who have changed the destiny of this great nation.

The city of love. The city of power. The city which has taught him how to fall in love. The city which shaped his illustrious career. And maybe even destroyed it!

It was a walk from the Chawri Bazar metro station to the Jama Masjid. It was the taste of royal Mughal food in the restaurant of Karim’s that allured him. She was sitting next to him, ordering every expensive food item available there. Sheena or Sheela or…..?? He could hardly recollect her name. They had met just the previous night. And there he was, taking her out for a royal treat. He knew this incident would lead to another session of “change yourself-live a better life-blah blah” lecture from Namit. His twin brother has been trying a lot to mend his wayward ways. Namit. The only person in this fast-paced city who cared to care about him.
*************************************************************************

“ You know, I always have wanted to be a social-worker. And do something for my people. For my country.” She was speaking to Amit in a serious tone. He had never envisaged that a boozed-up woman can be so serious. He had always thought girls get over-emotional after being drunk. But here was the big exception in front of him.

Damn! He couldn’t still remember her name.

She was high with two shots of vodka and she started talking patriotism in front of him. She might have probably started feeling she was a Sonia Gandhi giving political instructions to the distraught Amit in front of her.

Namit would have definitely told him, “ I don’t understand what do you get by spending money on these girls. Better give the money to some beggar who would really need it.”

Namit knew Amit would never mend his ways. His twin brother. His alter-ego. Amit would continue to be the hopeless romantic.

Amit and the wannabe-social worker girl walked through the crowded Chandni Chowk market.

They kept on walking, Amit listening to She-Whose-Name-He-Couldn’t-Remember’s blabbering talk until they reached the Jantar Mantar. The observatory which showed the erudition of the ancient Indian astronomers.

“You know Amit, I met Anna Hazare here. I gave an application to him. And he agreed to listen to my request.” Amit thought it would be wiser to ignore the drunken lady’s words. He was getting restless to reach his brother’s room.
*************************************************************************

“Yes, it is true. She actually met Anna Hazare”, Namit’s statement almost choked Amit who was trying to have a glass of water.

“What! Namit, don’t tell me you have started boozing.”

“No. I am serious. I know the girl well. She is from my college. She went to Anna Hazare when he was in Jantar Mantar and gave a letter to him describing the plight of Irom Sharmila Chanu.”

“She knew about Sharmila!! She looks so dumb!” Amit had not yet recovered from his state of shock.

“I don’t know why engineering students think that they are the cleverest lot in this world,” Namit patted his brother, “yes, she knew about Irom Sharmila Chanu of Manipur. The lady who has been fasting since a decade. The lady who has dared to raise a voice. The lady who has been on a hunger strike demanding the removal of the Armed Forces Special Power Act from her home-state.This girl went and told Anna Hazare in front of the elite crowd that if a few-month long hunger strike from Anna was enough to grab the eyeballs of the whole nation, then why are people so silent about the sufferings of this brave lady who is being fed through her nose for many years; who is being constantly arrested and re-arrested for no reason. Why can’t Anna Hazare bring her to national limelight just the way he has glorified himself.”

“And what did Anna say?”

“He has agreed to visit Manipur and meet Sharmila. No one in the huge crowd of politicians, activists and erudite could care to remember about Sharmila. Everyone was too busy bashing the government and venerating Anna Hazare. But this young girl had the guts to raise her voice. I don’t think you or I could have done that brother.”

A Few Moments of Love

2011-10-06T21:00:00.000+05:30

(A fiction written by me, which was published two years back in "The Assam Tribune" - a leading English daily in north-east India.)

I wonder if you will again appear in front of me. I doubt if those mesmerizing eyes will ever smile at me. I know you will never have those feelings for me. But I know you will never forget those few moments with me. I want to remain as a flying non-erasable desire within you. You seem to be the tranquillity within me. You seem to be the only solace for me……………………..

…………….Decades of terrorism has played havoc with the beautiful land of Assam. The banks of the Brahmaputra and the Barak that have sheltered the homeless and fed the umpteen farmers are being polluted with the burning cartridges and the blasting bombs. Barbarism in the name of revolution has made many innocent souls cross the Ajax. Their beautiful dreams devastated in less than a few seconds. Hiding in the jungles of Assam and its bordering nations the revolutionaries and their various demands have put the common people in a state of panic and distress. It so happened one day when a huge force of BSF jawans marched in one of the jungles of Assam. But why were they marching in those woods? All dressed in green; their faces painted in black!!!! Who informed them that some regiment of a militant outfit was hiding in the wilderness? Their intelligence bureau? Or a foreign government of some border nation in pursuit of getting some help from the government of India? None knew the reason but the jawans moved on and on. Very soon, a few tents in between the trees were visible to them. There might be some terrorists hiding there. The soldiers instantaneously took position on the ground; their rifles ready to shoot at any moment………………………..

………………..I could perceive that the helicopter was rising in the air. There were handcuffs on both my hands. My eyes tied with black cloth. I could feel two BSF soldiers sitting on my both sides. I turned my head to the right, then to the left. There was nothing but darkness all around. And in the midst of the darkness I could feel her. I could sense her. Far away in the river bank there she was filling the steel pots with water. And then she shrieked when she saw me .Well any lady would have been scared seeing me in that condition. My entire outfit was drenched with mud. My right arm bleeding due to the bullet shot I had received the previous night. Probably I might have been looking wild and deadly. I had spent the whole night in some muddy pit clenching the pen-drive inside my shirt. The pen-drive was more important than my own life. I could not lose it. I could not demolish it. Nor I could hand it over at the disposal of the Indian army. The survival of our entire militant group depended on the documents stored in the pen-drive. I could no longer stand up. I fell on my knees in front of the lady.

“ O merciful lady. Please help this man in distress. I am badly wounded. Please help me.”

I did not realize at that moment but I was literally begging in front of that young girl. There was a look of sacredness in her eyes. But she finally replied.

“I live in the foothills. But my parents are not at home.”

“Please help me young lady. I am dying. I need some rest and food.”

Eventually she acquiesced with my pleas. She asked me to follow her to the foothills. I limped behind her. She kept turning behind and looking at me. Waiting for me to catch up to her pace. But she never held my arm and helped me in moving fast. It was beyond the rule of a country lasso to hold the hands of a stranger. I moved on. Finally we reached the young lady’s hut. I entered inside the hut. My strength could no longer support me. I fell down…………………………

………………. The BSF jawans crawled on the ground. They moved very near to the militant camp. A few terrorists were visible to them in the tents. A series of bullets were fired. The terrorists were at a loss to comprehend anything. Most of them succumbed to the shots. The others fell wounded. The militants in the neighbouring tents tried retaliating with bullets. But soon they were too gunned down or captured. The militant outfit was of no match to the huge force of BSF soldiers…………….

……………..I tried moving my hand only to find it was stiffened. It was bandaged. A smell of mud entered my nose. I was in a hut and there she was staring at me sitting in a stool beside me. The next moment I realized where I was.

“So Saab you are back to senses. I have bandaged your arm. You were bleeding very much.”

Her voice sounded soothing to me. For the first time I looked into her face. Never had I beheld anyone so beautiful. She was very young – maybe in her early twenties. She was fair, had long hair and small eyes – the typical look of a tribal girl living in the foothills. But my heart felt she was mesmerizingly beautiful. I longed to move my hand forward, touch her small hands and smile at her.

“Saab, drink this tea. It will give you some strength. It’s almost dark and my parents will be back home very soon.” she spoke in haste. She might have felt uncomfortable because of me staring at her.

“Thank you young lady”, I told her in a feeble voice. I had realized that I was too weak to utter even a few words.

She smiled back at me. It was a small smile but a beautiful one. And then there was a knock in the door. She peeped out through a hole.

“It is the army people.”

I sprang to my feet. Fear of death always brings out intrinsic strengths from a person.

“Hold on”, I told her “let me get out of the back door first. Only then you open the door.”

She gave a look of alarm at me. Till then she might not have realized that the person she was sheltering and tending to was a most wanted terrorist. But for some unknown reason she complied with my request.

………. By mid-day the soldiers ransacked all the militant camps in the woods. Until a certain soldier raiding the base camp noticed that in the base camp there lived seven terrorists but they could only find six dead bodies there. The soldiers were pretty sure they had surrounded the entire base camp and shot down every single being inside the camp itself. But still one person was missing!!!

Another observant soldier noticed that there was a destroyed laptop in the base-camp. Soon it was deduced that some shrewd terrorist had escaped the gun-shots, destroyed the only laptop in the terrorist camp and probably ran away with some important documents. The jawans set out in the woods hunting for that one terrorist…………………..

……………I got out from the backdoor of the young girl’s hut and tried running into the thick forest. In a few minutes I could hear heavy boots following me. I tried to run faster………and faster………….even the bandage in my arm seemed heavy. I had to get away. I needed to get beyond the hills and hand over the pen-drive to our unit there. A sharp bullet hit on my leg. I collapsed. My hand reached out to destroy the pen-drive. The next moment there were several rifles pointing to my forehead. Four uniformed soldiers were surrounding me…………………………..

………………… The helicopter landed somewhere in Guwahati and we were taken to the police station. A huge group of reporters and photographers followed our van. I was taken to police-custody in a wheel-chair. There were blood-stained dead-bodies of my fellow-cadets lying in the police-station. There was also the body of a young lady. There were bullet-shots all over her. My heart almost stopped. I asked the officers to show me the face of the lady. My eyes closed down. I could no longer bear the sight of it. Yes, it was she. She, whose name I never knew. She, who had smiled at me. She, who had bandaged me.

I had spent the last twenty years of my life in the hills and forests evading the ravages of the military and the police. But never had I panicked on seeing death. Never had I cried on seeing a body covered with blood. But this time it was different. My heart screaming at me that this is how you feel when someone you love gets snatched away from you. Maybe, this was how many innocent people had wept when I had blasted bombs across the towns of Assam and killed their near and dear ones. Maybe, this was how the mothers had panicked when my bombs emptied their innocent laps. Maybe, this was how the helpless widows had shrieked when my bullets wiped out their husbands and orphaned their children. Long years of bullets and bombs could never teach me that. But a few moments of love did it.

Midnight's Children

2011-09-22T09:44:00.002+05:30

(A book review written by me two years back for a website.Found it accidentally today......thanks to one of my seniors)
Midnight's Children,

Salman Rushdie

'I was born in the city of Bombay………………’ thus began Salman Rushdie and heralded himself onto a new golden page in the history of English literature. Thus began an occult tale which narrated history and in turn became a history by itself. Salman Rushdie’s masterpiece ‘Midnight’s Children’ is indeed the unfathomably flabbergasting work of a genius. Set in 20th century India the book depicts the various political changes taking place in the sub-continent prior to independence and post-independence. The book delineates sub-continental politics through the eyes of the protagonist Saleem Sinai who is indelibly linked to the fate of his motherland by virtue of his birth on the midnight of the 15th August 1947. When the whole nation savored the hard-earned moment of independence; when a soft-spoken Jawaharlal Nehru declared India’s new tryst with destiny, Saleem Sinai was born into the world with uncanny powers of telepathy and sniffing. And so started Saleem’s journey which changed with the changing political scenario in the Indian sub-continent. In fact Rushdie portrays Saleem as the democratic India which was born with unlimited dreams on that magical midnight , but which could not really be a perfect nation in the days to come. Some two decades from independence, the nation witnessed a day when Saleem’s son was born, a day when democracy gave birth to Emergency, a day when Jawaharlal Nehru’s daughter Indira Gandhi curtailed the rights that Indians had been bestowed upon by independence. The book very much seems like an expression of Rushdie’s infuriation against the Emergency, the darkest consequence of independence and democracy in India. Of course the novel also focuses on other major political changes taking place in the sub-continent right from the Jallianwala Bagh massacre to the military rule in Pakistan and the liberation of Bangladesh. Written in Rushdie’s sublime style of writing, the plot races through places like Kashmir, Amritsar, Bombay, Delhi, Pakistan, Bangladesh and even the Sundarbans.

Who would like this book?

It is a book worth-reading for anyone who loves English literature.

Acclaim

Published in 1981 this book has been acclaimed worldwide and has touched the hearts of millions. It has provided the western world a sneak view of what the Indian sub-continent has been like in the mid of the 20th century. It won both the Man Booker Prize and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize in 1981. The book was later awarded the 'Booker of Bookers' Prize in 1993 as the best novel to be awarded the Booker Prize in its first 25 years. Midnight's Children is also the only Indian novel on Time magazine’s list of the 100 best English-language novels since its founding in 1923.

Reviewed by : Avinash Upadhyaya

A Tinge of YeLLoW !

2011-07-03T11:37:00.000+05:30

It took me a bizarre one and half month in Assam before I could get the motivation for writing this new post in my blog. It all started in 23^rd May 2011 and seems to be never ending till now. I doubt if I really want it to end. Life in Assam is indisputably easier than that in the desert land of Pilani. All I have been doing is making trips to the oldest public sector refinery in India, better known as IOCL Guwahati Refinery. Life had been the same - trips to the refinery, usual stuff called Practice School and then back home until a series of events in the capital of Assam brought some interest to my life; and some motivation to instill some life to my dormant blog.

For those who don’t know what has happened, the story goes on like this. A popular bearded social-worker of the state launches a strike against the ruling government. Nothing new! The bearded man has an acclaimed fame (or notoriety) for suing the government for every trivial reason. A minister buys a new car. The bearded man sues him. Another minister gives donation to a guest-house and even he gets sued. This time the reason was the illegal eviction of the aborigines of Guwahati from the hill-slopes and so-called reserve forest lands. Justified point! For a state which has not been able to evict thousands of illegal immigrants from neighboring countries, making attempts to evict aborigines just on the pretext of reserve forests or whatever seems irrational.

But then the strike turns ugly. Three people fall down dead. The police get beaten up. Vehicles are ignited to flames. Tear gas gets released and the media starts an uproar labeling 22^nd July 2011 as a dark day in the history of Assam. And then we get a vivid view of what is called yellow journalism.

Almost a year back, two short-stories written by me were published in The Assam Tribune (a leading daily in north-east India). One of them dealt with the strikes in Assam and the other one delineated the yellow journalism prevalent in the state. Exactly a year letter, I feel as if those two fictions have come alive. There are two popular news channels in Assam. One of them belongs to an influential minister. The other belongs to a strong leader of the opposition. So the aftermath of this strike resulted in both the news channels playing blame-games. One channel blames the government for all the causalities that happened. The other puts the entire blame on the bearded social-worker. The junta of Assam thus gets a blurred view of what is going on in the state. Take a ride in the local buses of Guwahati city and you will overhear people blaming the government for all the deaths. But is the government to blame for everything. Wasn’t the act of burning down buses a heinous crime committed by the strikers? You have the right to initiate strikes in a democracy. But you don’t have the right to harm the public and its property. Well, I am no advocate of the government of Assam. The CM of Assam is no uncle of mine. But the impact of yellow journalism has been too much evident in this state. In fact, too much praising of the government by one of the news channels has created a negative attitude of the people against the government. This YELLOW in a democracy, if not removed can hinder the progress of a region, as in the case with Assam.

Straight from the shambles

2011-05-10T18:39:00.000+05:30

Why do I see myself down there? Down in the ruins of an unfathomable grave. Is this me speaking? Speaking from the shamble I created for myself. Disowned in the blatant reality of life, Prospero's wands are not shooting a divine abracadabra to heal me up. Macbeth's fairies are not soaring up to predict “greatness” for me there. But still I look up there. Trying to extract the hope from where I have been thrown out. It is not for the first time I had fallen from the ladder. “Had I been repeatedly so unlucky like you, I would have given up”, says one of my closest friends. But I don't give up. As if I can't. I never had.

Loss has been inherent in me since half a decade. But I had not been always on the other side of destiny's wrath. I had my own time. My own days of glory. My own cherished days of love. My own days that might be coming up. As I stand here amidst my ruin, I boast of it. Of my upcoming days. Days where I will be living for myself. Days where I would not be thrown in ruins after sacrifices I made. Days where I would not have to see from the depths of my ruins, people basking in the glory of my sacrifices. And I am being laid standalone in a place wondering where I would be led to; wondering if this mess of mine would go on and on. Can these ruins ever end? Sometimes I perceive, the deep graveyard is just being dug and I am being thrown out there? But this feeling cannot sink in within me as it would not be me who would be trying to be myself thereafter.

Shifting Sands - From the editor's desk

2011-04-20T01:14:00.001+05:30

EDITORIAL (published in the first issue of "Shifting Sands" - the official newsletter of MATRIX, BITS Pilani)

Far away from the sophisticated din of life, as the shifting sands of Pilani shape up to create the oasis called BITS. As the complex equations of engineering and technology reverberate across the minds of every BITSian, the Shifting Sands of MATRIX make an attempt to introduce you to a new exciting world. A world where you would be enthralled by books; a world where you would fall in love with movies.

Is it possible? For a busy BITSian always lost in the tumult of tutorials, tests, labs, assignments and comprees to admire, appreciate and analyse books and movies.

Have a look at the Shifting Sands which tries reiterating to the dwellers of this oasis “Go for a change.”

MATRIX has always made an attempt to approach the BITSians and urge them to engulf themselves in this labyrinth of art and literature. The numerous book-reviews, movie screenings, quizzes and workshops organised by this club have proved successful in bringing about this culture.

Shifting Sands is another small endeavour by this club that can help some more people to realise the prowess and beauty of this exciting world. Contributions in the form of book-reviews, movie-reviews or other relevant articles are invited from the BITSian junta for the forthcoming issues of this newsletter. The best contributions will find a berth in the pages of this newsletter and the contributors will be handsomely rewarded for their efforts.

Hoping that the Shifting Sands help in refreshing minds for a while as the busy and stressed BITSians try to look beyond their heavy books of science, technology and engineering.

Avinash Upadhyaya

Random Thoughts

2011-04-10T12:35:00.000+05:30

What do you do when you realise that you have to sit in half a dozen exams in less than a week? And then you remember that it has been ages since you have touched a book. A sensible mind might prefer to go and study, so that at least something hopeful might be generated. Some other extra-sensible minds might think of taking things in the "lighter" sense. Facing with such a situation in BITS has been a habit for people like us who have to live in a world filled with exams, exams and exams. Still, we mange to do so much of other things in this world.

The last few months have been eventful for me. I have ventured into doing new things, plunged my nose in new adventures and witnessed some of the diversity in this planet. Yes, a few months back I was very close to the snow-capped Himalayas. I witnessed the dreary Aravallis. I perceived the extent of the never ending Arabian Sea. And I come from a place which itself is a piece of Nature's most exuberant creations. (Come to the North-East and you will feel its beauty!!)

Nature has always mesmerised me. I find beauty in the semi-arid small town of Pilani. It is nature's way of showing her diversity. The same diversity that we see in human-beings. And still the unity that persists.

Wasn't the unity divulged when millions across the nation prayed and cheered India to victory in the cricket World Cup. Watching the semi-finals and finals in the jam-packed BITS audi with tricolour in our hands and faces makes me feel privileged. I was a part of the historic moment!!!

Isn't the unity divulged when a nation stands united to support a 73-year old man fighting against the rampant corruption in this democracy. This is the same land

where 72% of its population live below the age of 40.

Regrets, I could not attend the "Support for Anna Hazare" movement in our college owing to two exams I had yesterday.

I can't help wondering how many people who have been successful in their lives had been successful in their exams too !!!!

Such is my perception

2011-01-30T11:47:00.001+05:30

A few days back I had a long talk on the phone with an old friend of mine. It had been almost a year that we had talked to each other. I went on blabbering to her, narrating every bits and pieces of my present life. She seemed to be pretty jobless during the time I called her up. I hadn’t imagined that anyone would bear to lend an ear to my stories for such a long time. After I was done with my stories she made an abrupt unexpected comment “You seem to have a busy life Avinash. So you must be very happy.”

This startled me. I had never tried to answer this question. In real sense, I had tried never to think of this question. Was I happy?

I wanted to reply back “I try to remain busy so that I can keep the past out of my head.” Frustrations and inertia have been a part and parcel of everyone’s life. Maybe I would be blowing off myself too much if I keep on retelling these past failures. So I refrained from telling anything to my friend about the reasons behind me being busy. I just winded up “Yes I am busy and I am happy.” …...………………………………………………….

There once lived a writer called Samuel Smiles who happened to write a couple of books on virtues like self-help and character. Somehow, those books made a way to my mom’s reading table. A couple of days later I was given instructions to go through these books. I tried reading one of them for an hour only to realize that I had fallen down asleep for the next three hours. I tried reading another of these Samuel Smiles book and fell asleep for the next four hours. (I was in the seventh standard at that time!!). Years on and today world makes me realize the necessity of these virtues like self-help. These are lessons which are best learnt by falling down and getting injured in the path of life and not merely by falling down asleep as a seventh standard student……………………………………..

The world has indeed gone a long way from the time I was in the seventh standard. There came the year 2010 and hence came BITS Pilani to my life. This has indeed been a long way to me – from the remote, desolate town on the bank of the Brahmaputra to the din of New Delhi and henceforth to the desert of Pilani. Surprisingly, this has been true for me both literally and figuratively. ( You can’t travel to Pilani from Assam without reaching Delhi !!).

The world moved on in 2010. It tackled with epidemics like H1N1. It suffered with Mexican landslides, Indonesian tsunamis and Javanese volcanoes. The world went beyond its realm and surpassed records of putting man in the outer world. It respired with life as Aung San Suu Kyi got released and finally it marked the occurrence of the lunar eclipse on a solstice. The world still moved on. But I seemed to stop. My seventh-grade self-help books could not take me beyond. Inertia encompassed me. Neither the dreary sand of Rajasthan nor the inexhaustible waters of the Brahmaputra could soothe me. Time moved on. And hence I got busy so that I could be happy. The past is gone. The future is not unknown. But still, live in the present.

Finally........Wrote Something

2010-12-19T12:00:00.000+05:30

It was 4am in a chilly December morning.After 5 long months I was moving towards home. The cab that was taking me and a few of my friends from Pilani to the IGI Airport stopped on the way near a roadside dhaba. It was somewhere near Gurgaon and the driver wanted to fight the biting cold with a cup of tea.I found myself too lazy to get down from the cab just for the sake of a cup of tea. A Bollywood movie was being played on the dhaba. I could hear some 90s-like dialogues. The people sitting on the back of the cab seemed to be relishing the movie. I could hear someone telling "Chunkey Pandey". Finally with great effort, I moved my body and faced the dhaba just to catch a glimpse of the movie. The first thing that I saw on the screen was "THE END" written in bold yellow letters............

Finally after four months, I seem to have penned down something on my blog. I had almost turned obsolete in the blogging circuit for the past few months. No wonders, laziness had overpowered me. I would unhesitatingly admit I am no busy soul that I could not afford a little time to share my thoughts in the blogosphere. But as Marquis de Vauvenargues quoted "lazy people are always anxious to be doing something". I seemed to be always more-than-ready to update my blog, then I postpone it off to later and later. Eventually, it took me four long months and a some serious days of illness to realize that life has turned too lazy for me.

As I turn back to the long semester I just got done with (although semesters in BITS never seem too long enough), I feel I could have done many more things than what I had done. Agreed, my life revolved around my friends, my non-stop exams, a few extra-curricular clubs and preparations for an international event that we are organizing the next year in our campus. Agreed, I had an awesome trip to Kanpur for an MUN and a couple of mad,mad trips to Delhi. But still I find something missing within me. I feel I had not given my best in my endeavors. I presume, I could have still done lots more for myself, for my academics, for my clubs, for our big event. Maybe, when one falls sick and then lies on the bed having nothing to do, one gets such weird thoughts about being more productive. I might be no exception to this. It was indeed after a long time that I had fallen ill. I had never been bedridden during my past one and half years in Pilani. As I laid in my room gasping and turning, yearning for someone who could go and get me a glass of water in the dead of night, I started missing my home. For the first time in many years, I actually had such a strong urge to go back to my home - some thousand miles away in the other end of the nation.

Never in the wildest of my dreams had I contemplated that the journey back home would be worth a remembrance for me. The four-hour journey by cab had nothing much significant except for the dhaba episode in Gurgaon. The next 2-hours of flight from Delhi to Guwahati was spent in deep slumber. Of course, the breathtakingly beautiful Terminal 3 of the IGI was a treat to the eyes. The magnificent lounge, the state-of-the-art runway and the cup of coffee that cost nearly a hundred bucks!!!!!! Finally, it was my journey from Guwahati to my hometown Dhemaji that was worth recounting. In the middle of night and in the midst of nowhere I found myself caught in a strife between passengers and a bus service. The bus that was supposed to take me to my hometown got damaged beyond repairs. A new bus was supposed to arrive instantaneously. But nothing such "instantaneous" took place for the next few hours. The passengers soon got enraged and there started a series of events where the bus-guy nearly got beaten up. It was late night and the weather was cold enough to let shivers down your spine. I do admit that the cold of Assam is not as severe as that of Rajasthan. But having traveled many a miles since morning, I was in no mood to sit in that open night in the group of a few furious strangers,yearning for a bus that could take us to our home still 500 kilometers away. Finally, this heavy drama ended when we caught hold of a bus that was on its way to Itanagar in Arunachal Pradesh. We coaxed the driver and bribed him (a bit!) until he agreed to divert his bus to Dhemaji instead of going to Itanagar. The people going to Arunachal were made to get down and wait for the next bus while we boarded the bus and took it to my hometown. I realized at the end of this drama that all my sickness, all my illness had disappeared after this episode. I found myself rejuvenated as I finally embarked on the journey that would finally take me home.

Finally, after three days in home as I set out for the Himalayas (yes, in this winter!!!), I presume I still have some productivity left in me and I have not been bellowed down by the ravages of laziness. And hereby, I promise to myself that I would be more active in my blog henceforth and try to write down things that would make more sense.

The Independent Me

2010-08-20T20:17:00.001+05:30

Well I had been raring to write this post since the 15th of August. But owing to a few obligations and a poor net connection in our hostel rooms, I had to postpone it for the next few days.

It was early in the morning of the Indpendence Day when a friend woke me up asking if I would accompany him to the flag-hoisting grounds in our campus. Did I really need to get out of my deep slumber, leave my beautiful dreams and walk all the way to watch our new Vice-Chancellor hoisting the tricolour? Definetely it was worth it. But I did not go and went back to my dreams. Someone reading this post might call me unpatriotic. But it was not me alone. I would say for sure that half of India might have been disappointed that Independence Day was a Sunday this year. A holiday wasted!!!!!!

Are we really independent? Have we become independent just because the Union Jack got replaced by the Tricolour 64 years back ?

15th August, 2004. Dhemaji. My hometown in Assam. A powerful explosion blew down 13 people to death in the parade grounds of our town - minutes before the Tricolour was hoisted in the parade grounds. Amongst those thirteen victims, ten of them were schoolchildren. The rest three were ladies. Later, post-mortem reports revealed that two out of those three ladies were pregnant at the time of their death. What was their fault that they were made to cross the Ajax for no reason? Going for the celebrations of Independence Day could not be a fault. Till today, the sight of the thirteen bodies laid on the grounds of our district civil hospital flashes in my mind. Still, the wailing voices of the mothers who lost their kids echoes in my heart. Still, every Independence Day reminds the people of Assam this dark day in our state. Therafter, parents in Assam stopped sending their kids for Independnce Day parades. 15th of August became just another holiday for most of the people in the state. Many children who have grown up in Assam in this decade have almost lost the habit of attending Independence Day celebrations. Did the terrorists who hated India win through this bomb-blast? They did not. They will not. For people like us, Independence Day need not be celebrated by hoisting the National Flag. In heart and mind, I am a citizen of the independent India - the world's biggest democracy. Basting a few crackers (read : bombs) could stop the people from atteding flag-hoisting ceremonies. But it could not take away from the heart of the people the feeling of Indianness. The pride of being a part of this great nation.

India and the boy........the boy and India

2010-06-22T12:36:00.005+05:30

Once upon a time in India there lived a boy called Bhim. Diligent he was, but tortured. Hard-working he was, but hated and oppressed. Qualified he was, but still despised and debarred from opportunities. What was his fault? Why did he fail to win over the society? He was born a low caste. He was a Mahar. The young boy grew up to be a qualified barrister. He fought against the Hindu rules. He embraced Buddhism. He brought a new verve, vivacity and vigour amongst the low castes and 'untouchables' who have been beleaguered, oppressed and looked down upon by the so-called Brahmins and high castes of India for ages. He became the first Law Minister of independent India. He played the most pivotal role in drafting the constitution of the world’s largest democracy. He became the world renowned Babasaheb – Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. He changed the Indian laws that have been written in the favor of the higher castes since time immemorial. He granted a new lease of life to the oppressed and underdeveloped communities of the nation. He was the person who played the most prominent role in introducing reservation.

Fast forward sixty years. Modern India. As the first decade of the new millennium arrives at its terminus, the laws of Dr. Ambedkar still persist in this nation. In the meantime, India becomes the second most populous nation with the number of educated and qualified people soaring to prodigious heights. The nation now becomes the abode to a mad race of human rats. Rats struggling to achieve success. Rats striving hard to be doctors, engineers, administrative officers, lawyers et. al. In this human sea, only a handful of them realize their cherished dreams and achieve their goals. Aspirants are more. Opportunities are few. But still there exists reservation for a certain section of people - the so-called oppressed, backward and underdeveloped communities. Well and well, India still has a large chunk of people living below poverty line. Take a walk in the villages and backward areas. A large section of the Indians still thrive from hand to mouth devoid of any modernization. The Government of India seems to be very just providing “reservation” to these oppressed classes.

Now have a closer look in the Indian laws. Reservation exists. It functions in 21st century India not on the basis of economy, but on the basis of caste. Reservation is a birth-right in modern India. There is no reservation for the son of a high-caste beggar. But there prevails reservation for the son of a low-caste millionaire. And still India vaunts to be the world’s largest socialist, secular and sovereign democracy.

This is the season when the results of different competitive exams are being announced in the nation. After every result for every exam, the same question arises again and again in my mind. I see students studying together, preparing for the same exams and availing to the same facilities and amenities. A few of them toil hard. The other few do not. Yet, many a times the rule of reservation puts the hard-working students behind the ones who toiled less. Was birth in a higher caste a mistake for those hard-working pupils? Why is the government giving away many seats and facilities to undeserving people in this land of limited opportunities? In the false veil of reservation and just for the sake of vote banks!!!! Reservation is hardly availed to by the people who really deserve it. A few trips to rural India has shown me people who are really talented, who could have indeed expanded their wings lest they could have savored the benefits of reservation. But no one cares for them. Members from same families have been making the most out of reservation from generations while the rest deserving families remain deprived for good.

Who is to blame for this open injustice? The government? The people? The politicians? The boy called Bhim? Or everyone? I might be one of the thousand Indians singing the same song against reservation and getting no reply in return. But I do wish to speak up. This is one question in modern India that indeed demands a proper reply.

a short poem written by me sometimes back.............

2010-05-25T17:42:00.000+05:30

Chemical Dreams................
(published in PHENOMENON, the official journal of Chemical Engineering Association, BITS Pilani)

The dreary desert sand beckoned
The dusty roads of Pilani called.
Decades of engineering allured.
Yes, the world of chemicals welcomed.

Destiny's blue eyes smiling at me
The withering roads of my heart baffling me
Your sensuous voice stopping me
The flying desire wondering within me.

Did the sands snatch you away ?
Did my chemical dreams drift us away ?
Why didn't your eyes change my way ?
Did they try luring me back to the bay ?

With bated breath, I gasped.
With muddling thoughts, I wondered.
With future dreams, I decided.
With an unfathomable frenzy, I moved.

This was my dream ; the destiny I aspired for.
Chemicals and chemicals I am waiting for,
Never known what they are used for.
But this is where I am destined for.

................a few thoughts................

2010-02-20T20:23:00.003+05:30

“ What Man has made of Man”

I vaguely recall this line by Wordsworth I had learnt sometimes in school. Those days learning a poem meant analyzing every line of it ; making disastrous efforts to extract meanings out of these every lines and putting them down on paper praying that they are deemed by some unknown examiner sitting miles away to be fit for a handful of marks !!!!!!!

Years on and this particular line indeed seems to make sense for me.

February 2010. The city of Pune weeps with shock and grief as a blast echoes in the area surrounding the German Bakery. Mothers blame their destiny .The children whom they have raised with great efforts get washed away by the press of a button. Beautiful dreams that have been nurtured through years terminate in a few seconds. This is the modern man living a modern life and vaunting in the name of modernization…………………………………………………………………………

………………………. I wake up at 5 am this morning ( a very rare thing for someone like me who seldom gets out of the blanket before 8 am). Just three hours later I have a mathematics exam and I still got a heap of syllabus to conquer. My eyes turn to my cell phone. A missed call sent by an old friend. Kudos to the modern technology of “missed call” some people in some another corner of the nation can still assert without any loss of penny that they do “miss” me. Modern man has indeed gone a long way from the caves and jungles……………………………………

The depleting number of tiger population has already raised eyebrows of the modern thinkers. Now comes a fresh news reporting there might be less number of great white sharks than tigers. The majestic creations of nature are moving towards an end. The only unique planet of this galaxy ( or even the universe ) seems to be transforming. Transcending from a breathtakingly beautiful masterpiece of the magnanimous Nature to a heap of buildings and factories of the egocentric Man. We should love all fellow beings as well as other creations of nature. An old teacher in my school often told us.

…………………….The voice again tries to ring within me. The sensuous eyes seem to be gazing towards me. The beautiful face very close to me. Until I realize I was dreaming. I know I should move on. There are more grave issues I should focus on rather than……………………..A couple of times I have journeyed from Pilani to New Delhi by a bus. The green and beautiful fields on both sides of the road suddenly disappear. The infinitely tall buildings and the never - ending flyovers of Delhi and Gurgaon supplant the natural beauty. The changing face of the world vividly delineated in front of me. But still I never think too much about it. Even I am one of the selfish modern man always obsessed with myself and my dreams. The beautiful world and the wonderful mankind needs more concern now…………………………………..

……………I came across an article in mid-day.com about a young girl whose Facebook status read "I believe in being a beautiful and strong woman who will make heads turn and eyes look up…………” But that belief and dream will linger on as a belief and dream till eternity. The lady got killed in the Pune bomb blast. Kudos to the modern man who forms, reforms and destroys dreams.

End of a saga

2010-01-18T01:12:00.001+05:30

Indubitably, Jyoti Basu’s death turned out to be the News of the Day. As the Union Home Minister P. Chidambaram described Basu “….. He strode like a colossus on the Indian political scene for several decades. He was a great patriot, a great democrat. He lived a full life.” I would not dare try to fill up my blog space unfolding my views on the Left or Right Front .Of course as my little knowledge tells me some principles of Marxism regarding economic or social egalitarianism do deserve accolades. But “a little knowledge” being a “dangerous” thing, I would better keep myself aloof from this squabble or argument. No matter whatever one calls this dispute but Jyoti Basu, one of the greatest Marxist who ever lived in the nation was indeed a prodigious politician. It is not everyone who would unhesitatingly decline to be the Prime Minister of India (In 1996 Basu declined the United Front’s offer to lead the federal government as the PM). One really needs to be beyond the ordinary to govern an Indian province as the Chief Minister for 23 long years (Basu was the CM of West Bengal from June 1977 to November 2000).

The death of Basu made our nation lose another illustrious star of modern India.

Agriculture celebrated

2010-01-15T19:04:00.010+05:30

It's mid January - the Indian month of Maagha or Magh. As I stay curled up inside my blanket shivering in the biting but mesmerizing cold of Pilani ; far away my home-province wakes up with full verve and enthusiasm to celebrate Bhogali Bihu.

Bihu - the very word that turns every heart in Assam elated with joy refers to three separate festivals - Bhogali Bihu, Rangali Bihu and Kangali Bihu. Bhogali comes from the Sanskrit word bhog which means eating and enjoyment. Popularly known as Magh Bihu it marks the ripening of harvests in Assam. The eve of this Bihu is known as uruka. It is celebrated by feasting and merry-making in fields. People stay overnight in temporary huts called bhela ghar relishing the fruits of their hard labor in the fields. The next day commences with the burning of meji - a huge structure made of bamboo and wood and covered with hay. It is followed by the sharing of traditional Assamese food pitha and jalpaan. A serene atmosphere of merry-making and fun prevails in every household.

Be it Makar Sankranti or Pongal or Lohri or Magh Bihu - these festivals signify the prowess of agriculturists in India. Nature lets her most intelligent creation push the boat out and enjoy the fruits of harvesting in a nation where a vast majority still practice agriculture as the primary profession.

Engineering Idiots ??

2010-01-11T01:19:00.000+05:30

Watching Rajkumar Hirani's 3 Idiots for the second time again compelled the swinging mind within me to contemplate 'Was engineering a right choice for me?' 'Was I made to be an engineer?'. It might sound flabbergasting but it was Chetan Bhagat's Five Point Someone that had once inculcated within me a heavy attraction towards this career - an engineering degree from a top institute.That was years ago when I was a high school student growing up in a small town; already nurturing utopian dreams of being an IITian. No idea why, but reading a book that describes three IITians going wayward intensified my dreams of studying in one of these so-called prestigious institutes. Eventually it was not IIT but I did land up in BITS Pilani - a big dream fulfilled. The heart within me satisfied. It was a success in wars called engineering entrance . JEE, AIEEE, BITSAT etc etc. Wars where a single mark propelled you up and down through some thousand ranks. Given the craze and lure of Indian students for this career,engineering seemed to be something majestic;something that made you a man among men.

But is engineering really so dignified? Does everyone of the thousands of students who win the rat-race of engineering entrances end up being distinguished or even successful engineers? Why do many engineers switch to management, administration, business,politics etc after grueling their minds with sophisticated theories of physics, chemistry and mathematics all through their student life ? If the aim was to go and work in a bank then why study science and technology ? Is engineering education in our nation so pathetic that students lose interest in it during the course of graduation ? Or the engineering entrances in India do not actually select the deserving students who possess an aptitude for engineering ?

These are questions that cannot be answered or retorted back without extensive research and survey. No one is born an engineer or scientist. It is the propensity and surroundings that make one successful in one's field. I did not take up engineering just because someone asked me to do so. Certain ambitions to work in the field of science and technology drove me to this choice of career. But it is undeniable that social or economic circumstances might not deviate me from pursuing my objective in the years to come. This is how engineers work. Maybe this is how the whole system and process called education works.