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A Night Trek | Kaurava Kunda | 12-April-2014

2014-04-14T21:43:00.002+05:30

NOTE: Pictures will follow soon!

Some time back, I saw ‘Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani’ and that closed the deal. In the movie, a nerdy looking girl goes on a trek to Himalayas and meets a group of people that changes her life and in the process she rediscovers herself. As the movie ended with yet another cliché teary eyed Bollywood ending, I was certain that rediscovery or not – I had to go trekking. Freedom is after all not reality, it is, like any other story an idea that enters your head like a happy bug and then stays there.

And so I registered myself on Bangalore Trekking Club (BTC) ® (http://www.bangaloretrekkingclub.com/) and started looking for a Beginner’s trek which would not take me away from work and yet provide that necessary thrill of a journey worth remembering. And then there it was – A night trek to Kaurava Kunda, near Chikaballapur which is a small town 75 km away from Bangalore. I had never heard of the place or the trekking range, but how does it matter for a first time trekker like me, I thought and gave it a go.

It was the evening of 12^th April 2014, when it started raining in Bangalore and checking the weather conditions, I saw a storm at Chikballapur late in the night. I called up the organizers and found they knew their stuff and had contingency plans in case of emergency. That put my mind at ease. With no previous experience, I carried some basic stuff like Sleeping Bag, a torch (a must for night trek), energy bars, juice and lots of water. ‘And let the journey begin,’ a little unsure me told myself as I boarded the bus to Bangalore bus stand near Majestic.

Meeting new people can be unnerving for some, especially for people who spend almost the entire day coding their life out on a computer. But that was the beauty of this plan – to bring in a few people who are wrecked with their monotonous week and spend some time getting to know and hopefully make friends with new people. And though I met everyone at the bus stand and all looked forthcoming, I had my reservations on travelling without some common friends. It was all about to change.

We started our journey at 8 PM. We made small talk with each other on the way to Chikaballapur. Some guys who already knew each other from previous trek @BTC were very obviously much more comfortable in their zones. But Anshul had pointed out that there would be introductions later – ‘So don’t worry,’ he said which I later found was his favourite dialog.

Chikaballapur is a small district about 75km from Bangalore, which can be reached easily through a KSRTC bus. The journey takes about 1.5 hours and takes you through Hebbal-airport road. Due to traffic, we reached the town at about 10 in the night and started walking towards the foothills of Kuarava Kunda which is about 5km from the town. The road took us to the outskirts and into the villages. In a secluded corner, we all were told to stop for introductions. One by one, under Ramya’s glaring torch into our eyes, everyone introduced themselves and then recounted their previous experiences trekking with BTC. The surprise of the party was Kishore who turned out to be a professional singer and was aiming for World Record in balancing certain things on his nose and chin, skills which he demonstrated as well.

As the night fell and moon shone bright in the west, we reached the foothills of Kaurava Kunda between sleeping villagers and barking dogs. The hill looked a little formidable and mysterious in the night but that added to our already enthused adventurous spirit and we began our ascent to the summit.

One funny feature of this ascent were the over enthusiastic tail wagging dogs who decided to accompany us on the hilly trail right up to the top. It was funny because the guys decided to have a go at Garima who was very vocal about her fear of dogs. I guess the dogs too conspired with everyone to give everyone a good laugh. But frankly even I was not very fond of this idea of dogs chasing us around on a hill top (Alright! I was scared too!)

From the foothills, there are steps leading to the Shiva temple. This part of the trek was fairly simple and everyone decided to take a break here. Someone among the group wondered why this place was called Kaurava Kunda and we got some pretty hilarious and historically incorrect replies. Basically nobody knew. But who cares till you having a good laugh.

The organizers at BTC were very understanding when it came to people like me and few others who were trekking for the first time. ‘We will take 100 breaks, if you ask us to,’ Virander told us.

From Shiva temple we began a much more arduous journey over steep slopes and rocky terrain. Everybody was helping everybody and that made the bond even stronger. It was an example of true team spirit and accolades to BTC for bringing out the best in everybody. We collected twigs and dried branches on the way anticipating a bon-fire at the top.

We reached the top at about 1:30 in the morning. Sometimes in life, you put everything into perspective. But before all of that, you take a massive leak! Alright, no crude details from here on.

I will give the perspective in the last paragraph because right now more important things first – Maggi. We all sat down with our cup noodles in hand as the organizers set up the fire and boiled water. We put on our jackets and in the mean tried to keep the dogs at bay who wanted a piece of everything we were trying to eat.

Someone was definitely making notes on ‘first timers’ with BTC because as soon as we finished our Maggi noodles, people cried out dance and there we were – the ‘first timers’ who had to showcase their dancing talent. Well, as always I danced on item numbers only! ‘Sheela Ki Jawani’ is a must if I am dancing. Then there was Chikni Chameli by Garima, Lungi dance by Virander and Swati. And a cool performance by Kishore (is there anything this guy doesn’t do). And then everybody in the group joined in to shake some legs.

We then settled down in a circle around the camp fire and discussed the most famous topic in the world - our first crush/love. Ramya had a very funny story to tell about Complan boys. Everybody spoke with an air of nostalgia of ‘those days’ when we were young (some only 3^rd standard). Nobody got sentimental, thank god. But amazing stories were told – some funny, some heart breaking and some just downright cute.

At about 4 AM, Ankit prepared some awesome coffee. It is called ‘Ankit Special Coffee’. One of the secret ingredients in this coffee was – believe it or not - salt. But it was amazing. Standing on the top of a hill - with chilly winds blowing away - having a coffee at 4 in the morning. There are only few things in the world that can beat that.

We talked some more, while some people (Yes Virander – You!) slept.

In the morning, we were greeted by a beautiful view of the city. People decided to go to the edge and enjoy the scenic view. Almost everyone cried out when we saw the sun rising above the horizon in the east. It was bright, it was orange, it was majestic.

Channa, you have clicked some of the most amazing morning pictures I have ever seen. He went to immense pains to get that right shot while everybody posed with the rising sun.

The descent was quick and uneventful. It is important to keep track of your foot while descending because there is a lot of loose soil at Kaurava Kunda and hence the needed precaution. Channa made sure he got the right clicks by descending way before us and then calling out with a whistle signalling us to stop and pose.

After a few group pictures at the foothill, we started the long walk back to the bus stand. Abhishek and Swati decided to race to the end and it ended in a close tie but fun to watch. We encountered grape vines and a big well before we decided to stop in the middle of a field and have breakfast. Over some bread/jam, khakra and coconut water, we shared a few laughs before finally reaching the bus stand. I was so relieved that I wanted to die. And then it’s a blur till Bangalore! But what amazing trek, what amazing people and what an amazing night.

So the perspective, an afterthought that, at the end of it all, lives with you all your life.

At 1:30 in the night, we were at the top of the hill. And there I was - you are standing on top of everybody your eyes can see. You are above everyday nuances of life and you are away from the chaos of everyday struggle. You are above the sleeping towns and hollow people. You are above the noise that threatens to burst your ears and smoke that fills your lungs. You are not on top of the world and yet you are. You are not deaf but you let the roar of the wind filter any unwanted sound that troubled you for so long. And here you are, at the summit, drenched in sweat, letting the wind ruffle through you hair, letting it slap your face, letting it drum your ears, letting it fill your nose and letting it touch your soul.

Let’s Ask For That Change

2012-11-16T17:53:00.001+05:30

Everyone is talking about change now a days. They are all asking change in public utilities, change in government policies, change in climatic conditions, change in society and change in perceptions. I am also concerned about change. I am concerned about my change. The change that I deserve. The change they have robbed me of. The change that they all owe me.

I read newspaper (worth Rs.3) every day. World economy is facing a slowdown. US economy is still hanging on a balance. Euro zone is in pits. But guess what - Indian economy is thriving. Ah! don’t believe what the share markets or industry experts tell you. They don’t know what is happening in India since they are busy - shouting all day. Don’t trust the local traders as well because they are also busy shouting. They are shouting the trading rates of shares, bonds and commodities. And they are so busy shouting that no one has the time to wonder where these commodities are going or who is buying them. Well, I am buying them.

And it so happens that after all the shouting and ding-dong in the mandi (market where pulses (worth Rs. 42), vegetables etc. are sold), I buy some potato (worth Rs. 31), a little tomato (worth Rs.21 ) and one onion (worth Rs. 4). Onions have become really expensive for me to buy now, you see. “Chappan rupya hua hai!,” cried the vegetable monger (Rs. 56 in total). I hand him Rs. 60 and wait for my change. Keeping the notes firmly in one of his wooden boxes the monger started helping another customer with his vegetables. After a lull of about 5 seconds, he looked up at me. I looked back at him. His ‘look’ changed to frown followed by my own burrowed frown. Only when his expression turned into quizzical that I demanded my change. The vegetable monger was horrified. The customer-in-waiting besides me gave me a how-cheap look. Fed-up of all these twisted faces, I decided to leave the place with dignity (worth Priceless).

These people have now devised strategies to steal my change. They tag their services with prices such as Rs. 399 or Rs. 1099. Now when I give them 100 rupee notes, they slyly rob me of that 1 rupee extra I give them. They are all in this together and they are all out to make me poorer by not giving back the change.

I remember the good old time when nobody was really worried about the economy or about inflation or rising petrol prices (worth Rs. 73). Times like these, I had to beg at home for a rupee to buy even an ice-cream gola (worth Rs. 1). You had to fight with the rickshaw wallahs for every 2 rupees. These were good times - since there was no 500 rupee note, people always had change.

Today, people have devised new methods to loot people of their change. Not two but three shining examples of this phenomenon that has caught up with all general store owners and others:

1 You go to a store and buy a Sneakers chhoti waali (worth Rs. 15) and give the owner Rs. 20. He always tries to sell me a Five Star chhoti waali (worth Rs. 5) along with it to avoid giving me the change. He wants to eat away at my 5 rupees! I could buy a coke chhoti waali in 1998 with 5 rupees.

2 I ordered a few books from an online store. The books cost me 1057 rupees and I gave 1060 rupees to the delivery boy. The guy took the money and left. No sir! Not even a word about 3 rupee change.

3 Once travelling in a city bus, the conductor in the bus told me that I can take the 8 rupees in change the ‘next time’ I board the same bus. How kind of him. But how will I find the same bus in 1000s of other buses in the city is a still a riddle to me.

The worst part is – you cannot, you just cannot ask for the change. Because if you do, you are labelled as cheap. People in the city bus stare at me if I ask for my own change. Grocery store owners talk to me with contempt once they come to know that I won’t take a candy for the change they owe me. Nobody wants to talk about the change they have to give me back.

I beg of these people to watch and study share markets, US economy news, Euro zone crisis, recession, inflation and everything that is making me poorer and give me back my change. This Diwali, with Goddess Lakshmi as my witness, I took an oath to always ask for my change. I don’t care if it is humiliating to ask my own money back. I don’t want that extra five star with the Sneakers. I just want my change back!

When I was little, I used to maintain a piggy bank where I used to store all the change that I got from the once honest shop owners. And whenever it was full I used to break it with anticipation, counting how much money I had collected. And it used to be sufficient to buy unlimited candies. Now there is no piggy bank. All that is left is a bank and a credit card which I use to avoid being robbed of any change only to look with the same anticipation and a little dread at my credit card bills.

It’s been years now since I last held that shining one rupee coin or a little heavy five rupee coin. But I often wonder that if I don’t have change, if my friends don’t have it and the shopkeepers don’t have it then who owns the change that all of them owe me. I promise, anyone telling me where my change is will get all the change owed to him. So, here is to bringing about that change because change is our wallet’s right and we shall have it.

Flyting too high – Flying a little too low

2012-10-26T15:29:00.000+05:30

There are two things I see every day:

1. The standoff between KFA and its employees on the overdue payment of salaries in the daily newspaper.

2. A huge poster of Siddharth Mallya smiling sheepishly out of a ‘Hunt for Kingfisher Calendar Girl’ poster.

KFA (Kingfisher Airlines) was a birthday gift from Vijay Mallya to his son Siddharth. And he has managed to do what every kid in the block would do with his birthday gift- flaunt it to his friends, play with it and then utterly bored let it rot in a corner. The interesting fact in this case being that both father and son happily played with it and then decided to take a vacation on some exotic island.

Vijay Mallya, without any doubt, is quite an icon. With his flashy lifestyle, Nirma washed white jackets and scantily clad girls giggling around him, he has been able to do what no Aditya Birla or a Ratan Tata could ever achieve – gain a paparazzi. And his son followed right into the big and hairy footsteps of his father by dating a super model actress and going right ahead and kissing her during an IPL match. Now this begs me to reminisce the news I read a couple of years ago. Remember ‘Operation Majnu’ in U.P. where girls and boys were rounded up by police and beaten up for being ‘indecent’. I am sure some policemen watching that match might have realized that the suave Mr. Mallya Jr. is quite some ‘Majnu’ himself.

I must tell you that I, along with a lot of 20s something sincerely revere Mr. Mallya Sr. for his contribution to the liquor industry by making some of the cheapest brands in alcohol and making all of us falling in love with the Kingfisher bird on their logo. Some of us even went ahead and sang songs of merriment which went like ‘Oo La La La La Le E O’ (Or was It.. Le Le Lo!). We were hurray to the king of good times till he was serving us some cheap and nice beer. But then one day, probably Lord Brahma appeared in Mr. Mallya’s dreams and he got all sober and started buying air planes. The next day to reaffirm his devotion he bought some cars and called them ‘Force India’. And just the other day he bought a cricket team with some cheerleaders and pit girls who came free of cost because Virat Kohli was playing for them.

In the mean time, when he was busy buying all these stuffed toys for himself and his son, he forgot that he had also hired a staff that he has to pay. It was a sad day when the wife of one of his employee committed suicide after the KFA fiasco due to enormous economic constraints. It was sadder that Mallya Jr. decided to tweet about his bikini volleyball match on the same day. I am sure that the combined cost of travel and living expenses of father-son duo would have been sufficient to feed that family for atleast a month. But obviously there is no time to ponder over these facts when there is an F1 race coming.

“No one likes him but everyone wants to live like him,” said one admirer. I agree. Who wouldn’t want to live like him. When you have a personal yacht, a jet and numerous properties all around the world, you would be envied and looked up to. Though today, it is an entirely different situation when the people looking up at him are ones who have not been paid by him for last 7 months. Their condition is desperate. Many had to move their families because they could not afford the expenses. Many had to re-register their kids in different schools. And where is Mr. Mallya all along? You and I can only guess..

You can enjoy the vacations Mr. Mallya Sr. and Jr. and being citizens of this great nation where the rich remain rich, we know that you will pour Champaign on Kingfisher calendar launch for years to come but remember that that one Champaign could have saved the life of that unfortunate woman whose husband was a little more unfortunate to be employed by you. He lost his job and then his wife. Bad times have just begun I guess. Not for you, obviously.

An Open Letter to Mr. Arvind Kejriwal

2012-10-09T17:33:00.001+05:30

Keeping up with the trend of writing open letters to ‘celebrities’, here is an open letter to Mr. Kejriwal.

Dear Mr. Kejriwal,

I must begin by saying that unlike you I do not belong to any political party and do not support one as well (both openly and discreetly). I am, much like you, a humble citizen of this great nation who dreams of a united and corruption free India.

Let me also clarify that I used to be a great fan of your’s (and Anna Hazare’s) movement against corruption till I realized that it was becoming an everyday affair for you guys to stage an agitation or sit on a hunger strike. So, like many other enthusiastic youngsters shouting away how they love their country, I too got bored. You, obviously realized to a very thankful stomach of yours that even the public is bored of too many of these strikes and the anti-government agenda. So one fine day, you had a great lunch and called it all off.

In my opinion, the entire Anna Hazare team should be lauded for bringing a social and everyday evil like corruption on the national stage. But one must question, like many a leaders have, where do I stop agitating and do something about it. Because after all we too, the common man (or should I say the Mango people) are involved in this corruption. Don’t we want to pay that extra hundred to a cop to let us go when we cross that signal or a couple of more hundred when we don’t wear our seat belt? Don’t we bribe an RTO officer to push our application on top of the stack? Or don’t we give an expensive gift to that bank employee when we want a loan approval?

Mr. Kejriwal, since I am a common man like you and Mr. Prashant Bhushan, believe me I am not concerned if Kalmadi is swimming in crores of rupees or if A. Raja allocated some spectrum (my phone bills are still same) or if Kanimozhi bought her way out of jail. Yes, it hurts me to see these people I have chosen to power behaving irresponsibly but then you see, Mr. Kejriwal, I had no option. It was either Congress or BJP or some other obscure regional party. It was like taking a pick from Mayawati or Mulayam and Karunanidhi or Jayalalitha. And you might just whisper it in hushed voices and never say it aloud, but all these parties are full of corrupt people. So, I thought let me vote Congress and see if they can do better. Sadly, they couldn’t.

It is then that people like you – educated, good orators and people with a will to change the society decide to form political parties. If you notice the fathers of our political movement, leaders like Pt. Jawahar Lal Nehru or Sardar Vallabhai Patel, they too dreamt of a great nation and formed political parties without realizing that it would take just 60 years to turn that nation into a market of corrupted politicians. Still I would respect them as politicians because they had a broad and vast horizon of thinking and planning. But Mr. Kejriwal, I am sure you realize that there are scores of other problems plaguing this great nation and corruption is just one amongst them. How do you expect me to find a leader in you when you have no say in any other matter besides corruption. Why don’t you talk about Kashmir issue, Telangana issue or say the FDI or how do you plan to improve the educational system in India or how would you bring about health care reforms. All you do is go around Delhi protesting with people who are now equally jobless.

You, Mr. Kejriwal, along with Mr. Bhushan decide to talk about one Robert Vadra. Again, you have to trust me, I don’t care about Vadra or his dealings with DLF and you know why? Because LPG prices just got inflated by Rs. 11. And that is a bigger concern for me and mango people. But let’s say, you have our best interest at heart and you want to save tax payer’s money (Please note that ‘Mango people’ are creating fake identities to save taxes from government and this is just one way they are duping on the taxes), then why in the world do you wait for a day to reveal that ‘extra information’ that you have. It prompts me to question your motive. Is it sensationalism in the media you want to create or are you just playing with our minds? Do you want to say, “Let these guys wait for a day. Let them churn their brains before I make my grand revelation infront of the lenses.” Well, let me congratulate you because you have achieved exactly what you wanted - create a national celebrity out of you.

You have a vision of a great nation Mr. Kejriwal. Don’t let it be obscured in petty media gimmicks because I am sure you know that there are people sitting on hunger strikes in North East who don’t make a huge cry about it. There was also, recently a sadhu who died on the bank of Ganges trying to protest against the impurities the mango men dump in it every day. The government did nothing in their case as well. But has it done anything in yours? Those people atleast did not make a fool of themselves by calling off the hunger strike and then forming a political party. They died for their cause, sir. Please take a moment and let it sink in.

I am sure you are not offended by me calling the people of India (including me) as mango men. It might be a slang for some but for me it is a namesake. We are all so seasonal and we so depend on some good rain, in the end just to be eaten by animals or if we are lucky an educated man who will peel us before eating.

Regards,

A Mango Man

Understanding Dudes - Dudism, its origin and ethnic culture

2011-12-20T19:12:00.005+05:30

Yesterday night I was enjoying a quite stroll with Nimmo who was busy contemplating the jewelery she would want to wear at her sister's wedding while I was busy thinking of loans or better – suicide. Nimmo was saved of an early widowhood by a boy shouting over to his friend, 'What the f*** dude'. Unfazed by the use of a swear word, the other youth promptly replied, 'Dude! What the f***'. And deeming the conversation over, zipping their leather jackets they both rolled away on their bikes, leaving me impressed with this new form of conversation which was not only short and crisp but also let people swear others without any harm meant or done.

Keeping the idea of suicide on hold for a while (it was still 6 months for my sister-in-law's wedding), I followed up on swear words with a meticulous research on the subject and found that what I was looking at is not just an art of conversation as I had initially thought but infact a society now gaining popularity after years of torture, social trauma, injustice and sub domination. Little did I know that my misadventure was leading me directly into the world of – the mighty and revered – 'The Dudes'.

With the help of Ballu's son Bittoo who turned out to be a self-confessed converted dude, I delved deeper into their world and secrets and was mesmerized by the organizational structure of the dudes community. Bittoo, who preferred being called by his dude name – Hunter, was more than willing to share with me the secret and then if found eligible, convert me to dudism as well.

As it turns out, an aspiring dude should have the following characteristics in order to be referred as a true dude: a) A goti mustache just below the lower lip b) a torn jeans that always threatens to slip below the hip showing off unwashed boxers and c) atleast one 'f' word in every 3 sentence. These characteristics mixed with some chronic disorders of unkempt hair filled with lice, uncanny habit of not bathing for a week and sudden impulses of forming a rock band, together promise the making of a complete dude – since 1825.

Though now seen in huge numbers in the metropolitan areas wandering road sides or roaming in malls with dazed eyes and no specific purpose, dudism is infact a very old religion which was curbed by years of so called reformist propaganda. Those of us fortunate enough to study the dude lore can tell you that the first signs of dudism can be traced back to Mahabharata and it is often said that Duryodhana was the first dude to be born in India. Now a deity of the dudes, Duryodhana set an example for everyone by going almost pinto infront of his mother and hurling abuses at Krishna, as Hunter very proudly recalls reading from their sacred text – 'Ddudo Nahao Ddudo Phalo'. Dushasana, following the large and ugly footsteps of his brother was the first converted dude who tried, unsuccessfully, to convert Draupadi into a dudette. Dude historians however argue that Draupadi, owing to her husband management skills, was infact a dudette in disguise. The legend was famously depicted in the screenplay – A Very Dirty Picture.

During my extensive travels over the past few months, I met dudes from all over the country, fraternizing with them and understanding their culture. I found that though some typical qualities are spread across India, every region has its own kind of dudes. The dudes from Chandigarh are often adrenaline high and would jump on any occasion to do the most dim witted thing in the world because its 'Oye Cool Oye.'. The Delhi dudes on the other hand have recently devised a new language called 'Hinglish'. They often revert to this language to hide their inadequacies at English which according to them is 'Nahin yaar. This is not so cool yaar.'. Rajasthani dudes are the simplest of them all. They are all just Rajasthan Royal fans, though they deferred from choosing Duryodhana as their lord, choosing Shilpa Shetty instead - to symbolize dudette power. Anyone doing a Lux Cozi adverisement is a dude in Mumbai with all the links you need to become a penniless homeless model (or did anyone say gay?). In Southern parts of India, anyone with a good pelvic muscle which can be gyrated to and fro and misunderstood for being a dance can call himself a dude (Mind it!). Sadly, all the dudes in UP and Bihar have been killed either by the mafia or in a covert operation by Shiv Sena. “We won't let the most awesome dudes come from this region. Jai Maharashtra.”, they said in unison.

Bittoo a.k.a. Hunter also introduced me to his Holiness Monty-IV in my search for spiritual guidance under the laws of dudism. His Holiness, sitting on a red Harley Davidson very calmy told me, “Dude, A true f**kin' dude always remembers to love three f**kin' thin' – mah hair, mah i-pod and mah gal”. The “gal” sitting behind him cried in exclamation, “Mah Hero!”. Somehow I had a sudden urge to use the bathroom and puke. Sitting in the bathroom with no one around to disturb my thoughts, I let my thought wander around to the things I had observed over the past few months.

I summarized that dudes were the coolest people in the world. For one thing, almost every dude is a rock fan. And rock is always cool, isn't it? As a part of 'dude induction training', every aspiring dude is instructed to read, learn and appreciate every rock musician in the world. They also have to undergo a daily head banging therapy which is the only way to get lice out of your hair. Bathing is obviously not an option even for an aspiring dude. Bathing would be so uncool for a rock fan. A dude is supposed to be cool. So he doesn't mind his jeans wearing off from the bottoms or his Metallica t-shirt not being laundered for over a century. A dude is so cool he never bothers himself with issues like Lokpal and Black money. “Whatever,” said Hunter when he saw Prashant Bhushan argue why CBI should come under Lokpal ambit. But Anna Hazare was offered an honorary doctorate on dudism for being on stage more than Jim Morrison which he politely refused.

“A dude is so cool that I want to be a dude as well,” I decided. Flush.

I felt a complete dude (since 1825) sitting in my sister-in-law's wedding. I had given up the plan to commit suicide which was deemed as an undudely act by His Holiness Monty-IV. Instead, I bought a guitar, messed up my hair a little and sold my Maruti 800 to buy an Avenger. Touching my goti beard, I noticed the crowd around me. Many relatives and aunties had cried in shock when they saw me in a leather jacket, a chain hanging out of my rugged jeans getting off my brand new bike. But then - what did these people know about coolness. Sitting in a corner, I saw a few girls with colored hair, black nail paint and heavy mascara around their eyes. Definitely dudettes, I mused. I looked for Nimmo. She was probably away chatting with some aunties. I winked at the dudette with blue hair. She smiled. A dude always gets the “gal”. God bless the dudes.

Disclaimer: This post is just intended at humor and not to hurt any person's, religion's or region's sentiments. Please let me know if you have any objections to this post.

Reading Maketh a Full Man (An Essay)

2010-12-07T21:17:00.002+05:30

---------------------This essay was written by me as a part of 'Global Essay Competition' held at Tata Consultancy Services. This write-up was awarded as the 3rd best essay. ---------------------

Some two thousand years ago, when kings were still finding it difficult to control their extending kingdoms, a text appeared in India which expounded statecraft, elucidated economic policies and rationalized defense of a country. This text served as the reference to the great empires of India for more than twelve hundred years and is known across the world as ‘Arthashastra’. One can only marvel the immense wisdom of words and how they reflect the same on each generation of kingdoms, states and mankind.

Though many today argue that internet has revolutionized the way knowledge is delivered, books still remain the favorite where matured reading is concerned. But both these mediums serve a common purpose of enlightening a man of his achievements and all that’s still left to be achieved. Reading these great works of history, epics, science and literature, man can only feel a sense of awe in how little he knows. And to quench his interest, he reads more.

With reading, a person learns to absorb facts and self evaluate the issues. Regular reading habit helps improve personality and broadens the horizon of thinking. Reading can be done as an activity of leisure, as a tool to attain knowledge or as a weapon of wisdom. An activity of leisure will get the person into the drawing room of rich with monotonous laughter while knowledge will make him a perfectionist but it is with wisdom that he can truly call himself a ‘full man’. Only people who draw conclusions out of what they read and then comprehend are really able to appreciate perception.

Intelligence could well be considered as one of the most misunderstood words. Sometimes it is confused with experience and some other times with mere understanding. But history proves that it is not man with simple knowledge who made a difference but men who had the courage to instrument that idea. These men or scholars or revolutionaries were not necessarily intelligent but ferocious for intelligence and were often inspired by their peers in literature and science. While Lenin was inspired by the writings of Karl Marx, James Maxwell introduced classical electromagnetic theory based upon the works of Faraday.

The reason behind man being the most sophisticated animal is his curiosity. It is necessary to satisfy his hunger of knowledge, if he is not to return to being an animal again. He has to read and learn to develop objective thinking and then implement it's conclusion for the progress of society and self. For a 'full man', reading could also be considered as a way into a variety of complex problems but with a promise of an exit door which leads him, just like Lenin and Maxwell, to being a man of wisdom and a man of free will.

With Night and Darkness

2010-11-25T22:26:00.004+05:30

I am not afraid of the dark because with darkness comes dreams...

Many before me have wondered the secret behind dreams and though any logical explanation is immaterial to the context, I would go with the popular belief that dreams are nothing but our innermost fears, our utmost desires and passions. Dreams are our own reflection in a very dusty mirror where even we didn’t dare look before. Dreams sometimes can be a way into the future or a reminder of the past and sometimes the horrors of present. And how we all love to live in these mirage of whirling emotions called dreams.

One such dark...

I flew across the deserts and saw life originating from sand. I travelled across the oceans to watch mermaids singing songs of love. I traversed continents with no borders. I was a spirit travelling the temples of India, mosques of Arabia and cathedrals in Italy. I talked to Buddha and listened to Krishna as they told me how beautiful the world is and how wonderful its creations are and that’s when, in a world of free will, I realized I was a writer.

I filled papers with black inks writing stories no-one read, poems none understood and words that haunted me all the time. I wrote about people I knew would hate me some day. I wrote about animals who I knew did not care. And I wrote about myself when I knew I will be dead in another few years. And still I wrote, pages after pages like a crazy person who got happiness in scribbling and tearing paper after paper. But tonight was different somehow, may be because it was a dark night or may be because I had finally discovered why I felt this crazy happiness.

And so with a smile, I looked around me and saw...I saw a world full of hope, a world where energy buzzed in the air like siren, a place where love prevailed, an impossible land where trees spoke words of wisdom to each other and wind sang melodies unheard. I saw a world free of pollution and untouched by corruption. I saw children playing in the mud, women saying prayer for the family and men returning home with hard-earned bread. And all these humans habiting this world had one precious gift – courage; courage to make dreams come true; and I knew that all those Gods who spoke to me were right. This world was indeed a beautiful place.

I saw my own house. I saw my reflection in the mirror which mercifully showed me sleeping peacefully. I went towards my study. I saw all the books I had collected over the years. Paper-backs and hard-backs of all dimensions, witness to the huge knowledge man-kind possessed and still lacked. I saw a small shelf with books written by me. I could see my name etched on every book in gold letters. But I was looking for one particular book I had written when I was still young. It was a book on dreams. It said something I couldn’t really remember now. I saw it stacked neatly in the middle. I picked it up. There it was, written right there on the first page. I touched those words and felt happiest beyond anything because these were my words – “Dreams are born in the night just to die in the morning. So in some ways dreams are just - born to be dead”

That’s when I woke up and continued being an engineer......and dreamt again and again of being a writer.

Over a Coffee

2010-10-24T23:33:00.000+05:30

They must have read ‘A Lot Can Happen over a Coffee’ when they entered the dimly lit Cafe Coffee Day that lazy afternoon...

The girl looked hip in a lose white shirt, high pony and a lot of junk jewellery on her hands. The boy was tall with a simple black t-shirt, rugged jeans and spiked hairs. “College kids bunking classes,” I thought as I enjoyed a black forrest.

They both sat at chair opposite each other and ordered two cappuccinos. The girl must have said something funny because they both started laughing and talking loud suddenly. They were making fun of a couple in their college. And while laughing, the boy suddenly said, “You know what Maya, I think I love you.”

I watched as the silence from the girl filled the room. And then after some time, “Emm...Even I love you,” she said shrugging. They stood, went upto the couch and sat close together in firm approval of their recent relationship. As if to prove his point the boy put an arm around her neck. I believe they ordered one iced-tea and sipped it from the same glass as well.

Later, they walked out of the glass door (the boy paid, ofcourse) and I saw them standing there in the sun-light with their backs towards me. Their outline shone in the brilliant sun and reflected in the glass mirror of CCD. In that one captured moment, they were the most beautiful couple for me in the world.

“Modern Love,” I thought and continued my black forrest.

Last Night

2010-10-19T23:47:00.002+05:30

Last night he – danced in the rain, laughed insane, drank like crazy, cried like a kid, blacked out and then puked...

Chapter 1: Danced in the Rain

He was never a crazy person. He was someone we called – ‘living by the books’... But he loved chicken and was ready in a jiff when we planned to check out this new ‘grilled-chick’ joint in the town. I know he was talking to his girl-friend when we boarded the bus. How did I know? Just his expressions. No one else noticed ofcourse.

The status of our city had been – ‘too hot to handle’ for a very long time. I suppose (which I will later realize) that everything in ‘cosmos’ has its own reason. But how these chain of events are linked to us – we cannot say. And that’s why we were all surprised when the storm started. It started with the wind and then we noticed little droplets falling on the mirror of our bus, reflecting the light from in-coming vehicles.

You won’t believe me but I can swear that it started raining heavily the moment he stepped out of the bus. The food joint was half miles from the stop. We looked for a shelter and waited about five minutes when he said, “Let’s go” and started walking in the rain. “Adventure,” we all thought and followed him.

He was walking ahead of us. Alone. It was mesmerizing to watch his shadow forming strange patterns in the street light with the rain blurring his image. And then he started raising his hands. We all watched amused as he raised his hands above his head, did a round-turn and danced. He was humming a tune I cannot really remember. And then with his hands still raised above him, he looked up facing the falling water.

Chapter 2: Laughed Insane

He looked back at us. “I want to drink today,” he said.

Immediate plans were laid out to arrange the booze and get the chicken packed. While one went to get the food packed, the other ran in the direction of drinks. I looked for a shelter whereas he still stood in the rain watching. I later wondered what he might have been thinking.

I cannot really say what prompted him – but he started laughing. He looked at me and I smiled back with no idea why I was. He took a step back and almost got hit by the bus. “What the hell are you doing?” I went upto him and shouted. Completely drenched in the rain, he kept a hand on my shoulder as if reassuring me and started laughing again. I smiled besides myself. And then we both laughed - for no reason at all. “What the heck, we are all crazy,” I thought. “What was he thinking?” is a question I pondered much later.

Chapter 3: Drank like Crazy

The sweet bitter smell of whisky filled our nostrils as we filled one peg after another. I saw him sitting in the circle listening to all the stupid things we did in college and how those days would never come back. He listened to how we used to chase girls, bunk classes, play counter-strike late in the nights and got high for no reason at all.

And he kept drinking...

Chapter 4: Cried Like a Kid

There are various phases one could experience while talking and drinking with friends. The first phase will usually start with – ‘cheers’. After some time it will come down to loud music and chatter. But when all this dies down and Pink Floyd starts taking over, I can swear I have heard things which in broad daylight, anyone would be embarrassed about.

It was during this phase that one of our friends was telling us about how he had lied at home and travelled the length of India just to meet a girl. He talked about those happy times - watching movies, laughing for no reason at all, holding each other’s hand and saying nothing and then his break-up.

I guess people get more sentimental when they are drunk. May be that’s why I saw tears in his eyes. I am his friend. I should have asked him what was wrong. But then it is just this phase. “It will pass,” I thought and took a sip of whisky.

Chapter 5: Blacked Out

I am sorry I almost forgot about the last phase...

“This thing what’s-it-called...Yeah Facebook...It’s it’s killing me. I am going to throw away this laptop,” he said as he swung his laptop with one hand almost sending it flying across the window. We had to convince him that FB is actually a social organization helping poor kids. So instead he opened FB – abused a few people, changed his status to married (which he regretted in the morning after a call from his girlfriend).

He stood, laughed over something and fell on the bed again, completely wasted.

Chapter 6: Puked.......

I saw him today morning. His room stank and he was snoring with vomit all over the floor. I should have been disgusted. I wasn’t, though. Instead I thought...

Here is a guy who slept in puke, cried like a kid, drank like crazy, laughed insane and danced in the rain. He is the guy who experienced happiness, the sheer joy of freedom, sadness, pain, ecstasy in just one night. And then, may be, he puked to let it all go just to experience one thing we never get – peace.

I am sure he won’t remember a thing when he wakes up. But I will always remember how he lived an entire lifetime in just one night. And to think of it, it was just last night.

Bed-Time Story : A very very short story

2010-10-09T11:16:00.002+05:30

In very near future...

A little boy goes upto his mother and says, “Mom! Tell me a bed-time story so I can sleep”

The mother removes her I-pod, sets her chat status as ‘be-right-back’ and says, “But son, you can always you-tube them!”

“I can’t sleep with that you-tube story mom!”

The mother, bewildered replies, “Come son, then let’s just Google 10-best-ways-to-have-sound-sleep-while-watching-you-tube-story”

She changed her status from ‘be-right-back’ to ‘busy’.

Nothing comes above a child’s bed-time story.

Experience Certainty

2010-09-24T23:22:00.001+05:30

Imagine yourself, all blue eyed standing on an airport thinking that the life ahead is going to be full of excitement, imagining your first salary and all that you would want to do with it and then suddenly you see yourself in Chennai, stranded on Meenambakkam International Airport, drenched in rain with no taxi in sight and absolutely no idea where you want to go. And that is how began my journey into the professional world.

“Your base branch is Chennai and hence no accommodation would be provided to you at our end.” This is what our HR had told us. And so landed 500 odd people in Chennai with only one question on their minds – where next? Everybody was frantic to find a place to stay and to form groups they could stay with. I, on the other hand was concerned about just one thing – food. I was famished. I decided to have some idli-sambhar to rejuvenate my mind.

Some of my friends were already staying in a hotel. I decided to call them and see if there was a place available. Luckily, there was. My bags, like me were soaked by the time I managed to get a taxi. I have no idea how Chennai looked in that one and a half hour drive from the airport to hotel because I did one thing I am best at – sleep. All I remember waking up was the horrible face of the driver demanding more money.

It will be useless to explain the dimensions of the room I was to stay in for the next 3 days because it had everything except dimensions. It had a bed and that’s that. It was the only furnishing in the hole that I am going to refer as room from now on. I met my college friends who were in no better condition than I was. We decided to take a taxi for the next morning. But morning only comes after a night...

Imagine yourself again, in a hole with no cross ventilation, no mosquito repellent and the armies of mosquito drinking away your blood with leisure. Too painful right – so now stop imagining. I believe my blood tasted like sambhar too because I saw many mosqis dead when I woke up the next morning. But wait, did I even sleep that night...

Drenched in sweat, I managed to dress up in formals early morning the next day. The trip to Karapakkam where our induction was to be held, was uneventful with all of us sleeping all the time. If I haven’t told you already, sleep and food are the two biggest priorities of any IT Engineer. I met my friends from college and some of the common things between us were – constant complaining and grumbling. But there is also one other thing common between all of us, which also incidentally forms as one of the characteristics of IT Engineers – to make the best out of worst possible situations. So it was with a smile that we entered our building. Wait a second – it wasn’t just a building anymore. It was our company now.

The induction was comprised of various sessions spread all throughout the day. It was interesting in the beginning but later turned pretty monotonous. We were taught the various virtues of joining the company and various ideals on which it works – which were many actually. “Any incompliance would lead to termination,” we were told by a dangerous looking man.

“Experience Certainty. That’s what our motto is. Experience Certainty,” a person who looked had given a 1000 presentations was telling as we listened to him. “But tell me...Is it EXPERIENCE certainty or Experience CERTAINITY? Where would you put more emphasis?” Nobody dared speak. You cannot be wrong on your first day at job. “No one?” He smiled. “You sir, what do you think it is? EXPERIENCE certainty or Experience CERTAINITY?”

The sir he was referring to was a teary eyed boy who was missing his mom. “Is..is..is it.. Experience CERTAINITY?”

“No young man! It’s EXPERIENCE certainty. You see...any one can promise you certainty. But it is here...yes...right here that you EXPERIENCE it.”

We all clapped like little kids who had just been told that they have free access to a chocolate factory or something. But somewhere I was also thinking on the same lines – “I have a job today. I am as many considered on the road towards standing on my own feet. I can clearly see 5 years ahead now. I have come down to Chennai to allow a certain certainty in my life. But would I EXPERIENCE it?”

Only time would tell...

Price Tag

2010-08-17T19:45:00.003+05:30

“Sneha, sing a song for us beta!”

She rose, adjusted her skirt and started. Everyone stared in wonder as the 7 year old sang the bhajan, Tu hi Rama hai, tu Rahim hai, tu Kareem Krishna Khuda hua...

“Looks like Saraswati herself resides in the little one,” commented one. “She has got a career in singing Madhu. Send her to Indian Idol or something,” commented another. Madhu beamed with pride as she saw her daughter playing with children her own age. She looked at the contrast as other children fought with each other over the toys while Sneha stood calmly above all of them leading them into harmony. “She is already growing up,” thought Madhu, “Soon we will be thinking about her marriage.” The thought brought tears to her eyes.

“Ma! I am going to Nandini didi’s house” “No I don’t want the milk” “Byeee!”

She turned to see her mother running towards her with the milk glass in hand. The doors to the lifts closed. She greeted Seema aunty on the fourth floor, specially went to meet Tuffy, Rekha aunty’s dog on the second floor and met Mohit bhaiya in the lift. He was a software engineer and was among the many bachelors living in the society. He often joked that Sneha was his best buddy and always remembered to bring chocolates for her from his trips abroad.

“Where to, Sneha?” he asked.

“I am going to Nandi di’s house bhaiya. So long. How is your job?”

“Don’t trouble your little mind with my job Sneha,” he laughed, “I bought chocolates for you from Switzerland. Care join us in the evening?”

“Wowz bhaiya! You are the best!” she said

“I know Sneha beta!” he said, “And yeah! Tell Nandi that Mohit remembers her”

“Okies!” she said and jumped out of the lift. She half walked, half hopped towards Nandini’s house.

Everyone in the society building knew Sneha. She was, as referred by many, the coolest kid on the block. She was intelligent, friendly and smart, all at the same time. She was far mature than the kids her own age. She never gave advice to anyone, not even children younger her age but still all people sought her out may be because her simple presence was comforting enough. Young couples in the society looked at her and wished they will have a daughter like her someday. But her biggest talent was her voice. She spoke bubbly like a 7 year old but her voice held the wisdom of an adult. Elders in the society claimed that nightingale herself sat in her throat when she started singing. At every school concert and social gatherings, she was the toast of everyone’s ears as she sang from Bollywood classics to Meera’s bhajans. Madhu was the envy of many mothers in the neighbourhood. But even Madhu knew the source of this extra-ordinary talent.

Nandini, Sneha’s music teacher lived in the same society. Sneha was just five when Madhu brought her to Nandini for music classes. It didn’t take long for her to appreciate the huge potential Sneha had. Soon she saw in her, a little sister she always wanted. She taught her all about the world of music and often marvelled how much the little kid already knew. Sneha, too loved her like an elder sister and respected her as a mentor.

Nandini’s house was bustling with activity. People were shouting orders at each other. Nobody seemed to care that a little girl had entered the house. Sneha looked for Nandini but didn’t find her. She just saw a lot of sweets and a lot of girls she knew as Nandini’s cousins chattering excitedly. And then Nandini’s mother noticed her, “Sneha beta!” She looked like she had just run a marathon. “Nandini won’t be able to teach anything today”

“What’s happening aunty?” But aunty had already turned and had started shouting at someone about flower arrangement leaving little Sneha utterly confused about what she was supposed to do.

“Yo Sneha! Little baby, come here,” one of Nandini’s friend spotted her in the hall. She took her hand and led her into Nandini’s room. Nandini was sitting infront of the mirror. She wore simple jewellery and her hairs were tied neatly in a tight bun. She was wearing a beautifully embroidered red saree and was applying mascara in her eyes. She looked extremely beautiful, Sneha noted.

“What’s happening Megha didi?” Sneha asked Nandini’s friend.

“Don’t you know Sneha my love? Nandu, you didn’t tell our little sister here?” Nandini blushed but didn’t say anything.

“Your Nandi didi is getting married. The boy side is coming to see her today. Isn’t that exciting Sneha?” said Megha and started helping Nandini with her make-up.

“That means you won’t be teaching me music anymore Nandi didi?” little Sneha was heartbroken. She had heard her mother tell that every girl had to go and live at boy’s home after marriage.

“Sneha my beta! Ofcourse I will teach. Anywhere I go, no one can separate you and me. Now come here to your Nandi didi” she said stretching her arms. Sneha went and sat in her lap. This is how Nandini taught her all the ragas. Teacher and student – two sisters sitting with each other putting together a melody that vibrates their little world and rules their blood making them inseparable.

“Nandini are you ready? They might come any moment,” Nandini’s mother peeked in and declared.

“You have already said that hundred times ma! I am ready. Don’t worry”

“And Megha what are you doing here? Come there is a lot to do in the kitchen,” she said.

“Aunty looks like a warrior on a battlefield Nandi. She has the whole house at her command right now,” said Megha and went out leaving the two of them alone.

Nandini’s father had died of kidney failures. Whatever little money he had saved from his meagre salary in a government office was spent during his illness. From then on, her mother had taken it upon herself to take care of their only daughter. With an excellent voice, Nandini could have entered any music competition but her mother strictly forbade her. She didn’t really appreciate the short clothes girls had to wear on reality T.V. But she allowed her to take up teaching small kids. Even she liked little Sneha and listened to both Nandini and her when they practiced. Her only concern now was to see her daughter married in a nice home. She wanted the best for her only child. In the past eight months, four families had come to see Nandini and though they couldn’t find any fault with her, every one of them rejected the matrimony. Some said horoscopes and some made meek excuses. But Sneha’s mother knew better – the best always comes with a price tag they could not afford.

Sneha looked at Nandini in the mirror and said, “Have you seen the boy, didi?”

Nandini played with her cheeks, “Yes! I have seen his photograph. He is coming today. Even you will get to see him now”

“Is he handsome like Mohit bhaiya?”

Nandini was taken aback but replied playfully, “No! Not like him”

“Does he too have a good job like Mohit bhaiya?”

“A better one, Sneha beta! And what’s this Mohit fixation of yours? Is he offering you more chocolates?” she laughed. She had once fought with Mohit for giving chocolates to Sneha which were bad for her teeth and voice.

Sneha looked at their reflection in the mirror. “You look beautiful Nandini didi”

“And so do you my little sister”

Somebody shouted that they have arrived. Megha burst into the room and all three of them ran towards the terrace to catch a glimpse of the boy. Sneha tried to look above the railings of the small balcony but couldn’t manage. Megha took her in her arms and made her to stand on a table. The three girls looked at the cars that were driving into the society. Nandini tried to hide behind Megha, afraid, the boy might see her. He stepped out from the car first. He was tall, fair with an air of authority around him. He looked around familiarising himself with the surroundings and then opened the doors for his mother. She was in her early 50s, an affluent looking lady with lots of diamonds which shone under the climbing sun. His father and mother along with some close relatives had arrived to see the bride-to-be.

“Hmm...Smart” Megha tugged at Nandini, “Mother looks a little arrogant. Atleast look at him Nandi,” she said playfully, “What do you think of your jijaji to be, Sneha?”

“Don’t call him that. Not yet,” said Nandini and pushed her too. The flower vase on the balcony fell two floors below at their feet. They all looked above only to catch a glimpse of few girls running away and Sneha standing alone on the table still watching them awkwardly.

“You almost killed him Nandi,” said Megha laughing.

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” said Nandini.

Sneha noticed the joy with which the two families met. Ladies of the house greeted each other with a Namaste. Pleasantries were exchanged and everybody looked happy. The only person who looked awkward among the crowd was the boy. Poor chap had no idea what he was supposed to do or say. “He looks o.k. Not like Mohit Bhaiya. But...emm...o.k. He could have got killed today though,” noted Sneha. Boy’s mother didn’t turn out to be as stern as she looked and said after a while, “Bhabhiji, we came here to meet our Nandini. But we don’t see her” She looked at her son and said, “Yes Ashish?” The boy said nothing may be because everybody had tried to stuff his mouth with sweets. Nandini’s cousins were not ready to leave his side while Sneha watched from a corner as Nandini was ushered into the room by her mausi.

Ashish stood to greet her as Nandini’s mother beamed with pride. Her daughter looked like a pari (an angel). She sat with Ashish’s mother who too seemed impressed by her beauty. Sneha soon became disinterested in the conversation which was mostly concentrated around Nandini’s education, her cookery skills and about Ashish’s job and his imminent promotion. She busied herself in stealing sweets whenever she thought no one was looking.

“Nandini, go and show Ashish around” said Nandini’s mother which was followed by her cousin’s giggles. They both stood and Sneha started to follow them.

“Sneha, stay with Megha” said Nandini when she saw her.

“Let the little girl come with us” said Ashish. This was the first time he had spoken to her directly. The sentence wasn’t a command. It was just...a sentence and spoken with such warm voice that Nandini knew that here was a man she could respect. “Infact she is the only one courageous enough to stay back after throwing a vase at guests,” he said looking at Nandini.

Sneha regretted coming with them. If adults were boring in the dinner room then these two were worse than them. “I should have brought some kajus along,” she thought. She was sitting in Nandini’s lap and there was no chance of going back as well. So she played with Nandini’s hand all the while.

Nandini looked at Ashish. The way he sat straight, the way he looked directly into her eyes and talked, smiled. The conversation came naturally to both of them. While he talked about his career in US and his food habits; she told him about her family and music. There was something different about him than the other guys she had met. They chatted merrily for some time when he said, “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“I mean we have to tell them something when we go back right?”

Nandini didn’t say anything. She didn’t understand. Was she supposed to say she liked him? Or that she was ready to marry him? “Not infront of him atleast,” she thought. So she kept quiet and he waited...

The three of them went back inside. The mood of the room looked different than they had left. Nobody was laughing. The cousins were not there. Just the adults talking to each other. Nandini’s mother was close to tears. Megha came by Nandini’s side and took her by the arm to lead her into her room. Sneha too followed them. The cousins sat gloomily in a corner.

“What’s happening Megha?” she asked fearing the worst.

“Money,” said Megha slowly.

“But...He...No!” she couldn’t hold her voice, “Mummy?”

“You don’t wanna know Nandini. Trust me.”

“Enough!,” she said and went out of the room.

She looked at Ashish once. He said nothing. And then she knew...

“Stop crying like a kid mummy!” she said loudly. Everyone in the room turned to her. “What do you all want han?” “This?” She said removing her bangles. She threw them on the table infront of Ashish’s mother. “But you know what, even all this won’t be enough for you” She started removing her ear rings. “I suggest you to go put your son in a market and sell him to the highest bidder. And you” She turned to Ashish as she removed her necklace, “Just an hour back you were talking about courage. And you wanted to know whether I want to marry you? The answer is no. Now get the hell out of our house” She threw the last piece of jewellery at them.

Sneha had heard the shouting but didn’t dare go out. Nandini came back inside. She found comfort in her friend’s arms, “Megha!” she cried when her friend tried to console her, “I am tired, Megha. I am tired of wearing this jewellery again and again. Just look at me. I look like a doll on display, only in a cheap shop where nobody even bothers to look. I am tired of looking at mum. Just look at her now. Always thinking that this time everything will turn out to be fine. I am tired of the hope and sadness in her eyes, Megha. I am so tired...” And she cried her heart out. Sneha went and hugged the two girls too. Nandini wiped the tears with her hands and turned to her, “It’s wrong being a girl, Sneha. It’s so freakin’ unfair.” She took Sneha’s face in her hands, “Go back to your home beta. Come at regular time tomorrow” Sneha came out of the building with mascara from Nandini’s hands on her face...carrying the darkness of Nandini’s crying eyes on her innocent face, awaiting may be, for her own dark day. She didn’t know that darkness awaited from the day doctor declared she is a girl.

She looked at the numbers on the lift. She should press ‘6’ to reach her apartment. She pressed ‘7’.

“Right on time huh Sneha? Chocolates and you are so inseparable. And what have you done with your face?” said Mohit looking at the mascara on her face. “What happened?” He said noticing her empty expression.

“Some boy came to see Nandi didi today. She is crying now”

“Some boy? What do you mean some boy? Is she getting married?”

“She was getting married,” said Sneha.

“But that can’t be. She is so...” he stopped for a while, “...young. Who? What happened, Sneha? Tell me everything,” he said seriously.

“I don’t know bhaiya. Megha didi said something about money and then she started shouting and crying. I don’t know bhaiya. I had never seen her cry”

He was silent for a long time.

“I know. I know beta. She is always laughing, infact. Isn’t she? Remember that time when we used to play volleyball and I accidently hit her nose? She had slapped me you know and then had started laughing,” he said smiling now, “And the time she scolded me for giving you chocolates. Man! I had never met a more furious girl. But she looked better laughing. Didn’t she? And the voice! She could have been the next Lata Mangeshkar if she had wanted to, Sneha” He spoke while she looked on, “We were such fun kids, with not a worry in the world, celebrating birthdays, new years, making fun of the elders and then we... suddenly grew up, I guess” He paused for a while. “May be that is why aunty stopped her from coming out of the house and seeing me. We were growing up” He paused again and then said, “No, she was growing up. And then I went abroad...Now she is getting married. But I thought...I thought...there is still time” He was barely noticing Sneha now. He was walking towards the balcony lost in his own thoughts. Sneha followed. “Countless times I used to see her from here,” he said looking at the opposite balcony which was Nandini’s, “She never knew, ofcourse. How would she know? I never told her. I never told anything to her. But I thought...I thought...there is still time”

He was looking at the balcony hoping to see a sign of life again. He didn’t see any. Sneha tucked at his shirt, “Bhaiya...Why don’t you marry her?” She too looked at the opposite window. And then there was light. Nandini came out and saw both of them standing and looking at her...

...In search of a happy ending for every princess...

Chauraha

2010-08-06T16:03:00.002+05:30

“Beta! What would you like to become when you grow up?” The favorite question of my aunt’s cousin twice removed. I never understood that relation my whole life. But whoever she was I loved my Aunt’s cousin twice removed because she always brought huge packets of chocolate for me. But the question remained. What would I like to become when I grow up. This was also the favorite question of Anita Aunty, Sushma Aunty and all the Aunties whose son were in IITs or other big engineering colleges. I always thought…

What the hell do these people mean by ‘Beta! when you grow up’. I was grown up. After all I was 5 years old and was already getting to understand the spellings of ‘enginir’ and ‘doctar.

Yes! I was a 5 year old ‘bacha’ trying to figure out what I would be when I am 22 or 23 years old! I am sure if you had asked Pamela Anderson the same question, she would have died of heart attack. How could I take such a big decision on my future when my favorite hobby was still eating mud at home and teacher’s brain at school.

But I had a ready-made example personified in my own house. My bhaiya Tarun. “Oh! Look at him. He is so intelligent”, my teary eyed mother would often say. “See he has again topped the class Varun. You should learn something from your bhaiya beta!”, my neighbour (whose son was in IIT) always told me. I always wanted to tell her to shut up and mind her own business. I never did that because her son, though in IIT was known to be a boxing champ and I really didn’t want my teeth to end up in my stomach.

My bhaiya Tarun who was ‘Oh so intelligent’ was, in my opinion, nothing but an oversized monkey. Not because he looked like a monkey(Monkeys are better-looking than him and they are not as fat as he is and they also don’t have the ability to cram everything in sight), but because he behaved like a total monkey. His mouth was always half open due to the teeth which were soon going to fall out and he laughed(which he seldom did) like monkey. It was more of a ‘khee-khee’ than a ‘ha-ha’. But still he was something yaar. He was just 13 years old but he was confident that he would become an engineer some day. If only I could have that sort of confidence, I often thought, the world is in my hands. After all I was 5 years old…

My favorite cricketer was Vinod Kambli. Not because he was classy but because he was a lefty like me. Now, Brian Lara is also a left handed batsman, my nukkad friends said. But he wasn’t Indian so I didn’t like him much. Being a 7 year old I could atleast do that much to be a true patriotic. I don’t know when I started playing cricket in the society street we children called ‘nukkad’. But the day I broke Sarita Chachi’s 5^th floor window, I was declared the best batsmen of our ‘nukkad midgets’ team and I was finally a ‘pakka’ player. Rainy or sunny, we never missed cricket. We all went to Amol’s place to watch cricket matches in colour. We cheered on every six and danced on every Indian win. And there, seeing Vinod kambli giving a nice thrashing to every other baller, I decided I wanted to be a cricketer some day. The day my bhai got into IIT my cricketing career was put to a halt to prepare me for the same fate. Vinod Kambli retired from international cricket a few years later.

By the time I turned 13, I was avoiding failing in mathematics in class VII while Tarun scored yet another 9 pointer (his CGPA was 9.7) in his second year. “What is this CGPA again?”, I asked Tarun. He told me to shut up and concentrate on my percentage. Once a monkey, always a monkey, I decided. The questions and suggestions about my career kept pouring in from various sources. Some distant aunt in U.S. mailed my dad to prepare me for GRE (my dad didn’t knew the full form when I asked him), some unwanted aunty in the neighborhood told me to go for specialized courses from Delhi and a friend of mine told me that someday we both could open a shop together. My brother always bragged me to study harder as it’s not an easy job to get into top institutions. In turn, I always begged him to lose some weight as it’s not an easy job getting married with a belly ready to explode at any time.

The day came when I cleared my high school and I was the happiest person on earth. My house felt like someone had died. My brother called from U.S. to tell how badly I had performed and how much shame I had brought him and the family. My marks were immediately tallied with my brother’s who had completed high school 8 years ago!! I had scored 67%. Tarun’s score was 96%.

Getting admission in XI was a difficult job. There were entrance tests, personal interviews, parent’s interviews. Some even considered calling the grand-parents. I thanked God they didn’t call my dog because it definitely didn’t have a very good upbringing and I am sure it wasn’t very fond of nagging principals as well. Finally I managed Vidya Bharti School which was the 8^th best school in Meerut. My mother who had cried the day my brother got into IIT took a sigh of relief when I got the admission letter.

The melodrama in our house-hold had started. My mom had it straight out of Kasautti Zindagi Kii where everyone will stand facing each other saying nothing at all and my dad had it out of Aaj Tak where you had to believe whatever the person on the screen is saying. My mom listened to unwanted aunties about me and said nothing and my dad listened to the relatives and thought they were right about my career. I, on my part, just felt a sting that my mom and dad have to listen to people because of me. My mom and various ‘unwanted aunties’ discussed over my future prospects during kitty parties and society dinners. I was always kept up-to-date about the ranks of other’s sons, son’s friends and their brothers. The coaching centre was a horror where we were divided into batches according to our ranks. I always managed to maintain the last batch. I was relieved the day dad told me that I would never get into IIT. Atleast he had come to terms with the hard reality.

As prophesized by my father, I didn’t get into IIT, didn’t manage any NIT, and wasn’t accepted in Delhi University. I was a complete failure. Dad told me that it wasn’t any use going to any other counseling as it would be just a waste of time and money. The days were hard to pass by. I was not allowed to meet my friends. I wasn’t even allowed to play cricket. Tarun left his MNC job the same year and cleared CAT. He was among the elite students and got admission into IIM Ahmedabad. I wanted to drown somewhere. The day he came home he made a face like a chimpanzee (which wasn’t really hard for him) and told me that I have turned into a good for nothing teenager of this useless country. I congratulated him on his success and realized (more due to the shame inside) that the ‘unwanted aunties’ were right and it was time to think about my career.

I went into the college (the 3^rd best in Meerut, Gosh! I was improving my standards) with the dream of making it big here. The dream was shattered the second day when I saw Tina. She was the prettiest and the most famous girl in my department. Naturally, whole ‘janta’ wanted her. There is one big problem with famous girls: they know they are famous which makes it virtually impossible to impress them. I tried talking to her infamous friends (all famous girls have infamous friends who make her all the more famous) but all in vain. My friends (who all had taken it upon themselves to make the life of every creature walking on earth a misery) told me the final solution to this universal problem. They told me if there is one thing a woman of any proportion can’t resist, its music.

Music… Hmm… It seems there is an invisible bond between music, musicians and girls. They are practically impossible to separate. It was then, to impress Tina that I decided to become a musician. As soon as I entered this world of rock, punk and metal, I came to know that my knowledge in this area of ‘simplest way to impress a girl’ was rather very limited because the only music I had ever heard was Rafi and Geeta Dutt my mom used to play on the radio. They were all dead. I didn’t wanted to be a singer and end up dead, I decided. But in this losing battle of love and decision I had to choose something. My friends told me to play some instrument.

I could play tabla but as it turned out it is one of the most unromantic instrument in music industry, my friends told me. They were right actually. How would a girl like you when she sees you beating something as cute looking as a tabla? I held a guitar in my hand and we formed a band. My deep analysis on the matter turned out to be right and as soon as the word got around that I was a guitarist, Tina herself came to me (actually quite stuck to me) and we became ‘good friends’. She asked me to participate in the college rock fest. For her sake I did and we came fourth. Tina left me and I soon found out that she was now the ‘best-friend’ of the lead singer of the winning band. I soon overcame her because I realized that if at all there was a bigger misery to mankind than Paris Hilton – it was her.

The biggest effect of this rock fest was felt upon my mother who finally had something to tell about me. She told every relative who would listen, how her son loved music and came fourth in the college fest. She just forgot to mention the fact that there were just four bands competing.

All my worthless life I remained the key hit-point of every ‘unwanted aunty’ of our colony. What was so special about these aunties, I often thought. I am sure there is an ‘unwanted aunty’ in every colony and society. The supreme commander of these aunties was Rita Aunty who took it upon herself to find the latest gossips of the society. I am sure even Aaj Tak is not as fast as her in spreading rumors and news of all the pangas. She had the complete bio-data of other aunties’ son, daughter and their friends. Inspite of her marriage being a total failure, she always had a few rishtaas for every bachelor in our society. She never suggested any rishta for me.

I started with my third year when I came to know that Rita Aunty had a proposal for Tarun. He had completed his freak MBA and was now placed in one of the biggest banks of Germany. He married a few months later. Even mothers realize that in cases like my brother’s, people are sometimes very lucky to get married. My mother looked content with her elder son. My bhabhi was extremely beautiful and I never understood what she saw in my brother. But then the combined effect of being beautiful and the weight of fat Euro cheques may sometimes make you very dumb. They both moved to Germany and had a son who I heard was a genius as well. My mother also told me that he had bought a Mercedes. Once a monkey, always a monkey, I thought.

Student Council elections are a rage in our college. The past record showed that only the supreme leader of total lukhaas became the college President. As I fulfilled all the qualifications of a true lukhaa I was made a nominee. A few friendly fights, my friend’s ‘convincing powers’ and on some occasions the unavoidable gundagardi saw me being made the President of our college. I found it quite ironical as I wasn’t sure who the President of India was. I was loved and feared by all as I represented the common man of my college. I was their savior, their Lalu as they fondly called me. Some even went far enough to compare me to Mayawati.

I was happy. I was a leader now recognized and feared by all. Finally I was able to make it big in college. But above all I was now worthy enough to be the topic of discussion of Rita Aunty’s gossips. I was asked for lunch where other aunties’ son came for discussing their problems in other colleges of Meerut as well. I was their leader, their savior. As a college President I had enough power to manage through the rest of my two years without much studying. My ‘charm’ was enough for professors who refused to give me marks.

Passing through college, I again found myself at a chauraha. The paths lead to various post graduates or a marginal salary in Mother Dairy. I took the fifth route. I decided to join politics. I joined the youth group of a ‘very big’ party in the same year when my brother moved in as the CEO of a ‘very big’ company in Germany and finally got a citizenship there. My parents, as usual were very unhappy with me which was not a big deal anymore. Sitting in my room, with nothing to do, I often thought:

What is it that my mom actually expected from her children? There was one who was never with her, who never took her to the doctor when she was ill, who never went to the mandi with her and who was never around to bear the pain of sitting with ‘unwanted aunties’ and then there was the other one who was always with her in pain, in sorrow, in happy times and on her birthday… There was one whose duty seemed like just sending cheques in Euro along with a photograph (from which a monkey, a beautiful damsel and a kid who looked the breed of two would be laughing at you sheepishly from Eiffel Tower) and there was other who stood by her not in a photograph but in her old age… Somehow, they had lost their love for me… I love my parents…

I became the big party’s youth leader. My job was to impress young college kids (read gundaas) to join our party. We used both money and power to influence the poor into joining hands with us. We held rallies and marches all over the town. Senior party officials often told us to fight with police to gain media attention. We broke windows, collected hafta tax and organized the birthday party of our party leader. We were becoming lukhaas on a big scale. From a musician turned politician, I had become a gunda. I was sick of this power. Rita Aunty had stopped mentioning me because her own son was in college now and she feared she might upset me with her nonsense talks. I never told her that her talks had upset me since I was 14 years old. I never tried to induct her son into the party. Infact, I left the party myself.

Aunty must have partied hard the night I left the party. Because her gossiping about how ‘they’ had thrown me out of the party had started the very next day. I sat at home and either listened to Aaj Tak or my father and was surprised how similar both sounded. You could always neglect the waste part, I often told myself. My friends from college and party workers often came to my house to try and convince me to come back. They now compared me to Gandhiji who I came to know had put on a hunger strike against the policies of British. My friends thought that I was on some similar mission against my party. I promptly told them that I was on no hunger strike and offered them some aaloo parathas. They all tried to tell me what differences I could bring to the nation and showed me Rang De Basanti (in which a hero who is fond of changing his hair style brings about a revolution in youth sacrificing his own life). I told them I had no ideas of sacrificing my life. It was then that someone mentioned I looked just like Aamir Khan.

I looked like Aamir Khan!? Hmm… I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad, I thought. I could see muscles building up at the right places with a chocolaty face. I am good looking!, I was surprised. I could be a movie star, I told myself. I had done a few dramas in my school and college. I remembered when I had played Lakshman in school Ramayana. Sita had definitely given me a mischievous look. I talked about it with my parents who instantly refused to send me anywhere unless I had a paid job. My father after seeing the terrible face of my elder brother probably couldn’t believe that his other son could actually be a movie star. I respected my parents but what else could I have done. All confused, a week later, I ran away from home.

15 years later…

… Reporter: You came here with nothing in hand and today you are on the front cover of every Bollywood magazine and are working with the biggest production houses. How do you feel Rishabh or should I call you Varun?

Rishabh Kumar: Name really doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you like but yes my real name is Varun. Rishabh is what industry has bestowed upon me and I really respect both my names. And yes it’s true that when I came here, I had nothing in hand except will power. But it’s just been 14 years in the industry and I still feel like a new face. New works keep coming up and I take all of them as a challenge. I still have a long way to go, I believe.

Reporter: Being really modest aren’t you? Mumbai is called the city of dreams. Did you ever dream that rising from a small town you would ever come here and be the next superstar?

Rishabh Kumar: (smiles) how many of your dreams do you remember?

Reporter: Not many.

Rishabh Kumar: Exactly. Because dreams are beautiful but as pessimistic as it may sound or as optimistic as we may want it to be, dreams never come true. We dream, we enjoy and then we forget them. Crossing the various crossroads of my own life, I realized that I never dreamt. Infact, I was a very confused person. A day came when I wanted to a be a cricketer, someday a musician, the other day the President of India and like all these days one day I wanted to be an actor. But I can proudly tell you that, may be not to perfection, but I have lived all these dreams. I realized that while confident people become CEOs, managers, chairpersons of big companies, the confused people are like…me…artists in a bigger sense.

The spot boy came in, “Sir, the shot is ready”.

Gently Falls the Bakula

2010-07-09T15:22:00.000+05:30

Title: Gently Falls the Bakula

Author: Sudha Murthy

Genre: Fiction, Light Drama

Written originally in Kannada some thirty years back, this small fiction by Sudha Murthy is the tale of a lower middle class couple from North Karnataka and their struggle to find their own individuality. Srikanth and Srimati are neighbors in Hubli, their houses separated by a not-so-beautiful-but-still-so ‘bakula’ tree. Both of them are the treat of the school each standing first or second in the class. Childhood competition slowly culminates into romance inspite of rivalries between the two families. While Srikanth goes to ‘Bombay’ to study in IIT; Srimati, who was incidentally academically better than him stayed back to study her passion for history. They get married and while Srikanth rises meteorically in his career, Srimati has a hard time discovering her true purpose of existence. And hence begin a struggle of a brilliant house wife to find her own happiness.

The book is written in a very simple language and though the subject matter deals with emotions of every day life of a couple, it fails to keep the reader interested in the subject. We see these kind of stories everyday now. In daily soaps and in the neighborhood. The story is definitely short and precise but in the end you will feel that it’s incomplete. I won’t say more tragedy would have done any justice to the novel. But somehow, one is unable to feel the emotions that Srimati goes through. The choice of words and the simple writing style may well be the bane of this novel.

What one can understand from this novel though is that there is a perspective to everything. Men who have to earn a family’s bread have to be ambitious and hard-working and motivated but do they have the right to neglect their family in the process? Women have to manage a home and take care of the kids but do they really lose their own integrity in the process? The book raises societal questions. And though no one turns out to be wrong, the question of who is right and whose sacrifice is greater than the other looms. This book is hence a debate between men and women. Perspective, as it is, always ends in a question mark.

Rajneeti

2010-07-01T12:31:00.000+05:30

Title: Rajneeti

Director: Prakash Jha
Actors: Ranbir Kapoor, Ajay Devgan, Manoj Bajpai, Nana Patekar, Katrina Kaif

My comments: Story or Reality? What’s worth?

You can watch this movie with two angles. Story and reality. As far as story is considered there is no doubt it is a very good story. But wasn’t Mahabharata a very good story as well. Inspired mildly by the epic Mahabharata this is the story of a political family torn between war for the power of a state. After an attack to the elder brother, the son of younger brother (Prithvi, Arjun Rampal) is left with the reigns of the family politics leaving the son (Veerendra Pratap Singh, Manoj Bajpai) of the elder brother seething with rage who, with the help of a dalit leader (Suraj, Ajay Devgan) wants to lead the state into a political turmoil. But in comes the Arjun or Ranbir Kapoor helped by mamaji – Nana Patekar, who saves the day for his family with sheer Michael Corleone style Godfather tactics, eliminating each and every piece of the chess quite systematically and ruthlessly. Now this is the story we have read and appreciated in both the Mahabharata (there is a scene between Suraj and his birth mother resembling the scene between Karna and Kunti in the epic) and the Godfather. The interest really builds up when Katrina comes in a simple plain saree to take the command but doesn’t last long enough.

What can be appreciated with this angle in movie is the acting of the star cast. Every single actor in the movie has given an absolutely brilliant performance. Whether it be Manoj Bajpai as the jealous cousin or Nana Patekar as the politico giant. Arjun Rampal has done a fab job with his angry yet loving image of a country politician. Ajay Devgan has again proved why he is the master of silent roles. Ranbir Kapoor, too, tries and break away from the ‘lover boy’ tag pasted upon him and brings in refreshing performance.

But now we must consider the other angle. Reality. There are many questions we should ask ourselves after watching this movie. Do people really break each other’s rallies? Do people really go for a killing spree as a solution for a political motive? Is the solution to every problem killing your opponent? If you see these questions, then Rajneeti won’t seem as impressive as it is made to be. Good story but probably not in the current context of things. Good acting but probably not the real world scenarios.

The movie is good or made out to be good? Only you can watch and tell. But its definitely worth watching once. If for nothing else, go and watch it to see Mahabharata brought onto the screen for the first time in a stylized vision.

The Fountainhead

2010-06-30T14:22:00.004+05:30

Title: The Fountainhead
Author: AynRand
My comment: Read the book to find how imperfect we all are...

A lot has already been written about this book. This one book has changed millions of people around the world. People studying literature have done thesis on the characters, theme and philosophy of this book. And I, quiet naturally, feel humbled writing about such a great novel.

What makes a book or a story or in a broader sense – literature – ‘great’? What are those elements that imprint the words upon reader’s mind? What makes the reader feel connected with the literature he reads?

It’s the characters.

Howard Roark, the hero, the human who believes in the ‘I’ and not the ‘We’ of collectivism is the identity of a true man fighting and braving the world to stand by his principles.

Peter Keating, the exact opposite is what every person desires to be but in the end cannot be – ambitious, successful, admired.

Dominique Francon, a lady who knows the true worth of a man and is ready to sacrifice herself to save the other.

Gail Wynand, a multi millionaire, power hungry, appreciates art but has the habit of collecting it just for him and for no other.

Ellsworth Toohey – perhaps the most dubious character in the book who shows how there is no white and no black - only a grey, which is perhaps the dangerous of all.

These characters are what we actually are. They are not larger than life. They are not out of the world images of God, Goddesses or Demons but humans who actually exist within us and around us. How simply these characters have been written on a piece of paper, impresses upon the reader the mastery of the writer.

The story revolves around architecture and sky-scrapers. It is the story of Howard Roark, the architect who finds himself fighting the society, the rich, the poor, the common man and even his love. Only because he is the egotist not ready to give up on his principles and ideals he holds so dear. He represents the ideal man - a man as he should be.

“Look at the man standing infront of the skyscraper. The man seems dwarfed by the building. But remember – it was built by him”

There are various philosophies associated with the book which later take form of Ayn Rand’s own philosophy of Objectivism. But the true essence of ‘The Fountainhead’ is to value an individual as a whole, to place oneself above the rest for only then we will be able to feel no remorse, no sadness and no jealousy. The book explains why selflessness is the biggest fraud of virtue man implied upon himself because there is nothing of ‘self’ left in selflessness.

This book isn’t a story of men. It is a fight for men. It represents everything we stand for but never have the courage to fight for. And after you have read it you will be left asking – can I be like him? Can I be perfect? Can I be like Howard Roark? Read this book and find how imperfect you are.

Ma's Diary

2010-06-08T11:04:00.002+05:30

I have observed that it is easy for a man to write as a man. But after I read ‘Thousand Splendid Suns’ by ‘Khalid Hosseini’, it became evident that master story tellers can picture any emotions, as in this particular case, a man has pictured a woman suffering in Afghanistan. Now I am no master story teller. But here, I have - just tried what I wanted to do for a long long time…

I still remember the day he was born. Pink and soft as a rose, I had held him in my hand and looked at his closed eyes. He had his father’s face but I was sure he would have my eyes. I just wished he would open them and cry ‘ma’. I couldn’t look away from him. I wasn’t a weak woman then but then I was a woman after all. So yes, I cried. I cried because I had a reason to live now – my son was my reason.

His father had been in army. One day a call came from his camp and he never returned. I still have the Shaurya Chakra in my room which I had to sell later. It’s a pity he never knew his son and I am often left wondering if things would be different had he lived.

Oh yes! I remember every little detail of his growing up. The first time he had held my finger and the time he had hiccupped continuously looking utterly confused. I remember him sleeping soundly in my arms, peace in his closed eyes, holding me close – afraid that the monkey might come. And I also remember the day he said it – ‘ma’. I never knew that a single syllable, that one word had the power to make me a complete woman.

Working in a government hospital with patients oozing out blood in the corridor, skin diseases moving about me and people crying over the dead, I felt good. My son was going to the best school in town. I had seen how sitting in the school rickshaw, he had looked up at me, raised his right hand and cried – “Ma! No!”. I smiled even as a patient vomited in front of me.

My son looked good with the sword, I had decided when I saw him brandishing it in the school drama. He was made the Prince – my son, my little prince. Handsome, in his black coat and courageous, calling out the enemy, I saw in him an image of his father. I stood up smiling, went home and sold the Shaurya Chakra.

He missed his father and I knew it. I saw it in his eyes when he saw fathers playing cricket with their sons or when they took them for late night strolls. He often asked about his father and I told him what a brave man he was and how God had decided to make him a star.

Later when he grew up, he had asked me how I chose to remember my husband – through the useless bravery he showed for a country that doesn’t care or by gazing at the stars. If you are a mother, let me give you a little advice – never lie to your children. Tell them how exactly how his father had died of bullets piercing through his eyes and with a face you wouldn’t recognize and yes! for a country that didn’t care.

I never approved of his friends because they were all rich. I have always felt that these rich have a way about themselves which is so magnetic that we middle class always desire to achieve it. And it is this desire that becomes our bane. My son had to learn it the hard way.

I saw him being awarded the best student in school and I clapped the hardest. Already, he had started showing signs of extraordinary talent. Always first in class, excellent in sports, a wonderful orator, I coudn’t have been more proud. I loved it when he came back from school, head boy’s badge neatly pinned to his shirt and how he would come from play ground in sweat and drink milk in one go. Little did I know then that this would be the last day he drank milk except for just one more occasion.

He was no longer the crying kid in a school rickshaw. It had been replaced by a motorbike and his waving hands, leaving for college, smile on his face. The change in him was so gradual and slow that I didn’t even notice it at once. He no longer needed to be told stories of how monkey would come if he didn’t go to sleep.

Now you have to understand here that I tried to be as understanding of adolescence as possible. He had started coming late. Late night parties with friends, I thought. He stopped eating at home. Kids like junk food now a days, I decided. He spent more time in his room than in the kitchen with me. College kids need privacy, I assumed.

After coming back from hospital one day, I couldn’t find my nose ring (Even after my husband’s death, I hadn’t given up that one piece of jewellery). I asked him too. He said he didn’t know. After an advice to mothers, I should give an advice to children too, I suppose. Children should never lie to their mothers because, “Children! Your foolish mothers can read your eyes”. And then I did something that changed my life all together.

I went into his room. I found CD’s of rock bands (men with stupid wild hair mourning at their guitar), posters of actresses I hadn’t seen before, magazines full of naked women (I am an understanding mother), a variety of deodorants and besides them - a large bible. Inside the bible, I found a neatly cut rectangle of pages in which rested a packet with white powder inside. I need not be told what it was.

The change was evident now. He came to the kitchen that night and stood there like a silent night figure saying nothing for a while and then his hands started shaking.

“Where is the packet, Ma?”, he had asked.

Trying to sleep that night, I gathered his childhood and analyzed where I had gone wrong with him. I had felt the urge to slap him that day, to throw him out of the house and to even beg him to tell just where had I gone wrong with him. But when questions fail to be answered, silence pursues. He had crept silently back to his room. I stood, went towards his room and locked his door. I could hear the sudden scrambling, his feet moving towards the door and him, standing on the other side, trying the handle. We both stood there – a firm mother (I was a strong woman you see!) and a druggist son (I wish I had better words).

We seldom spoke after that because he was never allowed out of the house. Silent, he would come to the kitchen, eat and leave to his bedroom. I remember wondering if he had some more stash tucked away somewhere I didn’t check. But even those little remains had to end someday.

“Please don’t do this Ma!”

“Give me some money Ma!”

“Where did you hide that packet bitch?”

I heard it all. One afternoon, he came up to me sobbing, begging me for drugs. He crawled at my feet like a pet. He pleaded me to kill him or he would himself do it. My feet tasted the saliva dripping from his mouth. He held my hands and cried like a child. O God! Where had I gone wrong. I had passed him the drugs.

I took him to the rehab in the valley. It was a serene and a beautiful place but once I went inside the facility, I could hear the screams of boys wasting away their youth. We saw people on the verge of tears muttering among themselves, nurses feeding people with pink and yellow tablets and people trying to hold their hands still, while fighting away the mental urge.

“This is what you want to make me Ma?”

“Will you remember me the way you miss Papa? Or do you even remember him you selfless bitch?”

“How would you love me when you couldn’t love the man who is half me? You even sold his medal. How do you remember him Ma? Tell me.”

“I remembered him through you Beta. Tell me, should I anymore?”

I spent the days wondering what my son, my piece of moon was doing at that particular hour. Sometimes I dreamed of people in white dragging him through the empty white corridors, setting him down on a white bed, he trying to fight away from his captors, all the while shouting “Help me Ma!” and then the people in white placing steel rods at his temples and then everything became white.

Once upon a time there was a father who felt that his love for the country was much greater than his responsibilities as a husband. He died a victorious war leaving a wife and a child who waited his ghost forever. There was also a mother who never let her child feel the emptiness her husband had created in their lives and fighting age and society alike, she saw her son being dragged away from the shelter of her bosom to the world of people in white.

He ran away from rehab. Somewhere inside I was relieved because he had run away from agony we both had forced upon each other. The selfish heart of the mother wanted him to come back to her. And he did come back. A month had passed since I hadn’t heard from him and then all of a sudden he turned up at the hospital one day. He had long hairs but they had become lank. His eyes had sunken in their sockets and my son had suddenly aged 10 years.

“Ma! You are a nurse. You can get it for me Mummy. Please, Please, just once.”

“Come home beta!”

“If you don’t give it to me, I will never show my face to you again. I will never have it again mummy. Just this once.”

He hadn’t aged, I thought. He had actually become a child. I put a hand above him, this time pleading, “Leave all this beta! Let’s go home”. I took him by the arm. He jerked it away and left leaving his hand on my face. My son had slapped me.

That day I went to the old jeweller’s market. The narrow streets hadn’t changed much. The shop was in pieces now but still the same manager sat behind it who I had met many many years ago. I asked him for an article I had sold him long back. He told me how he, being a true Indian couldn’t melt the precious artefact. He went down a cellar and brought back the shining piece of metal. I went home and put the Shaurya Chakra back on my bedroom wall where it still hangs, mocking me, telling me how I have been a failure as a mother.

He had disappeared from my life again. I was getting old now and lived alone in the house where the ghost of his dead father with a medal stuck to his uniform often visited me telling me the horrific tales of the war and then asking where his son was. In the nights, people in white with green masks on their face came in search of my son who I had hidden behind the curtains. I was visited by my dead patients vomiting on the floor who disapproved of my ways as a mother.

Six months later he came back again, this time at the house of the dead and the old woman. I prepared milk for him. He looked at it for a while as if trying to see his reflection in it, laughed a little and drank it one go.

“Thanks ma!”, he said. He looked better, I observed.

“Come back beta! Your mummy needs you.”

“It’s too late mummy. But I am trying to be a better person, I promise. Let me get things back on track and I will come back to you.” And then he stopped as if thinking something, “There is a girl ma! She is a very nice girl and we both love each other. She is the one who will bring me back.”

He stood up to go and looked at me. There was something he wanted to say but decided against it and left his mother once again. I never came to know what he wanted to say.

Today, a girl came looking for me. She was trying hard not to cry and it was evident she hadn’t slept. But behind the dark circles, I could see a very pretty face.

“She is the one who will bring me back”. The words kept ringing in my ears as the people (in white) brought my son’s body home. They kept him in the room below the shaurya chakra which watched him silently. They were talking something about rash driving, then police, then drugs but I couldn’t hear any of them.

Today I saw a girl crying in the corner because she loved my son. I looked around the house and saw him as a little child calling me ‘ma’, running into my arms laughing, sleeping near me, peace in his eyes. I also saw a son, my prince, my piece of moon, with his eyes closed peacefully, only this time he was as dead as I could be. I went upto him, wished he would open his eyes, and so I stroked his hairs and whispered, “So ja mere laal! (Sleep Son!) The monkey wouldn’t come now.”

I had to cry this time...

No More VIT

2010-05-26T14:20:00.001+05:30

May 25’ 2010 15:45 P.M., Vellore, Tamil Nadu:

I saw a group of boys and girls laughing over something. I couldn’t help it any longer. I went up to them and said, “You guys planning to become engineers?”

“Yes. Why?”, a dude among them asked.

“Think again! Because this”, I said pointing towards my own self, “is what an engineer looks like.” Sun-burns all over my face, melting each second with heat and sweat and with a degree in hand, I left the college forever.

The final review was fine. Both my internal and external examiner were very nice and the college management very helpful and understanding with everything. I presented a very compact but interactive PPT and they looked happy. An easy picture to everything except…

The temperature at Vellore was touching 45 degree Celsius. It is impossible to explain just in words how I walked carrying a laptop, 3 reports and folder from K-block to Main building and then back fetch the presentation, Main building to SJT then back because I didn’t take internal’s signature then back to SJT and from there to K-block and then back to Main gate to fetch my train to Bangalore for which I didn’t have the reservation.

Now only the people from VIT can realize the logistics of the distance between MB and SJT and K-block in the heat of Vellore. I didn’t have the chance to say good-bye to anyone. Not even to my few friends who were there at that time. I didn’t get the chance to say good-bye to my home for 4-years, my college, my VIT. I didn’t have the chance to reflect all the wonderful time I had had there.

I am in the train to Bangalore standing for the rest of the journey, looking outside at the setting sun and thinking…Did I, after all this time, emerge victorious as an engineer? And I answer myself…Only time will tell.

Midnight's Children

2010-04-28T15:57:00.002+05:30

Title: Midnight's Children
Author: Salman Rushdie
My comment: The Indian spirit in the words of a true story teller..

Ofcourse I had heard of the book. Who hasn’t? It won the Booker in 1981 and then Booker of Bookers in 1991. In 2008 this book won the people’s choice award for the best book to ever win a booker. I had heard of the writer too. Salman Rushdie, against whom many fatwas had been issued. So there was nothing much to think before purchasing it since it had all the elements of a perfect-home-take-away-novel – Booker prize and a controversial author.

I read the first six pages and didn’t understand a thing. Though as a consolation to Mr. Rushdie, I must admit that I was a little sleepy too. I didn’t touch it for a week and then started it all over again, reading each and every word carefully this time, grasping the meaning of every word, forming it into a sentence, each metaphor carefully woven and satire placed at the right corners. And this time I slept with the book and woke up with it besides me.

Once you grab hold of Mr. Rushdie’s style of writing, the words will look like a flowing river, almost naturally at place. The magic that Mr. Rushdie casts upon the reader through his mystical style of writing and inter-woven, often out-of-chronology events is just fabulous. It didn’t take me long to recognize why the book has been deemed as the best of the best among modern writing.

The book begins with the protagonist Saleem Sinai, who narrates the story of his grandfather Aadam Aziz in Kashmir to his dung-goddess and then takes us through the history of India till second generation following the roads to independence, the five-year plans and the emergency under Mrs. Indira Gandhi. In this journey he explains how the cosmos planned his own birth at the opportune moment at the stroke of midnight hour when India itself became independent on 15 August 1947 and then how this birth was inter-woven with the bearing of his nation.

With Saleem, were born, thousand and one more children known as the children of midnight or the midnight’s children, each born with a special and unique power. This is the story of how these children realize their destiny of being and the true purpose of these powers. In this book what starts as a love story through a perforated sheet becomes a saga of human nature, mystique and will.

As Aadam Aziz fell in love with Saleem’s grandmother through the hole in the bed-sheet, I fell in love with the book. As baby Saleem was being born in the hospital ward at Bombay (Mumbai), I was with Jawaharlal Nehru witnessing the midnight speech and as baby Saleem spied on his mother…I think I have said too much. And this is just half the book.

Mr. Rushdie, as the world now recognizes is a master story teller who, in this novel has told the story which people will associate to because it reaches such depths of human emotions and with such ease that you will find yourself living in the time as Saleem Sinai, the radio child. A must read for the English speaking community.

As an advice, just remember to keep a Webster’s dictionary with you while reading because Mr. Rushdie has probably used every available adjective in English language.

Reflecting Mirrors

2010-04-27T13:46:00.000+05:30

I have decided to add, besides stories the things that I notice and observe in my day to day life and the events that leave me thinking...

Recently our chairman (from U.S.) visited the Indian branch of the company. The cafeteria was wiped crystal clean for his arrival and every little detail was studied before he addressed us in the auditorium. I don’t complain. He is the chairman after all.

I went for the breakfast early that day in fear that they might not even allow me to enter later (That, fortunately didn’t happen which made me realize that even I am important now). Sitting there, eating a helpful amount of idly and sambhar, I noticed some gentlemen in black and blue suits (total management style) having English breakfast.

These gentlemen, I noticed had an air of authority you see in very few people. But then I noticed a guard in a blue uniform and wearing an immaculately trimmed moustache (he was probably told to make an impression on Chairman’s visit who wouldn’t even notice him).

This particular guard noticed the gentlemen in coats, bent his back a little in show of respect and said something to them to which one of the person waved a hand. The guard looked like he had found a treasure. Sitting far away, quietly observing this scene (I get very bored having sambhar everyday), I saw the guard running.

The guard ran towards the water cooler and fetched the gentlemen water one after the other with the content smile of having finally achieved something in his life. Though I don’t know the gentlemen or the guard in question, I had these few questions in mind:

Q. What is a guard’s job? Security or fetching water?

Ans: In India, a guard has to perform any work he is assigned. Even if the gentlemen had asked him to clean their shoes, he would have to do it because it’s his job.

Q. Why did getting water for the gentlemen make him so happy?

Ans: The possible explanation could be the feeling of self-importance. Or may be the poor guy hadn’t seen anyone in suits before because people in suits are generally found behind glass cabins or in sedan

Q. What have we reduced ourselves to?

Ans: For something very trifle as self-importance, promotions or ambition we have reduced ourselves to laborers in the hand of select few. Here I do not say that a particular work is menial but I just that I reflected that infact every work is just equivalent. In some manners, I and we are not different from the guard in the blue dress.

Q. Am I any different from that guard?

Ans: I have been asking myself the same question again and again. I suggest you try it once as well.

Q. Who is wrong? The guard or the gentlemen with waving hands?

Ans: I believe none of them are wrong. It is the stigma to perform and being important that makes all of us wrong somewhere or the other.

(Probably the most important question I asked myself that fateful day) : Why was I eating sambhar everyday?

Ans: No comments.

After this brain-storming, I shrugged, finished idly-sambhar and went back to working on the code.

Disclaimer: Our honorable chairman (who is infact a very dedicated person) and the gentlemen in suits have nothing to do with this brain-storming.

The Last Ride

2010-04-25T14:51:00.005+05:30

This was my first attempt at love story way back in college. And since I very much suck at love and matters relating to love, I ask you to forgive my language. No love story from Shimla would be like this.

The Chevrolet was speeding forward like a hurricane. Had it been old times, Priya would have asked him to slow down the car but now she didn’t care. Inside, her heart was thumping as it always had- when he had taken her for a ride on his new bike, in their Maruti after they had married and even in this new car, when after 5 years of marriage, they had broken up.

The view outside was scenic and the air romantic. But no air was let in. The windows were up, Anuj made sure of that. It was the last time they both would be seeing each other. Their divorce was finalized and he was going to leave Priya to her mother’s place in Shimla.

Somehow, inspite the odd turns in roads and in their own lives, Priya couldn’t help but remember those nice times they had had together. The first ride on his bike, the time spent in college food court, their marriage and the difficult times they both had had. But now everything seemed a haunted old dream which gave her both sweet and sour memories.

She again looked at the speedometer and remembered that first ride on his Yamaha:

“Anuj! Can’t you read the ‘drive slowly’ sign. Please! I am feeling dizzy now. Its just a bike, not a plane”.

“Common! Its just 80 yaar. And you better get used to it. After all, you are going to spend the rest of your life with me”, he laughed.

Holding him tightly she said, “Then you are definitely going to kill me some day”.

He simply looked back and said, “I will be dead the same day”.

The Chevrolet crashed into the truck…

He woke up early and went upto the window. The weather outside was gloomy. But he liked it like this, dark and cloudy. Like everyday, he looked at the bed side photo of him and Priya, together, laughing. He could hear that laughter still ringing in his ears. It was the same smile that had smitten him the first time he had seen her in the college canteen. The pain was back. And with it came the anguish, the sadness, the wretched feeling of loneliness. It was all he had now – guilt. He walked over to the door and decided not to wake his mother. He didn’t drive the car anymore. So, he walked out of the house into the gloom.

They had met in the college canteen through common friends and immediately both knew that they together, were special. Seldom acknowledgements turned into regular ‘hi’ and ‘hello’. Both looked for reasons to talk to each other. They looked for each other’s class schedules to get to meet each other. And finally after much thinking and scheming, he asked for her phone number. But she blankly refused saying that she minds giving her phone number to guys. More than being hurt, Anuj was shocked and amused at the same time. But he laughed it off and tried to act cool with the situation (he hadn’t really prepared himself for her no). But that night she called him up and said, “You dumb thing!!!! You guys are all same. You take so long to ask a girl for her phone number and then when she says no you try to act as if you are the coolest person on earth. Huh!! You are dumb”. She was laughing and Anuj knew that he was in love.

He looked up. No sun. But he liked it like this. It was going to rain soon but he walked on consumed in his own thoughts…

It soon became the most famous romance of the college. He was the son of a rich, living life king size. She was the prettiest girl in the college and yet the simplest (a perfect ‘bahu’ material, someone said). She had beautiful skin but her eyes emitted intelligence. They attracted the combined jealousy of boys and girls. But driven in love they never cared for the world. He bought his bike – a Yamaha Sports in his 3^rd year in college. He loved the speed, the thrill, the risk of it all. Priya on the other hand worried much more about Anuj and her own life.

His tears had no life, no soul, no reason. As if to complement his mood, the rain started pouring in and he kept walking.

Both were placed in the same company and their happiness knew no bounds. But the happiness was short lived. Heartbroken were they left, when they came to know that they had to go different places for training. Anuj went to Delhi and Priya started her new life at Bangalore. But their love wasn’t made of glass. They talked every day. Each spent the day lonely, waiting. Waiting for the night when they would talk to each other and pour their hearts out forgetting all the distance between them. Distance relationships were difficult, they had heard. But in those careless whispers, lost in each other, who would have cared about what anyone says or hears.

On a lonely evening in his apartment when Anuj was thinking of her, Priya called…

“Please marry me”, she said.

“You want me to marry you on call? Another of the e-marriages?”, he laughed.

“Why don’t you just open your stupid door.”

He almost ran to the door and there she stood smiling. That was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. It was both serene and beautiful. Like a goddess. And at that moment he loved her more than anything in the world.

“Please marry me”, she said.

He could no longer tell the tears from the rain drenching him, killing him. But a smile crept on his face. He had never proposed her, infact, had spent days thinking about how he would. But never in his life had he imagined that Priya would leave her job and career just to be with him.

They married a year later. There was a lot of family drama. Anuj left his home and his ‘bright career’ at his father’s business. She left her career and job to look after her home. But she was happy and content. After all she had married the love of her life. Married life was bliss, they both agreed.

As married couple, they both found happiness in little things of life. She never had her dinner without him and he worked hard to look after his wife and took her to romantic dinners on weekends taking time out of his now busy schedule. Two years after their marriage their first child was born. He was the most blessed man on earth and she the most satisfied woman. A week later they had their first fight.

Even the tears eluded him now. Whose mistake was it? Back then, he was never ready to understand her part of the story and may be, she never understood his. Whoever made those mistakes kept repeating them because the fights never stopped. The pain was back. Why was he even thinking all this now? He could not be with her anymore. It was both stupid and childish to think about Priya. He should carry on. And he carried himself on, thinking…

After his marriage he had spent most of his days and nights in his office. He had worked hard to reach a position of authority and respect in his company. His rise had been meteorical and someone had tipped him to be the next CEO in next 15 years. A week later after their child had been born, he again came home late in the night. It had been the same story the whole week. The multi million project he was handling was keeping him on a very tight schedule. He entered the dark dining room. Only Priya’s face was visible illuminated by the small light from the bed-room. Apparently she had slept waiting for him. He changed and sat next to her. But something was very wrong. Her eyes had dark circles he hadn’t noticed before. Her face was smudged, like she had been crying. Somewhere inside, he knew why she had been crying and somehow, very strangely he just felt contempt (a new feeling for him altogether).

The next night, she was wide awake and he felt the same contempt in her eyes. For the first time after they had married she had had her dinner without him. And for the first time she was really angry. She said something about him being always late and reminded him of his responsibilities as a father. He ignored her. He was back from work, tired and this silly woman could only think of how difficult it is to change a baby’s clothes. Why can’t she just keep a nanny. He had no time for family fights. He had to get back to work early in the morning. That night he had slept on her tears. Every night after that it was the same story in their house-hold. Sometimes he looked at his child’s innocent eyes and wondered if he could be a child again. May be could go back to the care-free days of college. Who should he blame. He had to look after his family and think about his child’s future who was fast growing up. And his wife was angry just because he didn’t see his child walk his first step, because he wasn’t punctual on his first birthday and because he wasn’t there when he had said ‘ma’ for the first time. He was just, never home.

His project was a success and company rewarded him with a new house and a car. They moved in with a truce not to fight again. He promised her that he would try to be a better husband and father. He gave her the old Maruti because she no longer wanted to sit in that death-trap race car with him. The days passed in peaceful but reproachful silences and humble words of love. The life seemed to be returning back to normal. She saw him playing with their child in the nursery and was grateful that the worst in their life was finally over. She had been traumatized by his unconcerned behavior but starting life all over again, he had proved himself to be a more mature person than she had thought him to be. But Priya was in for the biggest shock of her life when Anuj’s cell-phone beeped twice.

Anuj, evn i m really sorry for watevr hapnd n I kno u really luv ur wife n child bt i also kno dat u luvd me 2o. Hw cud u jst turn ur back on me nw wen i need u d most. m nt askng u to leave ur wife bt jst giv me a little space i deserve 4 all d little time v spent togedr… stil waitn 4 ur luv…

Anuj agreed to the light affair he had had with his office trainee when he and Priya were having hard times. He said that he was beyond it now and that there was nothing between them now. But she had lost it. She couldn’t face the man for whom she had left her everything. She had given up her dreams, her aspirations, had fought with her parents just to be with him. He had ignored her, traumatized her, fought with her and now was casually telling her that he had cheated on her love too. She called it quits right there.

“Did you give her a ‘nice ride’ in your car?” It was her turn now.

He called it quits there.

He walked upto the house he had been to many a times now. Several times he had tried to get the glimpse of his growing son in the same house. He had tried to make up for the time he had missed with his son. He had now seen him cry the first time he went to school. He had seen him eating ice-cream and had seen him trying to read the school poems. He sometimes peeked through the windows and sometimes barged right through the doors. Should he go in today? There was no need to think. He went in. There was no need to knock. He knew all the rooms. He had walked through these corridors for 3 years now. He could see the door at the far end. He reached for it and went inside.

There she was, sleeping soundly with one hand over their son. He had grown up in the last few years. Should he go upto her? She might wake up or someone might come in. He didn’t care. She won’t wake up and no one will see him. He sat on the bed besides his son. He put a hand on his head. Anuj felt peace he had never felt before. The pain seemed to vanish for a moment. But it came back. How much he regretted all that he had done. He looked at Priya who was looking beautiful as ever, fast asleep. The strands of her hair falling on her face. He wanted to touch them, to tell her how much he loved her. He held back because a knife was wounding him, cutting him from the inside. There are things you come to believe and there are things you carry in your blood. He felt all those voices, the ghosts of the past torturing him and telling him to let go of his consciousness.

Whose mistake was it? He had just wished her to be happy and had gone on to make her wish that she had never met him! He remembered the last day they had spent together. They had divorced and he was going to leave her to her mother’s place. Their son had already gone. Priya had his custody. They were in his car and none had spoken a word to each other when their Chevrolet had crashed into the truck.

He could hear footsteps in the corridor. A man walked into the room. But he didn’t notice Anuj sitting on his bed besides his wife. He couldn’t. He walked upto Priya and kissed her forehead. She looked up. No one seemed to care that Anuj was there with them. He took her into his arms and carried her to the wheelchair sitting in the corner of the room. Priya smiled at him. And that very moment Anuj knew he was long dead. He knew what the pain meant and that he had been a dead man since three years, walking these corridors repenting. Repenting for her endless love.

The rain outside had stopped. The sun was out with brute force piercing the window and illuminating the couple in the corner of the room. Funny weather, Anuj thought, changes quickly. He stood, looked at that beautiful smile for the last time and walked back into the darkened corridor. There are many endings to a love story. Some sad, some happy. In this particular story, finally, she was happy and he…was free…

…continued forever…

Memoir of an Everlasting Memory

2010-04-15T08:26:00.004+05:30

This story is based upon true events. I hope I have done justice to the ten-year old mind of a child. Adltya..If you ever read this..Please forgive me..

I was always bad with phone numbers. Infact, I was always bad with anything to do with digits. Imagine then, how could I memorize a 10-digit phone number. And I am talking of an age when no one had even heard of cell phones (Yes! Believe me, there was this time). So we kept a diary to maintain a phone book, interesting right? I didn’t have any though. So it was amazing that somehow, even after 4 years, I could summon up his phone number.

I had lived at my nani’s place for 6 months when my father had been transferred. So it felt like home coming when I went there again for winter vacations. But there is this thing with all nanis. They want to pamper you; they will spoil you because they have the constant habit of believing that we are thinner than she had last seen us. So what they would do all day is cook and make you eat. Now this kind of treatment where you are virtually treated as a prince feels good for a few days but after that it really gets annoying, more due to the fact that your stomach starts to revolt agonizingly. It was after those few days of lazing around and killing flies that I decided to call him.

My home town is Muzaffarnagar. It is a small district in Uttar Pradesh. Back as a child when I lived there, it defined the whole world to me. All my relatives lived there and I hadn’t seen anything beyond its borders then. I went to the best school in Muzaffarnagar. Not that it mattered much to me being all of just 7 to 8 years old. But I suppose it really mattered to mummy papa who always wanted to give me the best education possible. My dad got transferred and I spent a year or so first at my aunt’s and then at nani’s. I don’t remember having many friends at school but there was one I remembered all my life – Aditya Gupta. He was my best friend.

It had been 4 years since I had met him and the memories of childhood were weak. In those vacations when I remembered him, there was nothing much I could recall about him except that he was very good looking and intelligent. The only fact that I could hark back to was that we always used to sit together. We never met after school, we never went in the same rickshaw, we never invited each other to our birthday parties and I don’t think we ever shared our lunch either. But still he was my best friend. And miraculously, that day feeling extremely out of place at my nani’s, I could summon up his phone number. I dialled.

What would you actually say to a guy you haven’t met for so long? Does he even remember you? I was a little unnerved before calling him. What would I talk about? There was nothing to say except do you remember me.

His didi picked it up first and then put Aditya on the call. I was relieved when he said that it was obvious that he remembered me. He seemed genuinely happy to hear from me as well. So we decided to meet the other day. He gave me his address and we talked long about old times. I was surprised to find he still remembered so many things. That’s when I knew that among friends, there is always something to talk, to remember and to cherish.

I told nanaji about him and as it turned out he knew Aditya’s father through some common friend. His father owned some cloth showroom in the main market, nana told me. He promised to drop me at Aditya’s house while going for work.

I have always enjoyed every ride through the streets of Muzaffarnagar where you are sure to see outbreaks of some unusual fights. I loved it whenever I crossed my old school. It was still pretty much the same, tall and beautiful. I liked watching posters pasted all over the walls across the streets. And I simply adored the crowd mongering the streets. The love for your home-town flows in your blood, I suppose. Even after living there for years I just could not stop but wonder at its diversities.

It didn’t took us long to find his home. Aditya was waiting for us outside. He looked pretty much the same, I thought, except the fact that he had grown taller than me, I noticed. Nana told me that he would pick me up in the evening and so I bid him farewell. Aditya seemed genuinely delighted to see me. We shook hands. He led me inside.

Aditya was the youngest in the family. He had an elder sister and a brother. His house was furnished like all medium class families in the town. But it struck me how clean and orderly everything was. Some teddy bears neatly placed on the diwan, the wind-chime melodiously chiming in the background. I could hear the sound of television coming from the bed-room. But the most beautiful thing I found was a bird balanced over a stick in mid-air. I also saw a pendulum clock sitting in the corner of the room, its pendulum making periodic motions. I must admit that I was a little nervous at the prospect of meeting him after such a long time but Aditya made me feel at home. His mother came into the drawing room, smiled at me and said, “Hello Beta!”

It was déjà-vu like I had never experienced before. I had heard the same words before, the same voice but not the same face. Suddenly the memories of years long ago came back to me...

I remembered the day when Aditya and I were standing at the school gates. Me, waiting for the rickshaw and Aditya, waiting for his mother to pick him up. His mother had come first and I remembered even then how graceful and beautiful she was. She had walked upto me, smiled and said, “Hello Beta!”.

But it wasn’t the same face I had seen just some years back. Her face was now pockmarked, there were dark circles under her eyes, her complexion had become dark and she wore a cloth around her head now. Two things that hadn’t really changed were her smile and the young twinkle in her eyes, I noticed. I wish I could remember something else about that scene except that how desperately I had wanted to ask Aditya the reason why Aunty looked ill, but couldn’t bring myself to. Instead she asked me how I was and how I was doing at school.

Mind is a cruel animal. It is like a chameleon, playing tricks on you, changing colours to deluge you. Sometimes it wouldn’t let you recall the second past and sometimes it would give back to you memories that you didn’t even know existed. Sometimes you would spend hours researching on a thesis and the idea wouldn’t come to you and sometimes while sleeping it would give you that same idea as a dream and when you wake up you wouldn’t remember the dream or the idea. Mind can be a cruel animal.

We children went up on the roof and played cricket for a while when didi called us all for lunch. We were served rajma and naan. The food was delicious and for a moment I forgot the rotis my nani cooked. The whole family was there and we joked for a long time. Aditya kept coming up with all the stupid things we used to do at school. It was amazing how Aunty remembered the ball dance where I had participated.

I was wearing a green suit with a bow-tie I had borrowed from my cousin. I was standing in the first row with a girl in my arms. Aditya was also there besides me in the second row. I looked at him and he gave me a thumbs up. I remember feeling jealous of how good he looked in that matching black suit. The dance was about to begin when Aditya’s mother came and gave him a kiss on the cheeks. She then saw me, planted a swift peck on my cheeks and said best of luck to both of us. The music began...

After lunch, Aunty took some medicines, so I knew that she was ill. It made me feel terrible that she had to do all the work inspite of being unwell. But Aditya reassured me that didi had also helped but he avoided the topic as soon as I asked what really was wrong with Aunty.

I had come to meet just my friend but somehow, I found myself analyzing the whole family with my ten year old mind. The way they saw each other, the laughter on their face but the sadness in their eyes as if waiting for a long-impending doom. But then it was just a ten-year old mind discerning the facts.

It was a day well spent. In the evening nana came back to pick me up and I said farewell to the whole family not knowing when I will get the chance to meet them again.

I don’t remember how much time went by after that one day. May be a year or two, I was sitting at my home reading news paper on a Sunday morning when I noticed a story. It’s very rare that news papers publish stories but then, when there are no terror attacks, no actress getting murdered or no scams over politicians, I think they have no worthy news to publish.

The story was about a boy and his mother. It told of their early memories together. It told of all the happy times they had had together, of all the times they had cried together, of the times she had told her bed-time stories, the times they had danced together, of the times when they sang together, played together. It told of a bond greater than God Himself. And it told of the time God himself became jealous of such unending and selfless love. It told of the time his mother suffered tumour, of the time when she lay in bed dying and he could do nothing but see his mother dissolve in the nothingness of time, of the time when he saw her first hair falls, of the time when he saw her getting whiter every day and of the time he saw his brother setting the ashes of his mother into Ganga. By the time I finished the story, tears had welled up in my eyes. I could relate to so many things, could associate myself to so many things. Doesn’t every son feel the same belonging to his mother? But one thing that kept haunting me was the signature below the story - Aditya Gupta, Muzaffarnagar.

It is wrong being a kid. We are not sure of our self being, waking up every morning just to learn from whatever we see and feel around us. Kids don’t get to make decisions, they look for someone to make it for them. And what if a time arrives when a kid has to make a decision? Will he chose to call his best friend when he hears of his mother’s death or would he just let it go, creating in his minds a yet another sad memory.

I couldn’t summon the courage to call Aditya or to comfort him in any way. I knew I had no words to console him and somewhere inside I even wondered if he would even care. So I decided to create in my mind a memory of the beautiful day where I actually saw a woman and her son laughing away the approaching death. Aditya and me, we havn’t talked since that one day.

Sometimes, I remember the pendulum in his drawing room and the irony of how life moves on, the time goes by, while the pendulum returns to the same position with each tick in the hour. And in times like these I wonder if Aditya had grown up much faster than me.

The thing about beauty is that besides being a joy forever, it also lasts forever. One day walking by a store I saw a plastic bird perched over a stick and bought it. I had learnt to respect life.

I still remember him. I remember his mother. And there are so many ways you remember people. I chose not to remember her as the fragile ailing lady I met on that day but instead, as the woman who had cheered when I won the cricket match with her son, as a woman who was courageous in the face of death and as the elegant lovely lady who had once walked upto me with a twinkle in her eyes and said, “Hello Beta!”.

Shahi Paneer

2010-04-06T09:00:00.003+05:30

He woke up with a start. It had been a nice dream (he had been made the Sarpanch and was driving a brand new tractor across his lands). Nice dream indeed. Time to wake up, he thought reluctantly because above him was the horrible face he saw every day. His wife was almost strangling him, asking him to get off the mat. He swore (not to his wife ofcourse, he wasn’t out of his mind), pulled up his ragged dhoti and went outside for a bath.

Murari had lived in this small village for as long as he could remember. From the stories told by Sarita Chachi living next door he presumed that he must have been born here as well. He had grown up in the village streets with no friends. He had seen this small village turn into a town. They even had a cinema theatre now. And though much had changed around him, Murari himself remained the same. He was what could be very generously considered, a poor man but still a man of honor and values. His occupation included picking scrap from the road and industrial waste which was bought by the ‘big thakur’ of the village for his industries. He, along with some shouting kids went street to street for their livelihood which ironically was the waste of the rich.

His wife Lakshmi (who he never failed to compare to an old goat) was a God-fearing woman in her late 40’s (though she looked much older). Well! She wasn’t very good-looking, he often thought but all in all she was a very honest and a loving partner who had stood by him in the worst of his days (his days were always bad, he meditated). He loved her too. If only she could cook shahi paneer for him someday, he would love her even more.

“Wake up! Wake up you moron!”, Lakshmi was not in best of her moods.

“Huh! Hmmmph!”, was all he could manage.

He had been dreaming again. Of food, a much better dream. A five course meal was being served to him. Shahi Paneer and butter rotis, tandoori chicken, rajma with curd, gulaab-jamun for dessert and all the things he could…well…‘dream of’. If there was anything he loved more than dreaming…it was food.

“I want Shahi Paneer when I come back tonight”, his mouth was still watering.

She looked at him incredulously.

“What? Just a simple nice looking Shahi Paneer. Didn’t your mother teach you how to cook?”

“My mother taught me how to cope up with nagging husband but not his stupid demands. Look at the vessels. All empty. You will only get onion and chapati for lunch today. Shahi Paneer”, she mocked.

“Have you done anything but fight all your life?”

“Oh yes! I have given a nice spanking to my husband whenever he tried to irritate me”

“What Lakshmi? You never have. Please! Just this once! We will save for some time but cook paneer tonight. I promise I will buy you payal from the mela”

“You haven’t taken me to the mela in 20 years. Just get the hell out of this house and don’t show your face before 9’O clock”

Crestfallen, he started to leave.

“Wait… You were right I think”, she called out from behind.

His eyes shone. Finally. With a sly smile he turned back.

“You were right I haven’t given you a beating yet but if you come back without raashan today, I will have to think about it again”

Murari who knew his wife pretty well saw the belan in her hand and decided in his best interest to leave as soon as possible.

It was a two mile walk to the town from his hut. Everyday he took this walk with utmost enthusiasm. Murari loved the world and it’s many miracles. He loved the creation of God and the wonders of man alike. He liked the colors around him. He was infatuated by the noise all those big cars created. He sometimes stood for hours admiring the big hoardings with beautiful people looking out at him. The posters attracted him as much as the nice dresses the children running off to school wore. He liked to watch people, their attitude towards their fast life and the way they all looked at him. Wherever Murari went, he was looked down with contempt and an ill feeling. He often wondered why? Wasn’t he made of the same elements that they all were? Didn’t he sometimes clean the filth no one would even want to touch? But those questions were old now. He had accepted his life as it was. Though not much of a philosopher, he had his own ideas for himself which told him that it is only the poor man who accepts life as destiny.

He often wondered what lay beyond the borders of this town. If they had the same colors, same light, if there were better people there and sometimes, if there was better food there. He looked at a child eating an ice-cream and gave him a murderous look (who immediately returned the favor). His work required him to move around the town looking for scraps of metal. He loved the job. It gave him the opportunity to explore. He would often go upto thakur’s house and marvel at it’s white beauty for hours before the suspicious guards turned him away.

He chose a different path that day and went to the residential colony area. The houses looked same here, all arranged in a neat row of blocks. He went through various houses noticing the big cars people had kept and their beautiful gardens. He acknowledged Babu, the gardener who he knew from the village. He was walking by one of the houses when he saw her. His eyes popped out, his tongue hung open and he remained rooted to the spot. He must be imagining. Was this some Goddess in disguise? She should be in her early 20’s, he calculated. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had skin as white as snow. Her eyes were as big as an almond (though he hadn’t seen an almond in years and wasn’t sure if it had changed its size in these years). She must be a Goddess, he thought and what more; the Goddess was waving at him, calling him.

“Hello! You there! I am asking you. Come over here”

Should I go? Why is he asking questions? Questions are bad. He went there.

“Could you please help me with my luggage? I am having trouble carrying it in the house”

Till now he hadn’t noticed the 20-odd bags lying around her. Ofcourse she was having trouble. How could such a sweet fragile looking girl carry so many bags inside? Still, he kept staring.

“Not much of an Akshay Khanna (from Dil Chahta Hai) I expected. Don’t worry. I will pay you”

Pay. She was talking money here. He remembered Lakshmi and immediately felt guilty. And the girl must be her daughter’s age. But she was so pretty. What was he thinking about? He slapped himself within. But what the hell does she think he is? A coolie?

“Ofcourse madamji. I will help you”, he found himself saying.

Half an hour later, he was exhausted. The bags were heavier than he had expected. He put the last one on the floor. He was sweating profoundly. She was sitting on the sofa drinking some juice. She isn’t all that beautiful afterall, he thought. But she helped him with a glass of water and took a 20 rupee note out of her purse (which was stuffed with money, he noticed) and gave it to him. He thanked her and started to leave.

“Wait!”

She stood and gave him a new 50 rupee note. She was smiling at him. She is pretty, he added as a final thought and walked out of the house.

70 rupees! He had 70 bucks all to himself! His happiness knew no bounds. It was a week’s worth of pay. And all for just half an hour work. There was no need to work that day. He passed by an ice-cream shop. He could buy one, he thought but decided against it. He even looked longingly at the dairy, paneer was on his mind but he had better plans. He half walked and half hopped towards his home.

She was sitting outside the hut.

“You are early! You will have no food tonight”, she said with a tone of finality.

“Lakhi! Why are you always angry huh? Common go inside and wear your best saree. We are going to the mela”, he said happily.

She wasn’t very impressed though.

“Crap! First I don’t have any ‘best saree’ and second I won’t buy your bull-shit about mela. I know you better than you think”

“Offo! Come inside. Let me show you something”

Still suspicious she went with him and was amazed when he brought out new 70 rupees from his dhoti.

She hadn’t seen so much money together in a long time. After staring at the 50 rupee note for quite a while she said, “I hope you haven’t been stealing”

“You are just stupid as your mother”

Then he told her the story of the day conveniently avoiding the exact ‘description’ of the girl.

“God bless her”, she said.

“Now if your blessings are over shouldn’t we go to the mela?”

“Yes Yes. I will just get ready and come. You wash your dhoti too. You don’t want to go there looking like this”, she said excited.

The mela was the great carnival of town where people from far off villages came in thousands with their families and their extended families in buses full of people. They both couldn’t help but notice the huge crowd (not to mention the variety), the happy looks on their faces, the excited kids sticking to their mother in fear of getting lost. They saw the huge wheel rides and Murari with satisfaction saw the expression of fear on Lakshmi’s face (he wouldn’t have to take her there, he thought smugly). For a few hours they had forgotten all their worries.

They roamed about looking into various shops with expressions of wonder and awe. They decided to have ‘pav bhaji’ (today they could afford the luxury of two plates) and had softy after that. Rs 30 already spent, Murari calculated. Merrily they walked around the mela again when Lakshmi saw what she was looking for.

“Murari! Ae Murari! You promised to buy me payal. Remember?”

“When?”

“In the morning today. Buy me one na. Please”, she said making a childish face.

“Na na! I don’t have any money”, he retorted.

“Ok let’s atleast look at them once. I will not buy anything. I promise”

“Oho ok let’s go. I know you won’t let me live unless you get what you want. It won’t hurt just looking at them. But mind it! I am not going to buy you anything”

“Offo! Ok baba! Now come. Will you?”, and she pulled him towards the shop.

She tried a few of them. Murari couldn’t help but notice how much beating time had given her wife. Her legs looked like a badly shaped stone. Her ankles were cracking and skin had started to peel off from all the labor she did in homes. In all these years of marriage, why hadn’t he noticed these differences? Wasn’t it all his fault that he couldn’t bring any happiness to his wife in all these years? Couldn’t promise any in the future as well? Her neck, her hands were all bare. He, somehow had failed in his responsibilities as a husband. He bought her the payal…It was a cheap anklet but still, it made her look beautiful. That night, he later remembered that her wife wasn’t as bad looking as he had thought her to be.

They saved a little money for daal and completely exhausted, but exhilarated, they returned to their village. They had had the best time of their life in a long time. Absorbed in the daily chores, working for daily bread they had forgotten that they themselves had the will to make each other happy.

They chatted merrily for a few hours talking about all the things they had seen and experienced that day. Lakshmi showed off her new anklet and then very carefully kept it in the big box in the corner which was taking most of space in the hut. She came and sat next to Murari.

“You didn’t buy anything for yourself”, she said.

“Some other day”

“Thank you”, she said in all little English she could manage.

“Ha! That’s the last gift you get alright. Forget going to the mela for next 20 years”, he smiled.

“I don’t think I will live for 20 years Murari”

He remained silent. May be he wasn’t sure of his own fate 20 years later.

“Murari…”

“Hmm…?”

“Will we remain poor all our life?”

“Probably”

“Isn’t there any way we can become rich? No shortcuts? No lottery?”

“No”

“I am sorry Murari”

They were hunched in the corner of the room. He looked at her. Her forehead was creased and her eyes were wet.

“For what? Because you couldn’t cook me paneer?”, said Murari who had never seen Lakshmi cry.

“No! Because I couldn’t bear you a child…”

They both remained silent for long time just looking at each other. That night they couldn’t tell what looked more beautiful. The silence or the tears. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that they were poor, that they have had to look for little happiness like scavengers, that he didn’t need a child to look after him. Wanted to tell her that nothing mattered as long as they had each other. That all that he always wanted was to look at her face whenever he came back home. That nothing beats the roti she cooks for him. That nothing mattered to him more than the comfort of having her with him. But words weren’t needed that night. Wouldn’t she understand it all if he just…cried…and then in the silence of the night he did something he had never imagined he was capable of…he put a hand around her and cried, cried his heart out, not speaking a word but still saying everything, she understanding every sob and every tear.

Between those sobs, she said, “I am so selfish”

“No you are not”

“Oh yes I am! I bought payal for myself and forgot all about how you keep nagging me about paneer. We should have bought some right?”

“Some other day Lakshmi…Some other day”, he sighed…

My Daily Routine!

2010-03-29T15:34:00.001+05:30

6:25 A.M. - First Alarm of a sequence of alarms and first curse of a sequence of curses.

6:35 A.M. – Imagine a world without clocks and alarms.

6:40 A.M. - Remember the horrible face of the Boss and wake up.

6:45 A.M. – Sitting in the loo think how beautiful it would be if one could sleep again.

6:55 A.M. – Ah! Flush!!

7:00 A.M.– While bathing, try and struggle reaching all parts of the body.

7:15 A.M. – Smell the shirt (make a ‘who-cares’ face), remember the boss’s secretary (make a ‘I do care’ face) and put a lot of perfume.

7:30 A.M. – Re-evaluate the face in the mirror. Smile a little. Think something on the lines of ‘You-

Handsome-Little-Thing’ or ‘Perfect-10’.

7:45 A.M. – Board the bus and start shaking. Rub the hips with strangers (all men).

8:10 A.M. – Reach the office and remove the clutter from previous days.

8:20 A.M. – Have a delicious south Indian breakfast (Idly and sambhar, dosa and sambhar or vada and sambhar). Remember mom and aloo parathas (with parathas in prominence).

9:00 A.M. – Walk infront of boss’s office, make a silent prayer, give a weak smile to the secretary (who winks as if this is going to be the best day in the world) and go inside.

NOTE: In general interest I am not writing the constitutionally incorrect language that my boss uses for the next half an hour after which his wife (presumably) calls him and he makes a gesture with hand that I chose to interpret as dismissed.

9:30 A.M. – Emerge from the office with nothing to say to secretary who looks expectantly for a little gossip.

10:00 A.M. – Imagine the boss drowning in his own tea cup and various other violent things causing possible hazards to him.

12:00 Noon – Go for lunch. Eat rice and sambhar and wonder why I was ever born.

12:30 P.M. – Talk to girlfriend, listen to how her make-up went all wrong today and discuss why Loreal is a better brand than Garnier.

1:00 P.M. – Try to imagine a girlfriend-without-misery. Impossible to even imagine.

1:15 P.M. – Stop imagining and return to reality. Analyze the pending work.

1:30 P.M. – Chat with friends how Rajasthan should suck at IPL.

3:00 P.M. – Try not to fall asleep out of complete boredom.

3:20 P.M. – Enjoy the free coffee and samosa and discuss how the company should provide free kachori as well.

4:00 P.M. The wait begins.

5:00 P.M. The wait ends. Leave the office.

5:30 P.M. Start shaking in the bus again.

6:00 P.M. Sleep.

8:30 P.M. Have dinner (something with sambhar). Wish there were no taste buds in the tongue anymore.

9:00 P.M. Start writing the blog no one reads.

11:00 P.M. Wish it was Sunday tomorrow and sleep.

The Worker

2010-03-22T09:36:00.002+05:30

It was a cold winter night. He looked around the place, the place he was born, where as a kid he had amused himself in the mud, fed on cement, and threw bricks at his mates and now the same surroundings where he worked. He could see piles of concrete in the distance and the toxic waste in the corner where many a workers had died. He saw the chisels, the cement, huge cranes, big machines looking ominous in the silence of the night. There was so much that went unnoticed in the chaos of the morning, but now, with nothing to disturb him, he felt free. Finally he looked above him. The building was tall now, though still half built.

It was late in the night and no one was around. Only a few stray dogs could be heard in the distance breaking the chilly silence, fighting, may be over the little piece of bread constructor’s son had thrown out of his Mercedes.

Nothing much had changed in this building industry since his father’s days. They still used the same production material and equipments. Equipments which could easily take your life. The constructors were still mean and fat, and they still owned the most expensive of cars and the most disgruntled sons. The worker class hadn’t changed much either. They were still fighting to live, in poverty, in rags and in misery with little to survive or to look forward to.

Inspite the chill he felt very warm inside the old rags he was wearing. There, at the place where his past, present and destiny belonged, he sat and thought…

He could only think of one thing..home. He was already late and he knew that his wife must be dreading his return from work, fully drunk when he would beat her, hurl abuses at her and when she, finally exasperated would abuse him back. This was the story of their everyday household since the past 15 years and with no hopes for change. There was a time when he felt thrilled about changes, about exploring new potentials but not anymore. He was too tired for a difference now.

He wasn’t always like this. “No, I wasn’t”, he thought. Infact, he had been a totally different person all together. He had been, much unlike his father, a very compassionate and a loving person and more than anything else, he had loved his wife. He could still recall the day they were married, how he had blushed red, like the color of her sari. It was only after their fourth child was born that he had started drinking, though he couldn’t remember why. After their fifth child he had first beat her, still he couldn’t remember why (With a memory now fading with time, he could only summarize his life in ‘when’ and not ‘why’). Reasons had somehow betrayed him.

He loved his children but for the fact that there were too many to be loved. So he loved the first three, he decided. The three who would take care of him in his bad times (his father had similar thoughts about him, he remembered). The others just wailed and cried all the time, irritating him, making him hate them even more. But even this little thought about his children brought a smile on his face. After all they were his blood. “I must be getting home soon”, he thought.

The bell chimed once somewhere and he kept sitting absorbed in his memories. He thought of Raju, his neighbour, his child mate who had worked with him right here. He was a simple God fearing man of family. Infact, Raju was no different than him in any way. They both had grown up from naked children to tough men together. Poor guy had died in an accident when he fell from the 12th floor of the building. Raju’s family had moved to some another place, he didn’t knew where.

The ‘theka’ was just around the corner. He could go there. No, No… he had to go home today. Why would he even drink, he often thought. Well, he drank to forget his own failures He drank to forget the guilt. The guilt of going home with no money in hand, facing his children who would again ask him to go to the mela, guilt of looking into their innocent eyes and telling them to shut up and sleep, that they weren’t going to any mela. The guilt of beating his own wife every night. It went on till this guilt short lived his habit of drinking and violence. He drank, like million others, to forget.

In this state of daze and confusion he thought of his mother. Trying to sleep outside their hut looking above in the sky, she had often told him that their conditions would change, and that her children would work hard for their better times. He remembered the stories she used to whisper to him. The stories of fairies and princes, places where dreams were realized, a world where imagination ruled the hearts and nothing was impossible. He always used to sleep before the ending, so he had no stories to tell his own children. He remembered how she had died. In pain and agony of poverty with no one to take care of her.

By the time he was 17, both his parents were dead. His father had died of lung cancer while working with hazardous waste. He had always considered his father a loser and felt nothing when he died. He wondered if his own children would feel the same when he dies. Thrown into poverty and uneducation, alone, he began his life at the only place he had seen, the construction site.

Born poor, he lived poor. But he was a motivated person back then. Living life at a knife’s edge and with nothing to lose he was confident that one day, sooner or later, he would make his own stand in this cruel world, that he would not let his children grow up the way he had. But he was soon to learn that this world doesn’t play fair to just determined people.

The nightmares, the pain, hate, all came back to him. He looked at himself. His shriveled hands could no longer hold the bricks. In his early thirties, his hairs were already stark white. His eyes had started eluding him, showing him the ghosts of past and the mirages of present. His fragile frame could no longer carry the weight of both labor and his family. Only bones were left, hammered since decades of hard work.

Whose fault was it? Was it his mistake that he was born to poor parents? Or were his parents at fault to keep him uneducated? Would he be a different man if his parents hadn’t left him so soon? Or was it some pre-determined destiny playing games with him? It is the destiny, he said to himself. Destiny forced upon him not by the people, the society or the government but by God himself. He looked up at the starry sky, cloudless and clear. He wished that only if, like the stars, he could see the Gods, talk to them, complain and ask Him why life is so unfare only to a select few. But he knew he won’t get any answers. An equal world was probably not what God had in mind when he created humans. Could he defy God? Could he be a different person all together? Why does his self-conscious call him today?

But there was no time for God or self-conscious today. He could think of it later. Today, he will just go home where his wife and children waited for him. He may also stop at the ‘theka’ for a drink or two. “Today I will try to keep myself sober though”, he promised himself. He gave one final look at the building above him. It was almost a sky-scraper now. He smiled with-in. His blood and sweat flowed with-in these huge concrete blocks. He was proud of himself. He thought of Raju again and how he must have felt falling from such a height. Somehow, he thought he knew. It was time to go home. He stood up and walked home leaving his frail body behind, walked to his wife who waited for him forever…