The Journey Never Ends

Charting my own religion

2011-05-14T12:55:00.001+05:30

I wrote a section for the May edition of Discover India and the edit team massacred it. So, here's the full version

A brimming, wild river; a silent moonless night echoing off overbearing mountain sentinels; a warm summer sky reflected in still green waters – different shades of the river of life as seen from a quaint yet oft-visited town.
Nestling in the lap of the Himalayas, Hrishikesh is fed by the raging Ganga before she bounds into a ritual-ridden, polluted phase of her long winding journey into the Bay of Bengal. In this pristine town, the pride of place is occupied by two suspension bridges named after the immortal divine brothers – Rama and Lakshmana. Numerous temples dot either bank, with some no more than an idol under a tree, to others that are at least twelve storeys high.
At any time of year, devotees throng the town’s temples and bazaars, queuing up for a dip in the holy river or just the right of passage on the swaying suspension bridges. Backpackers, both Indian and foreign, jostle for space with mendicants dressed in saffron along the river’s banks and near the eating joints. The more adventurous move northwards towards Shivpuri for the adrenaline-rushing rafting points. A few others relax their minds and bodies through India’s most famous export of several centuries – yoga.
Hrishikesh means many things to many people and several things to me.
I associate this temple town with two things – a sense of overwhelming peace juxtaposed alongside a madly rushing river and a vegetarian foodie’s heaven. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to convince my non-vegetarian friends to make a food trip to Hrishikesh. They laugh off the idea because meat is a strict no-no around the temple towns of Hrishikesh and Haridwar. I’ve not given up though. Now I just try to sell the idea with other unbeatable delicacies added to the platter.
Yet, my most lasting memory of Hrishikesh has nothing to do with food OR peace! It is the image of me jumping off a 23-ft high rock into a placid pool formed by the gushing river below. I recall trying to choose between staring across the river to the opposite bank and looking down into the seemingly bottomless pool beneath the craggy rock I was standing on. The split-second, spine-chilling feeling of being suspended in air ended as fast as it began. It left behind the sweet taste of victory as I recalled conquering the fear of standing on the edge of a precipice with adventure-crazy fellow rafters and of making the jump without chickening out.
Several summers later, of course, a colleague and I bunked office and spent a weekend on the banks of a placid Ganga, leaving the bank only to grab regular bites at the German bakery near Lakshman Jhula, dessert at the Chotiwala restaurant near Swargashram across Ram Jhula, and back for more at the German bakery. Brownies, plum cakes, rasmalai, mushroom quiche, pasta, chhola batura, lassi – we gave our stomachs a tough time, I’m sure.
A birthday trip to Hrishikesh with someone special took me to Muni ki Reti, a quieter part of town, in winter. Loads of photo-ops, the green gurgling waters, the cold, misty mornings, the splendid aarti at Tapovan Ghat in the evenings and the windswept launch rides between the sun-kissed banks gently jostle with the memory of long walks along winding lanes and of cutting a black forest pastry as the clock struck twelve on a moonless night.
The most recent trip, however, is more of a vision than a memory. It is rain-washed and mixes with the rising mist and the descending clouds. Getting caught in Hrishikesh in the monsoon is not the best of things. And two young women barely staying dry under a single ‘borrowed’ umbrella is definitely not the idea of a perfect holiday. But it was a whim we carried to fruition by spending a large part of it with steaming cups of lemon tea in an eat-out called Rainbow near Lakshman Jhula. That, and the yum omlettes made to order, the alu parathas through the day and the view of a mist-covered Ganga from the terrace of a fourth-floor hotel room, made it as perfect as a muddy, monsoon trip in small-town India can get.
The rain clouds parted at will to make way for a confluence of the mist rising from the surging waters and the fog settling down upon it. In the distance, ghost lights from temples across the bank, giving me my first glimpse of the divinity of Hrishikesh. I felt like I was in the midst of the misty, cloudy, heaven scenes conjured by tele-serials on Indian mythologies or the ‘Dream Girl’- type Bollywood romantic numbers.
After numerous visits to Hrishikesh in every kind of weather, sunny, windy and wet, I finally found myself brooding on the nature of religion – on the faith inspired in millions by the Ganga. I wondered why I felt bereft of such a ritualistic devotion that would make me wake up at un-Godly hours to perform rituals to appease our pantheon.
As the rain pitter-pattered on the roof of the restaurant and the aroma of apple pie and omelette played with my taste-buds, I realised my passion for the mighty river that I could only sense below the blinding mist was no less. And knowing that my love did not demand that I feed the river with greasy lamps, plastic bags filled with flowers, incense sticks, vermilion pastes and plastic cans only eased my conscience.
I looked on at the overpowering vision building before my misty eyes, remembered the strong current of this river that had almost carried with her two people I loved dearly and murmured my gratitude for letting them go. And in that vast moment, I was entwined not just with an immortal river but for centuries of its existence, the lives it has made and destroyed and the unimaginable faith people have in its miraculous powers.
And I surprise myself when I realise that if there is one place I’ll keep going back to, and one where I’d like to take everyone I love, it has to be this temple town! I’m sure it has many more shades to be unravelled and I’m raring to go.

By Anusha Chandrasekharan

2011-02-26T17:05:00.002+05:30

Four of us going to watch a play...I think this is a first. Good I didn't say together

2011-01-22T09:10:00.002+05:30

It's after a long time that all four of us are together at home. It feels good in a way. A feeling of familiarity creeps in providing security to a heart that's flown the nest.

2010-12-26T16:56:00.000+05:30

One long holiday that won't end and life that won't begin. What, where, when?

2010-12-03T22:09:00.001+05:30

One month too slow, one month too fast

2010-11-26T17:10:00.002+05:30

Hatred is a new emotion I'm learning. It's gonna take hell to unlearn THIS. God be with me while I go through hell.

2010-11-22T14:24:00.002+05:30

Drove 35 km in 1.45 hours. Learning slowly but steadily to drive away...question is where do i go? it's a pleasure learning to drive here. green trees, blue skies, white clouds...long, winding, shaded roads. is this where i belong? is there where i always wanted to go?

2010-11-19T07:56:00.001+05:30

:( second time in two days sent a mail and forgot to send an attachment. am i going mad or wat?

2010-11-18T19:59:00.002+05:30

Am I on a holiday? I ask myself everyday and the answer invariably is a big no. Then what am I doing here so far away from everything familiar and routine?
Seeking routine on vacation and order in a disorderly life. Looking within to find vacuums everywhere. Tired, this journey will never end...

2010-10-01T00:59:00.001+05:30

i m posting new post i want to break free, fly in the sky like a rainbow so high so high
watched arohan by shyam benegal, for which om puri won his first national award.

2010-09-12T21:04:00.002+05:30

Feeling so restless...
But in the midst of these waves crashing against the shore, the sight of this vast city glimmering in front of me is so calming. Knowing that there could be a murder, a robbery right behind this peaceful visage doesn't unnerve the ebbing waves...yet there is an unease. Why? How long will it last? Where is this life supposed to lead me?

2010-09-12T08:34:00.002+05:30

A month has passed and the rain just refuses to stop, the clouds just won't let up. Getting to know you more and more and wishing I had done this earlier...God bless you wherever you are.

2010-09-10T09:53:00.003+05:30

Dreams can be scary...especially when they throw at you a dream from the past, which would have at one time made sense, but now, rising from the incoherence of today are a far cry not just from any imagined reality but also from any desired future.
Then why do we dream?

2010-09-09T09:46:00.003+05:30

The problem is not in thinking differently but in failing to explain different thoughts to different people...
The problem is not in being stronger or faster than people we love, but in failing to convince them that we don't want to leave them behind...
The problem is not in weaving a dream of a shared future, but in failing to share that dream with the people in it...
The problem is not in making mistakes, no matter how irreversible, but in failing to learn from them and preventing such mistakes again...

2010-09-06T08:22:00.001+05:30

Learning, living, growing

2010-08-15T11:53:00.001+05:30

Thoughts of an extremely claustrophobic person

2010-07-19T13:48:00.003+05:30

Voices, probing voices.
Voices seeking to change my moods,
My life, my fate.

Voices thinking they are omnipotent
Having dreams for me,
Dreams that supercede my reality
That refuse to acknowledge the boundaries I draw for everything that is not of my creation

I have paved my path
And I shall stick to it or pave new ones.
In the process, worlds shall shatter,
New worlds shall evolve.
And with each step, the world will be my creation.

You can dream for me, hope for me, guide me
But you CANNOT live my life.
It is my own and I shall live it my way.

Respect me for the choices I have made.
Respect me for the person I have become.
Don't try to make me somebody I am not.
For then, I lose what little I am existing for.

Respect my spaces. They are very private.
Respect my boundaries. At times, they are very rigid
Respect my existence. At times, it may seem non-existent.
But if you offer to hold me each time I fall,
My growth will be stunted, my individuality abused and my life a failure.

The SMS — a short story

2010-07-11T22:51:00.003+05:30

Sheetal heard the familiar beep and chose to ignore it. It must be one of those property dealers building houses in Noida who were desperately trying to sell the stuffy, unaffordable homes by sending bulk messages to everyone who had a cell phone. Or it could also be the Sathya Sai Foundation hoping she would convert to the baba’s ways and offer them a huge donation in return for spiritual solace.
Sheetal wouldn’t have minded parting with some money if only she was confident the solace would follow. Things hadn’t been going her way for some time now and she was looking for some divine sign on where to head next.
Mrinal had not responded to her mails, had changed his phone number and quit his job. Common friends told her he had left the city. She refused to believe them. Every time they said something of the kind, her thoughts would go back to the long walks through slices of Delhi. They both fell in love with each other and the city at around the same time.
Of course, she could not say with certainty which came first, but in the muddled recesses of her over-stressed brain, all of it happened around the same time.
Beep! There it went again. Another annoying message. She stopped herself from uttering an involuntary expletive and ignored the beep.
Nobody she knew messaged her any more. Yes, once in a while her mother would send in a confused, garbled message, typed, mistyped and sent in a hurry. How she wished her mother’s phone came with a spell-check. And then there was this young recruit in her team who had the hots for her. She didn’t mind his occasional forwards and once-in-a-while impromptu compliments.
But, like Sheetal told herself, it was really once-in-a-while. And there went a third beep. Now this, was too much to ignore.
She reached out for the phone, balancing her laptop and her diary between the table and her stomach.
Three messages, the phone said. And two of them messages from the same unknown number.
A frown marked her brow as she checked it.
“Sorry,” said the first.
“Well, first tell me what you did,” Sheetal thought.
“Please come back? Waiting where I left you.”
She leapt out of the bed, pulled on her jeans, changed into a presentable top and rushed out. Slamming the door behind her, she ran into the old woman living on the same floor. Sheetal stopped for a split second to steady the woman, adjust her sandal and mutter an expletive under her breath.
‘Shit! I’ve left the key behind,” she said a bit louder for the confused neighbour to understand. But there was no time to explain or fire-fight. That would have to wait.
Luck was favouring her today. There was an autorickshaw right outside the building. She jumped in and told the driver to race to India Gate.
It was just past five and traffic was thin. “I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Please don’t leave, please,” she prayed.
Holding her breath, the last seven years of her life whizzed past in a haze. Things she’d carefully consciously refused to think about, surfaced in a jumble. The first time she’d met Mrinal, their first date at Regal, their first kiss caught in a fit of passion on a bus ride to Mussourie. The fights, calling each other names, misunderstandings, the pain of not being able to know why love came with so much heartache. The distances growing between them, life slowly taking them their separate ways.
She closed her eyes and felt his warm embrace, taking her away from the present, with the memories she had painstakingly buried in a corner of her heart. Eyes shut, she could feel the tears push their way past the barricade, slipping down her cheek.
Lips pursed, she repeated over and over. “We can do it. We can. We will.”
“Madam, India Gate.” The auto driver sounded almost apologetic at having to interrupt the flood that had just broken. She looked at him with an unrecognising stare, picked out the first note that came into her hands and gave it to him.
And she walked, tripping over her own feet in a hurry. She was no more worried about seeming to be desperate to meet Mrinal. She didn’t think she would be making him feel too important. She just wanted him to know how hopeless life had been without him.
She did not pause to think about all the differences that had arisen between them, about his lack of seriousness about his career, his seeming insincere approach to life, his self-imposed silence, his refusal to meet her friends or family because of some self-imposed complex. She did not stop to think how she would tame her temper, change her overbearing attitude or curb her social life that he so detested.
All that mattered in that moment was that fountain in the middle of the pool at India Gate. The huge mango tree on the edge of the pool, with its motherly branches, still leaned over lovers catching a peck in the setting sun.
All that mattered was getting to that fountain. She remembered sitting on its carved arches and wondering how it would be when the pool would be full. She recalled thinking about how dry the fountain was even as he ranted about how she was too stuck up for him.
Sheetal stepped into the pool and fell flat on her face. A couple of urchins rushed to her side.
One taunted her, “Madam, yahan suicide karne aye ho kya (have you come here to commit suicide)?” Another nudged him and said, “Kapde gandhe ho gaye, ab kya hoga (Her clothes are wet. Now what)? ”
The pain in her ankle started nagging her. Tears streamed down her face, as she tried to clamber on to the bank with the help of the boys.
Another fished out her bag and turned out its contents to examine how much had been damaged. He pulled out her cloth wallet and a small pouch that went beep in his hand.
She snatched her cell phone from the child and saw another message from the same unknown number.
“C’mon Shruti, we’ll miss the train if you don’t come right back.”
Sheetal kept staring as the phone began to sing a familiar tune from a distant past she shared with Mrinal. A by-now-familiar number flashed and she knew she had to take the call and clear a grave misunderstanding. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Someone continued waiting at some station for some beloved who did not know they were missed. And in some other part of the city, a phone continued singing ‘Kya Yahi Pyaar Hai...’

(Disclaimer: Any resemblance to any person or incident is just coincidence)

2010-07-07T15:24:00.002+05:30

Feeling stupid. Have been wavering in my decisions like an over-excited pendulum and am now tired with all the ayes and nos. Looking for the root of the sixth sense or is it just nonsense?

2010-07-04T22:55:00.002+05:30

A breezy, pre-monsoon morning
With wind in the hair, sleep in the soul and dreams in the eyes

A river, a non-existent river
With muck clogging its path, choking its flow, stifling our breath

Friends, from shared pasts
With memories, newfound thoughts, unborn futures and dying beliefs

Bonds, tugging at the rising sun
Spirits breaking free, unfettered, direction-less, with hesitation

Nature — And Me

2010-06-28T10:24:00.004+05:30

My early morning friends... Common mynahs, Brahmini mynahs, sparrows, crows, tree pies, koels, little brown doves, babblers or seven sisters, parakeets and plenty of squirrels. Once in a while, a woodpecker tries to cheer me while at others there's a sunbird here and there. Oh! And I forgot the ubiquitous pigeons.
There are also three dogs that seem particularly pleased to greet me. Reminds of that line in the Sound Of Music song
Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me
Edelweiss, edelweiss, you look happy to meet me.

Of the two dogs, there is a brown street dog, a brown street dog and a white lab. This white lab pup just wouldn't stop wagging its tail at me, and well, from where I stood, and the narcissus in my eye saw him (yes, it's a him) flapping it's ears and enticing me :D

Will try and get pics some day.

Rest of the day friends... Parakeets, red-vented bulbuls, crows, sparrows, purple sunbirds, pigeons, common mynahs and the occasional LBD... All aiming for the best mango and warring with spunky squirrels for the booty on this mango tree outside my house.

My evening friends... Common mynahs again, crows and many more sparrows — male as well as female — magpie robins, babblers a plenty, red-vented bulbuls (I haven't spotted too many of these during my morning sojourns), pigeons once in a while, hawks and an imaginary duck.

Friends of the night... dark skies and at times the moon, but most often my pillow and sleep.

And yesterday, a white dove made a fleeting appearance and created a lasting impression on my mind. The symbol of peace, in flight.

One message and a thousand wasted tears.

2010-06-25T11:12:00.000+05:30

Two pieces of broken hearts went their different ways five years ago.
Splinters from both entered my eye together all these years later

The tears were bound to flow when the memories surged ahead.
Washing my soul of all the efforts I had put in to steady my own broken heart

Weakening me for a moment, bringing up all the old doubts again
Why had I parted ways with my loved one. Will I regret it five years later?

Then I realised that both my friends have surrounded them with new people and lives
And that old pain of a lost soul mate surfaces now and then, only to subside

Time will heal, a decision will be made, and we’ll again be left with the same choices
To accept or not accept, and to accept with grace or resignation, faith or frustration.

2010-06-24T17:57:00.002+05:30

Watched Raavanan again. Loved it again. Loved Vikram all over again. It's been a while since I indulged in such madness...watching the same film twice in a single week... :D feeling young again.
I remember watching Life is Beautiful in Calcutta twice in the theatres on two consecutive days. I loved that movie. I guess I went to watch it with Tenzing on Day One and my brother Srinath on Day Two.

2010-06-23T09:58:00.003+05:30

Memories...
I had a pen pal named Prameela VinayKrishnan. Actually, Prameela aunty was my mother's classmate and she had left her address in one of those autograph books that were so popular in school days. I found her entry interesting, then I found her. We kept in touch for quite a few years and even met once in Chennai. But then that relationship fizzled out. She moved to Malaysia, I out of my starry-eyed admiration for such quaint relationships and we moved on.
What comes to mind today is a greeting card she had sent me. I think it was after my Class X board examinations, in which I had performed quite well.
The card said 'Good things come to Good people'...
Am not sure how far this holds true, but yes...sometimes it does happen. And thank God for such reaffirmations for faith.
It is necessary to have faith to have it reaffirmed.
Amen

Raavanan — Veera Veera Veera...

2010-06-18T22:15:00.002+05:30

Raavanan — an overall visual feast.
After watching a movie that claimed to take off from the Mahabharata and found it apt to go back to the epic whenever it suited the script, Raavanan was much better.
Set in the rainforests of Kerala, with glorious waterfalls to keep company, and Vikram sizzling the screen with his performance, what more can you ask for. It was a two-and-a-half hour visual delight.
I'm a Vikram fan, so don't blame me if you watch the movie and fail to get impressed. I loved it. And I lapped it up. And I intend to watch it again in Hindi tomorrow to compare the performances of the Tamil and Hindi cast. Ok, I know Abhishek does not stand a chance in front of Vikram and the trailers have proved that amply. But the rest of the Tamil cast was good and a revelation.
The miserable wet blanket was Prithviraj, who played Dev, the policeman whose wife Ragini (Aishwary) gets abducted by Veera (Vikram).
Veera is a tribal chief, who takes on the power-that-be to become a demi-god for his people. The policemen, corrupt and ruthless, face the brunt of his wrath until Dev comes to terminate him. The two take on each other and in the course of events, Veera kidnaps Dev's Sita and takes her to his forest abode. The 14 days that follow set the background for the story.
Aishwarya, though predictably plastic in the first few scenes, makes up in the rest. Prabhu in the role of Vikram's elder brother and dear old Karthik, whom I'm watching in a movie after ages, and who plays the Hanuman-like forest guard, did a good job. A commendable performance was of Vikram's sister, played by award-winning actress Priyamani. I heard she is repeated in the Hindi version too and has done equally well.
What I loved best, besides Vikram of course, was the beginning. Mani Ratnam got right down to the story without creating a long-winding prelude. The story unfolds gradually.
Though the movie seemed jumpy in parts and some scenes seemed to be added after a later consideration, for instance the treatment of Lakshman-like cop Hemanth who was Dev's right-hand man and the Hanuman-meets-Sita-under-the-Ashoka-tree scene.
The abduction of Ragini, with the underwater shot of a boat crashing, the shot where she jumps into the waterfall and the misty mountains and waterfalls are a must-watch.
Not just Raavan's, Ram's grey shades are also brought out beautifully in the film. And now I'm running out of time.
Please watch it. And please, please, please....if you MUST watch it in Hindi, don't judge the movie before watching it in Tamil.

2010-06-15T10:58:00.002+05:30

Smells that remind me of home.... waking up to the smell of breakfast, sun-dried clothes, jasmine flowers

2010-06-13T18:56:00.003+05:30

A dust storm broke out over Delhi a few hours ago. Within a matter of a few minutes, the oppressive heat and haze of the past few days made way for a glorious summer evening. The heat is still there. But there is more clarity. I can see the beautiful sun spreading its rays over the city. The green looks green instead of a muggy grey. The winter-like mist is gone. There is some clarity, at least for now. But the fog will return and catch us unawares if we are not too careful.
How much care can one take to keep the fog away?

Bhopal verdict — a disappointment?

2010-06-08T17:41:00.003+05:30

The Bhopal verdict came and went.
Many people were disappointed. But seriously, what were they expecting?
We lost the Bhopal battle long ago, again and again. Yesterday, it was just once again that we lost it.
December 3, 1984: People dying like flies after inhaling the Methyl Isocyanate emanating from the Union Carbide factory. Doctors helplessly watching them die as they did not know what the poison was and what drug to administer.
Warren Anderson CAME to India. You cannot fault him on that. Then we just helped him leave, made all the arrangements and wished him Godspeed... Am not surprised he never came back.
We said it was criminal negligence when it was culpable homicide. If people working at a pesticide plant did not know switching off a refigeration unit would have affected the safety standards at the factory and proved devastating, as they did in 1983, what were they doing there? Why were they allowed to be there? And if they did something so inane, should it be negligence or homicide? It could be negligence if they did not know...but there is evidence that they were informed about the act and the dangers it posed.
Why did we let them off?
We asked for more than 3 billion dollars in compensation. Forget the 15,000 and counting lives lost. That sum, disbursed well, could have helped those who survived live a life of dignity with better medical facilities and probably research that could prevent the disastrous effect the fumes had on generations to come.
We settled for a pittance. $470 million...We sold ourselves and our people for that sum. Whom were we trying to appease?
We let a case that involved the immediate death of 3,000 people and the subsequent deaths of thousands others drag for more than two decades. We never made the attempt to make the man who headed the Union Carbide accountable for the disaster the company caused.
We forged new ties with the company in its myriad forms. We accepted funds from it in other ways. We told the people they were hallucinating when they claimed the water in the area was poisoned.
We allowed the generations that followed forget the Bhopal Gas Tragedy so much so that in Bhopal today there are people who did not what happened on a cold winter night of 1984.
We clamour for justice. We want those men to be sent to the gallows. And we are disappointed when seven of them get two years in prison. Why?
The people who are struggling everyday for pure drinking water, adequate compensation and more may be agitating because they believe in justice. I am sure they will appeal the trial court's verdict.
But I am a cynic. Or have I become one? I know the same politicans who allowed Anderson to get away, who claim the water from the area surrounding Union Carbide's skeletal factory is drinkable, will be voted back to power. And they will continue to spend millions on building a memorial for the gas victims even as they cite paucity of funds when it comes to spending on research into the ongoing effects of the dance of death.
And the same politicians will set up more memorials when another such industrial disaster, god forbid, occurs in some other unsuspecting factory in some other part of the country.
For God's sake, there's more to worry about right now. And public memory is short-lived. We will wait for the next anniversary before raking the same old facts again. Meanwhile, life will go on in the ghettoes of old Bhopal, and in a sunny villa somewhere in the US.

Rain, memories and more

2010-06-08T15:39:00.003+05:30

Waking up to the rains always takes me back in time to a city I loved a lot and some wet pages from diary of life.
Monsoon mornings used to be dark, yet cheerful in Calcutta. If the rains had just begun the night before, a trudge to school through flooded roads would be in order, followed by empty classrooms, socks handing from chairs, special tiffin to be shared with special friends and a lot of free periods. If the rain had been on for a few days at a stretch, it could also mean no school, hot pakoras at home, games with the family and television.
It was the same this morning too. In distant Delhi, distant geographically from the place called home in my childhood and further still from the home I go back to today, and distant too from the person I was then to the person I am now, the morning showers bring back the same scenes. A two-room flat on a first floor house, a bigger house a few years later, with a beautiful garden outside my window....the smell of the wet earth was the same throughout and is the same today.
I reach out to pull my favourite blanket from my childhood over my face and laze a while longer when the raindrops on the window in front of me create a haze. I can smell my mom's cooking, hot coffee brewing in the kitchen, nauseating me, even as lovely hot breakfast gnaws at my hungry stomach. I open one eye to call out for my brother sleeping next to me and realise the gas stove in my kitchen hasn't been switched on in the past few weeks. And my brother is probably handling a shift at his workplace miles away. The only smell is of the trash I have forgotten to turn out for the third day in succession fighting with the fresh air struggling to coeme in through the barred window and from under the door.
I wake up, let the air in, let the morning in, let my present in, and stand watching the trees sway in the breeze. I loved that morning long ago, I love this morning too and no matter where tomorrow dawns, it shall also be mine and I shall love it too.

2010-05-22T16:42:00.002+05:30

It's amusing, but the only messages I have received in the past few days have been either replies or service messages. Seems very far from everything. But better to be disillusioned and lost than living in one's own imagination.

Storytellers from beyond

2010-05-12T19:10:00.002+05:30

It is such a pleasure to visit new places. Some of them you visit in real life, while others you visit through other people. I have loved to hear about such places... where I would then take myself and rediscover it thorugh my own understanding. These are places in the geographical sense of the term. Others are there in history, in culture.
Listening to tales, allowing their magic to wrap itself around you, growing in a different childhood, making friends with people you would never have met nor can ever happen to meet.
Stories that never end. Stories that go on into dark winter nights. Stories that carry over into misty sunrises. Some that take you back in another person's memories. Others that take you into someone else's life, childhood and more.
I wish these stories continue. There should never be an end to what can be shared. There should never be an end to the desire to share.
Share stories, share lifetimes and share lives.

2010-05-10T11:29:00.002+05:30

This is a criticism I have been facing for a long time and from many people. About not being strong enough to stand up for what I believe in. And I heard it once again today.
That I did not stand up for someone I should have stood up for. I know I failed, and I don't know what I should have done.
The fear is I don't know if I shall pass the test the next time.

Plumbing delight!

2010-04-30T09:55:00.002+05:30

Living alone has its pros and cons, moments of extreme frustration and others that make you feel liberated. And, there can be nothing more liberating than solving your plumbing problems on your own.
The last time I called the plumber, he took 700 bucks and left me with a cistern that worked for two days and then started giving me problems again. He dismantled the whole thing, spent two precious hours on it and still didn't do enough for me to want to summon him the next time there was a problem.
So this time around when my flush stopped working, I set the piston right, bought a lever (for rs 53) and also learnt about the float valve (thanx to an enterprising friend) and now am sorted :D
Raring to solve the next plumbing problem :D

2010-04-29T09:31:00.002+05:30

God is in heaven and all's right with the world.
And I'm not gonna let some poor increments, disillusionments at the workplace, with people around me, the weather and so much more change that.
Yes, there are times to give vent to your frustrations and sometimes to take stock. Have given vent to frustrations. Now, is the time to take stock.

From my past

2010-04-27T11:54:00.003+05:30

A thought is rushing into my hands. I used to have a friend who had a problem for the first few years of his life. His tongue was attached to the base of his mouth...it used to affect his speech. Later, it was surgically separated a bit...But it still bothered him. Not just in speech but in thought too. He used to tell me God probably didn't want him to talk...he was a very silent person you know. Dunno why I am writing about this. As I said, the thought is rushing to my fingers.
Another story, or was it an incident I heard about, comes to my mind. I think I read about it in the Readers' Digest. Something to do with a man, who got a call...picked up the phone (am talking about landlines, which were the only kinds of phones in those days) and said wrong number. Haha!!

What weird stories are coming to mind.
Just jotting em down. Will analyse them later.

When I was much younger and used to live at home, on the fourth day of the menstrual cycle, one was supposed to take an oil bath after applying turmeric all over the body. I remember my mother used to tell me not to sleep in the afternoon on those particular days. I think she used to say the dreams one had then would come true or something to the effect. What I do remember is the headaches that would follow if I slept without drying my hair properly. But I would still find an excuse to nod off on those hot summer afternoons on the cold polished floors of my house, pretending to read. Just so I could have some dreams that could be fulfilled.
Funny, I don't remember those dreams, nor if they ever got fulfilled.

To silence...

2010-04-27T11:44:00.003+05:30

You entered my soul like a gust of wind
Determined to blow a fresh breath of life into me
I opened the window unto you,
To make space for something new to me

You became a part of my being, a friend
Who stuck by me when everyone else was too busy
I leaned on your shoulder
And I felt myself like a climber wrapping around you

Slowly, you became a permanent guest
One I could no longer turn away at will or wont
You became a wall in my house
Only to become the roof over my head and hearth

Then you spread your roots within my spirit
Wrenching it from its foundations, alienating me
From who I thought I used to be
I initially embraced you, then submitted, then succumbed

Until I became a prisoner of your domineering affections
I lost my freedom to think and speak or speak and think
I forgot I used to have a voice at all
And you wrapped me in you arms, like a shroud and buried me.

Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi

2010-04-21T02:14:00.003+05:30

Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi...
Some people will be very hurt if I say I was disappointed after all I had heard about it. At many layers, the movie seemed to be superficial...The story was written and everything had to be fit in. Characters interchanging, ideals wishy-washy, resting on 'revolution'. Was it my current state of mind that contributes to the disappointment?
What was not there? It was jumpy...Am still working on it...trying to figure out what is was that was bugging me through the film.
Maybe it was the convenience of it all. Everybody making 'convenient' choices to suit the narrative. Am not talking about the choices made by the characters, but the swinging nature of the characters...Something didn't fit in.
Siddharth being so passionate about one thing that he chooses his ideology over his love more than once. Siddharth, who has put his life on the line for the 'revolution' abandoning it once he's given up for dead, letting go of the same people who saved his life. At least he's constant about saying 'Sorry Geeta' for abandoning her at every corner.
Geeta Rao, educated abroad, who joins the movement to be with Sidharth, to please him and impress him, ends up working in remote villages. She gives up a husband who loves her, a lover who comes to her resuce every time and goes back to the villages leaving behind the man for whom she took up the cause in the first place.
Vikram Malhotra, a 'fixer' who also tries fixing his Lady Love's life until his own life is rendered lifeless. Who makes fun of the revolution throughout...
Am I just too sleepy or not drunk enough or watching it alone...what is contributing to the disillusionment?
Imagine, the only shot repeatedly coming to mind is the one where the camera moves through the grass to a bleeding and badly beaten up Vikram lying in the fields. And I remember this for such a silly reason too...Not too long ago, someone I know shot a similar scene with my cell phone. Memories - how they tease me at times and elude me at others.
How I wish I could share the passion others share for this film...But then I guess, as Chacha said ages ago and people have repeated ever since,
'Hazaron Khwaishen Aisi...'

Life cycle

2010-04-20T17:49:00.002+05:30

As I sit mulling many things happening in my life right now, my memory takes me back to days in my childhood.
I can see my father running behind me as I learnt to cycle on empty roads in bandh-stranded Kolkata some time in the Eighties. He never let me know when he let go of the cycle. I always thought he was right there to hold me if I fell. Well, I did fall a number of times. But I always got up and rode on. Or so I choose to believe now. My memory, as family and friends will tell you, is phenomenally weak. I should check with him I did actually ride on or mourned over my bruises weighting for some saviour to pick me up and take me home.
I am not sure anymore.
I always thought I was independent. Maybe it wasn't independence, but being carefree to the extent of being careless about everything, including people. Never realised just how careless.
I want to ride that bicycle again. I want to know what my instinct made me do when I fell — did I cry or did I pick my cycle and ride on.
I want to go back in time and see how far away from myself I have come.

April 19, 2010

2010-04-19T21:31:00.000+05:30

The clouds burst today. They had been carrying their load for quite some time now. They brought some peace to a city clamouring for relief from the heat. After some time, as the evening sky turned into night, a quarter of a moon peeped out. Almost ashamed to show it’s incompleteness, wondering if earthlings would judge it by its appearance.
Little did it know not too many had the time to see it, today tomorrow or fourteen days later.
Surprising, the moon is so linked to love in traditional stories, music and popular culture. A moon is the lady love, a moon unites two distant yet yearning hearts. A moon is what the lovers must cross to reach their blissful netherworld.
And yet, the moon is a loner. Alone in a threatening dark and gloomy sky, the moon fights its battles with the clouds, makes friends with alien stars and holds its own in an alien sky. From the balcony after a long day’s work, I can reach out to it in the hope that it will not judge me my trespasses. It will not hold me guilty for carving out my own path in an increasingly chaotic wilderness.
It will keep me company as it cycles around my world, silent, watchful and patient.

Tharoornama

2010-04-19T07:11:00.003+05:30

A lot of things on my mind. First things first. Shashi Tharoor has resigned from his post as minister of state for external affairs. The whole Tharoor=Lalit Modi controversy over the franchisees of the Kochi IPL team must have grabbed as many eyeballs as Modi's pet matches, if not more.
But of late, there's juts one emotion that reigns supreme whenever the scandal comes to mind -- cynicism.
Does one really think Tharoor went just because he was caught being corrupt. There seems to be more to this than meets the eye. The GenNext minister that Tharoor was portraying himself as, will be missed. His clean image may have taken a beating, but political naivette seems more to be his fault than armtwisting a master arm twister like Modi to hand over the bid to Kochi or even armtwisting Rendezvous Sports World to take his friend Sunanda Pushkar on board.
The murky IPL world will throw up more googlies if only the politicians allow it to. But why does one feel that with Tharoor and Pushkar both giving up their stakes, real and imagined, the IPL controversy will blow over. Modi will emerge unscathed and all will be well on the field.

2010-04-13T12:38:00.003+05:30

Did not want to blog about this, but I need to get it out. It's time for a reality check, more so cos I got a jolt...can't let the chance pass me by.

The unnatural death of a homosexual professor

2010-04-08T00:43:00.005+05:30

Shrinivas Ramchandra Siras is dead. And the Aligarh Muslim University plans to hold a condolence meeting in his memory on the campus on Thursday.
How many among those who attend the meet and shed tears over the departed soul would have been part of the witch-hunt that may or may not have claimed his life on Tuesday?
The Marathi reader and former chair of Modern Indian Languages at Aligarh Muslim University was suspended for engaging in homosexual activities at his official residence on the campus with an unidentified rickshaw puller in February this year. The university authorities and some of his students were said to have colluded with a local news channel to film the incident and bring him to book.
Some reports say he admitted to his homosexuality, others are ambiguous. But the fact remains that when he appealed before the Allahabad High Court against the suspension, the court ordered the university to re-instate him.
The university, however, took its time. It said it hadn't received the court order yet. But Siras was still looking forward to returning the campus he loved and taught in for twenty years. Meanwhile, probably tired of the whole wait for justice or of the whole struggle, he may have killed himself. The police are yet to rule out suicide.
The university and the narrow-minded students who engaged in the witch-hunt against a man for his sexual preferences will now hold a condolence meet. One hopes they focus on his achievements in his chosen sphere of life rather than his private life.
It won't be far from the truth to imagine that many people will be secretly relieved that they did not have to see him back on campus. He wouldn't be there to remind them that they had a homosexual professor, nor would he be around to remind them of their intolerance to differences. Anything that doesn't conform to the majority is a sin, anything that fights this mindset is a bigger sin.
Which brings us to the question that is it enough for the law to decriminalise consensual gay sex? When will it be socially acceptable? Many of my friends would tell, to hell with society, but I wonder if one Siras would have not thought this during his last moments alive.
Darn the hypocrisy of it all. May his soul rest in peace in what one hopes would be a more tolerant netherworld.

I'm fat and I love myself

2010-04-03T11:36:00.004+05:30

The Shoaib Malik-Sania Mirza-Ayesha (Maha Siddiqui) affair seems to be providing fodder for the gossip mills. And I would have let the three sort out their lives in private, had I not been drawn into the mess in my own private way.
A news report in a paper claims Shoaib dumped Ayesha because she was fat. Now, there's also a report quoting the family as saying 'Shoaib was duped thinking he was speaking to slim, beautiful Ayesha'. Which is funny when you read it. I mean, ya, he's famous and might want to have a trophy wife (like he'll now be hoping to get, and by trophy I mean the slim beautiful variety of women he seems to prefer as well as the kind who has some trophies to her credit).
At some level, his wanting a slim wife can be forgiven and forgotten as one of those numerous cases of 'fair, slim, homely bride' wanted columns in matrimonial sections of newspapers and websites.
I would have let it pass, had I not heard a colleague and a dear friend comment a few days ago, 'Why on earth would HE marry a fat ugly girl like her'. Well, it's surprising how my friends never pause to think they are talking to a fat woman when they throw such comments left, right and centre. And she's not alone.
So many of my friends comment about fat women displaying their 'thunder thighs' at water parks, in mini skirts at parties, in tight clothes in office and elsewhere. Either they don't see me, don't see me as fat or don't think I'll mind, cos I'm on their side!! Come on people, get a life! There's so much to be done rather than focusing on how fate or thin I am.
Earlier it used to be a bit painful to keep a straight face and ignore the comments, now I've got used to me and can just ignore the ludicrous observations with an indifferent smile.
It's hilarious when some people who make these comments are not the slimmest you could find on the planet anyway!
And hey! It almost seems fat people should be ashamed they are fat! They can't get married, shouldn't wear clothes they feel they are comfortable in if it is tight, or should simply hide from the rest of humanity for the rest of their lives and grow fatter within the four walls of their homes until they die (wonder if they would shrivel up and die though).
Somebody had a Facebook status message I've grown to love: God loved me so much, he made more of me. (Well, of course, I kept adding to it more, cos I love myself so much!!!)
To all those people who think life is all about being slimmer, more beautiful, fairer, taller...Wake up! there's more to life. Be happy with who you are! And if you are not, then work towards what you think will make you happy.
I'm fat, I'm fit, I'm a beautiful person and I'm happy about who I am. Wonder how many less fat people could say that with the same confidence.
(You would be forgiven for thinking I am fat as there's a lot of hot air in me, but no people, it's all the goodness that's packed in. As they say, good things come in small packages)

2010-04-02T16:51:00.002+05:30

The moon stepped out of the shadows,
Looking for a cloud to hide behind
So long had it stayed away from the sky that
It forgot how much it loved to flaunt it's
brilliant, white robe
It forgot how much it loved to interact with the
stars, lovers on the earth
A lost beggar, a homeless mongrel
It stayed away from the people it loved
It stayed away from people in general
And when the time came to part the veil
It lost the desire to be seen
Wanting a curtain to hide behind,
A cloud to hold on to
Anything that would efface its existence
And blend it with the dark, menacing sky behind it,
The ignominy that it hated so much
Yet now, the thought of stepping into its own halo was
so scary that it took a step back
Into the dreary nightless sky
Into the eternal abyss
It's just a step forward into fearless
freedom or one into a sheltered forgotten well
Whither goes now?

2010-04-02T02:00:00.002+05:30

I've been itching to write about so much, but somehow thoughts have been eluding my grasp. Today was a busy day at work. Edited plenty of copies, made a page, proofed many more and basically earned my rest. But as it happens, I'm out of practice with how to spend earned rest, cos I've been so woefully under-worked for so long, it's stopped being funny any longer. Read a few blogs. Tried collecting my thoughts and thought I'd write. And of course, the focus is missing. Am rambling like always...

2010-03-31T00:49:00.001+05:30

One more step along the world I go, and one more step the world goes around me.

2010-03-31T00:41:00.002+05:30

Random thoughts racing through my mind. Thoughts triggered by a smell here, a sight there. Smells that haunt me forever and more, taking me back to some distant walks that are locked away in the treasury of my memory. Some regrets, but plenty of faith that whatever happens happens for the best.
A childish hope one holds on to when the going gets tough. Some comforts we never give up on. The comforts of the smells of night, of food getting cooked while still in bed, of wet earth, of a particular brand of oil, of much more.
This year is already proving to be a very long one. A lot of things have happened, so many people to have let gone, so many people letting go of me. Some back, in ways unexpected, some back in ways unwanted. A mid-term reality check leaves much desired. Much to be done and much ado about nothing.
But the journey is far from over. The destination far from reached.

Unfinished canvas

2010-03-26T19:30:00.002+05:30

So many paintings left unfinished
With blotches here and there
Some could have been a masterpiece
Yet, somewhere, the desire to paint
Has long departed.
Once in a while, the painter picks up his brush
Only to etch a stroke and lets go of it
Over time, a half-baked canvas remains
With little sense of it was began to convey
From time to time, the painter begins again
Swayed by a renewed urge
But the colours just don't correspond to thoughts
Is it because some hues are meant for the mind alone?
Too private even for the painter's own eyes?

I looked into the mirror...

2010-03-26T17:56:00.000+05:30

Walking down the road the other day, I picked up
a feather. I tucked it behind my ears
Thinking it made me look beautiful.
A few steps ahead, I found an abandoned earring
on a park bench. It seemed made for my ears.
I spotted a friend along the way and asked her how I looked.
She smiled, but didn't say much.
I was too excited to read meaning to the grin. I borrowed her lipstick
to complete my look.
I walked on, a bit dissatisfied. There was more I sought
And more I got. Some changes I liked,
Others I was too attached to to let go of.
A long and meandering walk later I reached home. Tired,
but keen enough to see how I looked.
I stepped into my bathroom and switched on the light.
I looked into the mirror...
...and a stranger looked back at me.

Failure

2010-03-24T18:46:00.002+05:30

How quickly they come,
How quicker they go.

One night it all made sense
And the next was a no-show.

I woke up on the wrong side.
Or maybe I'm sleeping still

Once unspoken words were heard
Today the ruckus is out to kill.

I am right where I began
Just more beaten than ever.

For the first step is yet untaken
After a million steps together.

Patience wears thin
Trust is a forgotten word

Ears shut, only wounds open
And no soothing word uttered.

A red thin line misnamed ego
A tool for self-preservation

Fear of losing oneself completely
And succumbing to devastation.

But lethargy sinks in to the soul
Nothing to stir it from its self-doubt

No light at the end of this tunnel
Just looking aimlessly for a way out.

Invisible Man

2010-03-12T17:38:00.002+05:30

Invisible Man, Invisble Man
Walking down the street by my side
There with me all the time
Yet invisible when I turn around to look at you

Why are you silent? Won't you talk?
Or are you just a voice in my head?
A figment of my muddied imagination
A thought i lost track of, long ago dead.

Why do i look for you everywhere?
When will I stop this game of hide and seek
With someone who's invisible to my eye
Still hoping for a glimpse, still trying to peek.

The tickets are sold out, the show is long over
Still staring at the screen for a scene I missed out on
Still waiting to understand the script
Invisible Man, I'm still hoping to find you anon.

Intolerance to differences

2010-02-18T10:00:00.002+05:30

AMU professor suspended for being homosexual, reads a headline in Times of India's Feb 18, 2009 paper. It's shocking. But what's more shocking is the manner in which S.R Siras's sexual preferences were 'exposed'.
The professor, who was due for retirement, was reportedly caught on camera having consensual sex with a rickshaw puller in his house on the campus. And this whole feat was achieved by his students, in collusion with a local television channel. At least, the report in one parts says the students engineered the thing and another part says a local channel was involved.
What is it that makes us so narrow-minded and intolerant? Students, who are supposed to be enlightened by education and open to ideas, go to the length of entering somebody's private space and disrobing him in public.
How does it matter what somebody does behind closed doors as long as it not something that hurts another? Are we trying to play moral cop for all the wrong things? It's understandable if he was harassing any of his students for sexual favours or indulging in 'gross misconduct (the ground on which he was suspended) in the college.
But this! Is shocking to say the least.

2010-02-15T10:11:00.002+05:30

The winter just doesn't seem to be keen on leaving Delhi this time. Which is well. It allows me the freedom to wake up late and still go for a walk without huffing and puffing and roasting in the sun. Had a lovely morning walk today, felt close to nature and to myself. So is nature my second nature? Watever!

Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T11:02:00.003+05:30

Memories come back to the canvas of the mind
A red rose here,
A kiss there,
A forgotten fort
A promise long broken
Stored away
To be revived by tears of helplessness and loss
In some distant summer in some distant future

Some photographs that will never yellow with age
But will be corrupted by unnamed viruses
Some letters that inked thoughts of a tomorrow together
That made way for swifter emails that will never compensate
Some cards that still lie in recesses left untouched
Awaiting their resurrection in some future shared with another

A phone call
Songs recorded with an earnestness long gone
A shared lunch
Holding hands, exploring life, ideas and more
Dark stormy nights
Stormier days
Wind in the air
Tears down the cheeks
An open sky
Arrows of hurt
A broken mast
A rudderless ship
A jab in the heart
A love lost.

Another Day
A breezy night
A moonless sky
A hungry hug
A peck on the cheek
Warm sunshine
Fresh blades of grass
A jog in the park
A friendly lick
Budding hope
Everlasting faith
A love heals.

Happy Valentine's Day

A gift

2010-02-10T13:43:00.003+05:30

I feel the sunshine caress my face
I know he belongs to the human race
But this ray that plays with my eyes
Teases me, flirts with me and rejuvenates me
Is mine alone.

To warm me when my heart is cold
To dry the tears my heart can't hold
To lift me when my spirit falls
To give me hope when world seems false
He's mine alone.

And try as I might, logic fails.
A sense of ownership prevails.
A part of the sun is mine alone
And I can't part with this comfort zone
No matter how much I try.

2010-02-09T01:22:00.002+05:30

Withering away like the leaves in winter
The dry air brushes across
Taking strands of memories,
Spring waits to see how long will winter continue
Something snaps.
A twig beneath my foot,
Decayed, let not yet ready to die
It registers its protest
A stray leaf falls off a branch
Like a stray thought that wandered into my mind
Or a purposeless game in the journey of life

2010-01-28T01:27:00.002+05:30

There was a mad beggar on the road that day. He sat thinking that his left hand was trying to gain precedence over his right hand. To prevent it from becoming stronger, he rolled his left hand into a fist and hit the brick wall he was leaning against. Not only did his comfort get disturbed, his left hand was also broken. Then he kept punching the wall, so that the left hand did not heal and did not become stronger than the right. He did not pause to think that he should just let it heal while the right hand became stronger without challenge. He did not pause to think if a balance could be achieved between the two hands or not. He just went on punching, allowing the blood to stain the wall, and scar it for life.

2010-01-12T13:16:00.002+05:30

Love. It seems to be an emotion that brims over when everything is going my way, or is going drastically wrong. But what happens midway?

I've always thought that everything in life, including love, is about give and take. Everything is a simple mathematical equation. You give me attention, comfort and caring, I respond with love. I thought it works that way, at least it made sense that way rationally.

But sometimes, love overwhelms, even when you want it to lie low, when rationally it should be exiled from your heart. It comes and soothes you when people you love fail to understand you, when you fail to explain yourself to them.

It's not conditional. It's not bound by something I get in return. How else do so many people who I have failed in many ways continue to love me despite my shortcomings? How else do I continue to love so many people I fail to communicate with in one way or the other?

Ya, I guess, I was wrong. Love is more than a mathematical equation. It's more than chemistry. Whatever it is, I'm glad it's there and glad it keeps the world going when faith falls short.

2010-01-09T18:45:00.001+05:30

much to write about but this keyboard is a real deterrent. more when i get home on monday.

Aruna's Story again

2010-01-07T21:37:00.004+05:30

Aruna's story, through Pinki Virani's eyes. The book leads you through the life of staff nurse Aruna Shanbaug, who was brutally raped in 1973. The assault was the beginning of the tragedy her life became.

Through Aruna's Story, we get a glimpse of the person she was, the society she lived and was never really part of, and the people who made her experiences her life. Obviously, Virani has put in a huge amount of effort, time and more than a slice of herself into her book. From the perspective of a reader who is interested in what happened to Aruna, who wants to see her more than just a case and a tragic one at that, reading the book has been an eye opener.

Aruna's life raises a very important question of faith -- Why would God put anybody through what she has undergone? Is there a God then? What is the purpose of such a life? What is the faith we can hold on to in that case?

There are many nurses who have worked with Aruna, before the attack on her in November 1973 -- two days before she was to go on a three-month leave in which she was to get married to a colleague who she was in love with -- and have tended to her since then.

Aruna's zest for life, her positive strength, her faith in herself and her personal God, her determination to carve out a worthy life for herself despite her humble beginnings, when contrasted with her post-rape condition brought tears to my eyes. So many of her colleagues and the generations of nurses who tended to her in the past almost four decades have come up with the same questions.

What's keeping her alive? Cortically blind, with a brain so dramatically damaged that it prevents her from seeing, speaking or communicating, but keeps her alive to pain and fear, Aruna lives a vegetative existence. She will turn 62 on June 1, 2010. Of these years, she has spent less than half the years fighting to become successful in her chosen field. She had dreams, she worked towards those dreams, believed in justice and tried to be fair and loyal to the King Edward Medical College and Hospital, where she worked.

It was, in a way, that very self-confidence that brought her ruin. So many of her senior nurses at one time or the other spoken about the fine delicate balance between man and woman. Many have suggested that because she ticked off a sweeper who stole food allotted for dogs, she incurred his wrath. While nobody ever says so directly, the sweeper's brutal assault on her seems to be in a way justified if I may say so, for her overbearing, domineering persona.

The author brings up the failure of the system and society to punish her rapist, but the matron and other senior nurses blame Aruna's brave demeanour and devil-may-care attitude for what came upon her. One suggests she shouldn't have got into a fight with somebody so far below her status, though she acknowledges her loyalty to the hospital.

Many people have prayed for Aruna's death and deliverance. But there seems to be some sin in some past life she is paying for. Whatever be it, each person relates to a tragedy in their own way. Some believe her spirit is keeping her body alive so that she may see justice done to her, others still believe she is bearing the cross for the sins of others like Jesus Christ.

One can only hope and pray that Aruna Shanbaug finds the peace that has eluded her in life in death and afterlife.

It is ironical that somebody who was so keen on justice that she took on a sweeper who stole food meant for dogs, lived a dog's life because of that same criminal.

Is there something to do with the Bhagawad Gita here, where Lord Krishna tells Arjuna,

Do not think you are the doer. It is me alone who is the instrument as well as the cause.

Still thinking, still looking.

Alu posto and my chef-brother

2010-01-07T08:29:00.003+05:30

My brother is a chef, which is a boon for somebody like me who cooks just because she has to eat. But there's a con to his chef-ness too, which struck me across my face this morning.

I usually tend to leave all the cooking and discussions on cooking to my mom, my aunts and my brother. I hold my tongue even when something assaults my limited knowledge of cuisine and cookery. And, in the true tradition of live and let live, I expect others to hold their tongue when it is my turn!! Expectations, they say, are disastrous.

I wanted to make alu posto (khus khus) for my family. There are very few things I know how to make well and this is one of those. So, when my five-star hotel chef of a brother came up with additions, subtractions and alterations to my recipe, I told him to let me have my way. The true gentleman that he is, he politely sidestepped.

But alas, his charm undid my alu posto. My mother, who had been listening to his recipe, internalised it. And of course, she embarked on making the dish his way, setting aside everything I had been telling her through the morning! And then, she also insisted that she thought it was my recipe she was following!

While I just left the kitchen to those who know it best, I also learnt a few lessons. Next time you want to impress anybody with your culinary skills, just follow this dialogue from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (I think that's the movie): 'When you got to shoot, shoot. Don't talk'

So when you got to cook, cook. Don't talk and leave room for somebody else to hijack your recipe...cos that's a sure recipe for disaster!

Here's how I make alu posto

Chop the alu into small pieces.

Grind/Make khus khus into a fine paste on a sil nada/sil batta (All my Bong friends vouch for the specific taste that comes only if you use the right instrument, and I agree with them)

Heat the oil, put in green chilli more for the flavour than the taste.

Add the alu. Add salt, allow it to cook.

When it is cooked, add the posto (khus khus paste)

Allow it to mix well. It shouldn't be too dry or too wet.

Take it off the heat and dig in!!

It's amazing when it's eaten with luchis!!

Happy dining.

The five-star chef would, in true five-star tradition, want you to add chopped cashew nuts and almonds...You could try that too! After all, my brother cooks really well :) Thank God for that!

Sayonara Yamaguchi san

2010-01-06T16:12:00.004+05:30

Tsutomu Yamaguchi, may your soul rest in peace.

A friend just called up to let me know that Yamaguchi, the only officially recognised survivor of the atom bombs in both Hiroshima and Nagasaki is no more.

The nonagenarian passed away on January 4 this year. May your hope for a future without war see light of day some time.

2010-01-04T21:05:00.002+05:30

Ugly!!! These serials are plain ugly -- an assault on the senses. They are noisy, give you a headache and make you puke.

There's this serial going on right now, where a marriage ceremony began, was stalled and was continued in half an hour, with the heroine alternating from glycerined eyes to toothy smiles. Gross. And then of course the camera angles, the sound and the concepts. Everybody is out to make the other look worse, feel worse and lose faith in humanity.

The stories are endless, the actors terrible and yet the audience is there. It's a crime visiting or calling people when the serials are on. The more popular ones like Anandam, Metti Oli, Engae Brahmanan and more... there can actually be a war if u end up disturbing people engrossed in the serials.

What's keeping me going is the constant train of comments my brother is making to get through the half hour of enforced boredom.

Aha, now there's some silence, but then sleep beckons. So ciao soon. God bless

2010-01-03T16:23:00.004+05:30

Tea time begins. And as I don't appreciate the milky, light tea we have at home, I get to use the comp and listen to the gossip brew at the dining table like hot filter coffees in the mornings. I'm glad alliterations don't smell, cos I've been holding my breath hard for fear of the smell of coffee assaulting my nostrils. I HATE COFFEE!!
The only thing common to the gossip and the drink is the heady flavour of both.
Listening to tales from the housing scheme where my aunt lives, I learn about the geography of the US and visa rules, passport mysteries and more. But the abiding theme seems to be of the long, growing queue of unmarried young men and women, all of course eligible, across the world. I enjoy the shock with which my relatives discover live-in relationships, homosexuality and more.
While my mom and aunt roll their eyes at me when I ask them what's wrong with living in, my grandfather privately tells me it's ok and a natural progression of society! Talk about generation gaps!

With all but one cousins gathered this January afternoon, it has been a study in generations. As my sister, who recently opened the score of great grand children for my grandparents, put it, watching four generations under one roof is a momentous thing. There's so much scope to watch, wonder and learn.

More on that later, cos right now, an extremely irritating serial is piercing its way into my ears and my heart, clogging my thoughts!! Am losing the thread. Crazy, stupid Sun TV serials.

Thoughts from home

2010-01-02T21:35:00.001+05:30

I'm home, ruminating on much that comes into my head whenever I am home. Just wish this keyboard would be more conducive my touch. It's making me dwell more on my hand than on my thoughts :(
There's Aruna's Story as told by Pinki Virani, my discussions on philosophy with my grandfather and the arguments on marriage and singlehood with my aunt. But right now my fingers are hurting too much. So more later, from my dad's laptop.

Day Two...still writing

New Year...I kept my promise

2010-01-01T00:54:00.000+05:30

This year has begun. I have bid goodbye to the one gone by with mixed feelings. It was a year of discovery...about myself, about others around me, and my relationship with others. I have found new loves, lost old ones, rediscovered lost ones. It has been a roller-coaster of a year, that took me to uncharted territories. Some of them will go down to the grave with me. Some have made me think about the person I am, yet others have forced me to question my perception of myself.

It has been a year when I started flirting with poetry yet again from day one. There was a new fresh breeze that blew ideas into my life. They surprised me, confronted me, and confused me. But I am thankful that that breeze did not blow me off my roots.

I have always been worried about my roots, complained about their far-reaching spread, and their lack of relation with my present. But that fresh bout of wind shook me so hard, that I think I at least found myself gasping for a while.

I have hurt many people last year. Some unwittingly, some consciously. I do not regret either. After all, it was a learning process for you as well as me, no?

I have been, as always, very confused about myriad things. Including who I am. But I devoted a big part of last year pondering over that question. I haven't found the answer yet...the seeker that I am. My journey continues.

The new year brings a breath of fresh air. Even at this moment I am confused, about people, about emotions, about relationships. I hope I find some very important answers this year. And I hope I have the courage to acknowledge them. I hope I can stand up for what I believe in, but more importantly, I hope I figure out what I believe in.

God grant me strength to be who I am. God give others the strength to put up with me, forgive me and understand me. Amen

Happy New Year!

Season's greetings...and memories

2009-12-24T23:17:00.000+05:30

It's that time of year again.

That time of year when I so yearn for Calcutta and my childhood that I forget to see what Delhi has to offer. Missing Park Street has become something I look forward to now. Never attended midnight mass at St Paul's Cathedral in all my years at Calcutta. But managed to score on that count last year by ringing in Christmas at a crowded Sacred Hearts Cathedral.

Miss seeing the lights of Park Street, the Christmas trees peeping in from windows and balconies, wishing the sisters at Carmel a joyous festive season and much much more. Miss the Christmas party at Latha aunty's house, the pleasure of all us 'kids' raiding the phuchka shop at Lord's More on the pretext of celebrating Christmas together.

Miss the gulp of a much diluted vodka surreptitiously downed years ago on this day and the sip of wine that followed soon after. Miss some friends who got me drunk with their mere presence, some who brought cheer with all the fights we had, the smiles, the arguments, the making-up-after-huge-fight sessions, the badminton matches played till the halogen bulbs at the para court started flickering and the shuttles started begging for mercy.

Miss the plum cakes my mom would get ritually every year for me and my brother, the New Year, the book fair, the annual picnic and Saraswati Puja.

Yes, it's that time of year yet again and I am missing my past, the city of my childhood, the city where I grew up, the city where I first thought I fell in love.

This city isn't bad either. At least this Christmas I have lots of plum cake on which to feed my nostalgia. Along with it I have some yum gajar ka halwa... a labour of love of sorts made painstakingly and with single-minded focus. I have the chilly winter breeze to look forward to. So what if I still have to discover the Park Street-like warmth here, so what if I don't have Carmel to go back to.

I miss my mommy, but she, hopefully, will be with me next Christmas if I manage to move to a bigger warmer house, cos where I am right now, is pretty much freezing my soul, not just my body. Looking forward to the warm Christmas sun to un-freeze my heart...

Best wishes of the Season to one and all! May it fill us with cheer, peace, forgiveness and love!

Aruna's Story, My Thoughts

2009-12-17T17:02:00.000+05:30

'Unconscious for 36 years, woman seeks SC permission for death'
Aruna Shanbaug, a woman whose fate is so fearsome that just the contrast between who she was before November 23, 1973 and what she has been since then, evokes a strange unrest in the mind.
"I met a big learned pujari who said I had a sau mein ek patrika [a rare horoscope], that I'd be a success, will live long & would go abroad..... but even if he was talking rubbish it does not matter because I know I will become known in my field’’ Aruna is believed to have said when she was a 20-something nurse.
Soon after, the woman from Karnataka was brutally sodomised by a ward boy at King Edward Memorial Hospital in Mumbai where she worked. She was left blind, without speech and paralysed by the incident. For the past 36 years, according to newspaper reports, she has been confined to a room, in fact, a bed in a hospital. Her family today consists of the nurses and attendants who look after her.
The man who dealt that crushing blow to a bubbling, promising life probably lives unknown in some part of this same country. He is protected by the same laws that force her to continue living a life that is undignified and painful.
The law, which finds it unpleasant to rule that she should henceforth not be force-fed and should be allowed to die, did not have provisions that could nail the rapist who brought her to this vegetative state. Where is the justice in this law?
Why can we just see such stories, such incidents, feel pity for the victims and just forget about them once the channel is turned off, or once an anniversary passes?
Just the injustice of the whole debate and the need to hold it seems to take away from Aruna's right to dignity in life and death.
While we ruminate on the provisions of the law on life and death, while we examine whether her plea to not be fed amounts to killing her or not, while we argue about the powers vested in us as a society and law, Aruna lives another day dying — force-fed, in fear of what she has been through, and probably praying intensely that a certain pujari's prediction about her long life will become untrue.
And while we debate whether or not we should shun our sense of propriety as society and interfere in matters of life and death, we do nothing to make that life more worthwhile, safer or even more worthy of living.

Bhopal, Bahroop and more

2009-12-03T15:31:00.000+05:30

So many things are clouding my mind right now.
Characters from plays I have been part of are suddenly walking into my life. And I stand, gaping.
First there was Tsutsomu Yamaguchi. The man who survived the only two atom bombs ever used in history. And I always thought that Ennamen Kawaguchi in Badal Sircar's Teesvi Shatabdi was a figment of an exceptionally cynical playwright's imagination. I did not think Fate would cruel enough to let a person go through such tragedies. Imagine what a laugh Fate would be having to have seen Yamaguchi/Kawaguchi or many more such unnamed men and women escape the atom bomb at Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. And then what vile pleasure would be Fate's to guide them to Nagasaki, where a similar experience would be waiting for them. Is there a purpose in Fate? If yes, what is it?
Then there was Rajkumar Keswani and the Bhopal gas tragedy and the many people I encountered on my journey through reams of dialogues during the production of Bhopal Kyun/Yahan se Shahar ko Dekho. To have smelt a tragedy of enormous proportions six months to a year before it actually took place, and to have seen it and lived through it to tell the tale 25 years later.
What could have altered destiny? What was the purpose in so much destruction? It all seems so wanton now, when politicians haggle over the amount to be spent on a memorial to victimes without discussiong how much money should be spent on cleaning up toxic wastes that have been dumped at the same place over ages or how it should be done.
There must be a reason for everything no? For the people we meet, the choices we make, the place we are when we are, the things we do that we do.
Still searching for that reason.

More Bhopal

2009-12-03T01:15:00.000+05:30

Bhopal -- 25 years of living with a toxic tragedy.

At this same moment two decades and a half ago, poisonous fumes leaked out of a pesticide plant in Bhopal, killing thousands of people. According to government figures about 3,000 people died. According to the Indian Council of Medical Research, between 8,000 and 10,000 people died in the first three days of the gas leak. About 25,000 died of exposure to radiation within the next ten years.

Tragic, isn't it? That an industrial disaster could have caused so much death and destruction?

But what is more tragic is that 25 years later, the government still claims that there are no hazardous chemical wastes in the Union Carbide factory or around it. This, when independent groups have conducted research that calls their bluff.

To add to it, the Madhya Pradesh government wants about Rs 116 crore from the Centre to build a Hiroshima-type memorial at the site.

Isn't it crazy? Rs 116 crore, which is almost 5% of the total sum the Indian government got as compensation for the thousands of victims affected by the leak of methyl isocyanate will be spent on setting up a memorial for the victims. So much of it can be spent on medical research that may find cures to the various kinds of ailments that come with drinking poison everyday. After all, isn't it tragic, that even 25 years after a pesticide plant misfired and shut down, children are still born with deformities?

Or with foresight, the government may find a more permanent and lasting solution to the drinking water problem there, so that at least from now on, they will not be drinking contaminated water.

The government could also spend the money on cleaning up the crap left behind by Union Carbide, so that there can be an end to the continued contamination. There could be special facilities for those affected by the gas leak.

But no, what we want there, is a memorial, where more and more politicians in future can go to pay homage to the people they have failed and will continue to fail.

What will be the purpose of such a memorial? To remember the futility of the deaths? To keep reminding ourselves of how well we have failed them? Or to pat ourselves on our back that we have the courage to continue working and making people work in death traps such as the Union Carbide plant?

It really makes me wonder about the value of human life. Is there any value for life? Or have we stooped so far below into the depths of greed that we do not care anymore?

Will things change? What is the price of justice? What is the fruit of justice?

When we have deadlines for everything, why not for something as basic as a deadline to provide the right to a life of dignity so that we don't die like flies stuck to a swatter, helpless, and oblivious to the greater heights we can aspire for.

It's 1.26 am. Maybe the fumes would have been churning now, waiting to escape into the dark starry night and poison a city's destiny. May be I should just go to bed and leave the world handle its minor glitches on its own.

Bhopal Again

2009-12-03T00:46:00.000+05:30

Another date on the calendar, or is it just another date?

When 25 years ago, thousands of people dropped dead

Like flies swarming to those same dead bodies...

Today, they are but photographs and memories

Not lessons learnt and lessons that should have been learnt.

A toxic gas leaked they said, blinding, killing, maiming

Accidents happen. Deaths are inevitable.

But what of the generations of maimed we bring into this imperfect world?

Twenty-five years ago, the B&W photo of a child stunned by toxic fumes

Shocked living rooms across the world

Today the same child gazes out with those same haunting eyes

From the same B&W photo out of the same newspapers

It surprisingly fails to move me the way it did the first time

Something has snapped.

Is it the hope that things will change?

That the child’s life was not lost in vain?

It's all about numbers and facts.

So many dead, so many dying,

Chemicals with fancy names, fancier aims

Bleed people, day in and day out.

Poison water in a ghost town.

More children are born with the scar of a mistake made 25 years ago

More children will die, because that wrong was never righted

Because we have lost the will to fight for justice

Because we do not care any more about deaths, disease and despair

Because we have become numb to everything around us

Because we have to be worried about tomorrow's headlines & today's deadlines

Much deeper than the toxic wastes seeping into the ground

A cynicism has seeped into our collective existence.

We are all in a stupor, chasing a fading finish line

Where the only way to get is grab

Where the only progress is regressive

Where the only pleasure is pain

And where the only knowledge is ignorance.

Forgive us O unnamed child of Bhopal,

Who died in 1984 and lived forever after,

That we have failed you and so many others like you

That we have sacrificed your lives

In this race for some unnamed utopia that keeps us going.

Maybe there will be a time for redemption

Or maybe there is no Judgment Day

Till whatever the end, it's just another disaster

Just another anniversary

Just another date in just another yellowing calendar.

2009-11-29T17:50:00.001+05:30

I don't want to die. I don't want my thoughts to die. I don't want my desire to make a difference to things around me to die. But I am so afraid that this will become blunt as time goes on. There is so much that needs attention right now. I need to do so much more than what I am doing. Thinking is just one aspect. There is more that needs to be done.
The biggest fear is that getting caught up in the mundane realities of life will leave me with no time for thought, will suffocate my spirit of action and nullify my existence.

Discovering Faiz

2009-11-20T21:49:00.000+05:30

An evening with Faiz Ahmad Faiz, with Shubha Mudgal's dramatic voice playing the medium. Can one ask for more?

Mudgal began her tribute to the revolutionary poet with Jashn ka din hai, Junoon ki yaad manao. Delivered in her powerful voice, the words of Faiz reverberated through the auditorium at Nehru Memorial Museum and Library. Her rendition of his poems stirred the audience, which included veterans on Faiz like Prof S.R Kidwai and those like me who are just beginning to be initiated into the works of the master of Urdu poetry.

Mudgal's voice brought him back to life 25 years after his death on November 20, 1984.

It was a journey of the discovery of an art form, a genre of thought, an era long past, but which still retains a relevance for the present that is fast dissipating into an abyss of hopelessness and despair.

Hum dekhenge, wo din ke jiska wada hai,

Jo lau-e azal par likha hai...

It's the message of hope in the face of adversity, of love in the face of hatred and peace in the face of war.

Mudgal confessed to her lack of Urdu talim, and her 'bhakti' for Faiz saab. But that is the magic of Faiz, isn't it? It draws you out of your inhibitions at not knowing a language and gradually leads you into a a magical journey of exploring something new at every step.

The beauty and cadence of his words weave a web that intoxicates the listener, leading him on to a revolution, a cause and much more.

That is the magic I have found in Faiz, and am still looking for more, to fulfil my desire to drink his poetry to the lees.

May his words give wing to hope wherever there is darkness, and courage wherever there is fear and conviction wherever there is indecision.

Raqt-e-dil bandh lo, dil figaro chalo

Phir hamin qatl ho ayen yaron chalo

Aj bazaar mein pa bajaula chalo

Mcleodganj

2009-11-16T01:39:00.000+05:30

Hills, beautiful hills

Barren peaks in the distance

That give way to snow, which like a scoop of vanilla ice garnishes the hills

Peace in the air

Sombre monks in flaming attires

Flowing red robes everywhere bustling about in their dogged pursuit of peace

Blue skies

Fluttering prayer flags

That refuse to be weighed down by the hopes they ferry to the blue skies

Lotus petals

Dragons and heavy metal

Buddha sits on a lotus alongside Bon Jovi and Che looking out of earrings and badges

Tea, hot Tibetan butter tea

Steaming momos

That pave the path to salvation wrapped in gastric juices and needs of existence

Piety, prayer, devotion

Church, temple, monastery

Beckoning to the faithful, to lovers of art and curious explorers of the Self

Mountain trails

Gurgling streams

Long walks through both to lose yourself before a renewed discovery

Silent revolution

Austere penance

Living in a home that never will be home, keeping alive their past to empower their future

Liberty, sovereignty, self-determination

Web of words that keeps struggles alive

And give wings to dreams in distant places and times

Gathering hope,

Beaming them across mountains

To mobilise strength to save Tibet, Free Tibet and spread Peace

2009-11-05T02:51:00.000+05:30

Taken in by Origami. Now am just folding every bit of paper I can lay my hands on to create birds, animals and more

Dreams...w(h)ither dreams

2009-10-25T19:16:00.001+05:30

There are times when everything points in the same direction. More than two conversations I have been having today are all about what people want and what prevents them from achieving what they want.
I have always thought I do not know what I want. So I asked others if they suffered from the same ignorance. Some said we were in the same boat. But many others said they knew what they wanted, but could not pursue it for fear of hurting those who are close to them.
Is it justified to forgo one's dreams so that people around do not get hurt? Is it not in some ways a treachery to one's own purpose in life? Where does one draw the line between 'my wants' and 'the results of my wants'? Till when do I think about how my actions will hurt those around me? Till when do I hold my dreams ransom to those of others? To social compulsions, family traditions, peer pressure? Aren't all of these in the long run, some kind of social constructs that we create and we can dismantle at will?
How sacred are these external impulses that we internalise? How sacred is anything? For that matter how sacred are our dreams?

2009-10-23T13:49:00.000+05:30

Will the Phoenix rise again? What will keep it going? There are no dreams to give wings to its flight.

Love's labour lost

2009-10-17T23:16:00.000+05:30

Flap flip flap

The bird has flown the nest.

On a bright, sunny day, when the heat decays everything it touches,

The bird has flown its nest after years of breathing, living, growing.

The egg had hatched on a cold night in March…Yes, there used to be cold nights in March not so long ago.

The tiny bird came out, wary of everything and everyone around.

It was happy to be alive and out of a cramped, limiting shell.

It learned to breathe on its own,

But did not know its nature was to fly. It ate what came its way

From the warm embraces on hot, humid afternoons to the loving gazes across the greens.

It fed on the long walks through eternity

On debates from God, to theatre to sex

It did not judge, did not grudge and did not budge.

It lived as it thought it should.

There were some who told it to learn to fly for it would have to fly some day.

It scoffed at their ignorance.

After all, not every bird flies, some

Soar and others

Glide and still others become

One with the breeze that threatens to destroy them

So our little bird was content in what it saw as the essence of its life.

There were fights with its conscience, some with the world,

There were long distances within itself, paces to be covered in so little time.

It learned to make the most of what it was given.

Gradually, the world became more important than its own conscience.

There were voices in its head.

And these voices were different from the voices that had questioned what people had always told it.

About flying, fighting and fearing.

It started learning new meaningless things such as

Fear – of parting and not being able to live after that

Pain – of separation and inability to balance between the voices within and those outside

Guilt – of not being able to fulfil expectations and not being able to accept limitations

Doubt – about itself and its abilities and its potential

Envy – of everything around that seemed happy as it thought it could never be

These feelings became a burden. Yet the long summer nights and the short winter days,

The hours spent away from the world discovering itself,

The effort put in to adjust, accommodate and understand kept it from falling apart.

But in secret, the bird taught itself to fly.

So that when the Moment came, its skills would not be found wanting.

And in secret, it kept waiting for the Moment.

It kept looking for the Moment,

Lived anticipating it

Preparing for it

So much so that when the Moment finally came, it did not realise when it flapped its wings and flew, glided and soared.

But from that distance, when the delirium of the wings it had taken died, it looked down on what was left behind.

In a split second, that cold night of March came back into view.

Along with it came the years it had spent dreaming, daring and Living in defiance of the Voices Outside.

It saw what it had once owned and had now lost.

It saw the essence of its being, and how far behind it had left its soul.

And in that split second, the Earth and the Heavens did not stay still.

The Earth kept spinning around the Sun and the Heavens kept rumbling

The bird forgot to flap its wings.

The memory of its past life caught up with its future and brought its present to the ground.

And in that moment, the bird lived and died its destiny.

Something that began in March 2003 and has ended so many times, only to rise like the Phoenix...but this time, the ashes have become cold

Random thoughts II

2009-10-17T23:12:00.001+05:30

I have come such a long way from myself that I have lost sense of direction.

Now, I don’t know along which turn I left myself

Or how to go back to who I was.

But it doesn’t matter does it?

It seems to be such an impossible thing to lose oneself.

After all, I must be the sum of my experiences.

So all the turns I took would eventually lead me to my destiny.

No matter how far I run, where I hide, and what mask I don

My destiny will find me.

After all, this is Kali Yuga.

I have to receive my punishment and award here and now

Before Yama comes for me

Before I become one with the universe that bore me

Before I embark on the next journey

Towards my nirvana, my destiny.

2009-10-17T22:57:00.000+05:30

Looking for answers. Went on a long drive across the city. Surprisingly, did not take a single photograph. Was with one person who always makes me happy. Surprisingly, even she could not remove the pain and the numbness I am feeling. Saw more lights and firecrackers than I have in the last five Diwalis put together. Yet the darkness within is far from dispelled. What am I looking for? What is lacking? Where will I find what I am looking for?

Let there be light...

2009-10-17T14:57:00.000+05:30

Diwali, the festival of lights. Some bitter truths, some unnecessary arguments, some tears and some smiles. And a lot of food. And an inability to recall where I have been on Diwali last 7 years. I have managed count till 2004. Anybody knows where I was on Diwali 2003 and 2002?

Rag doll

2009-10-14T10:20:00.001+05:30

I made a doll the other day,

Nurtured her with all my love,

Clothed her with my affection,

And dreamed many dreams for her.

Gave her the best money could buy,

A sound education to guide her life,

Trained her to think,

To be independent,

To ask questions,

To follow her heart with courage and conviction

But when she did follow her heart,

And made a choice that fell below my expectations,

When she did stumble on the path I chose for her,

I couldn't help but berate myself.

I couldn't but help regret giving her the wings to fly

Now that she wanted to fly the cosy nest

I had built with nights of wakeful vigilance

Sacrifices made with a loving heart

Criticisms from the world I dammed within myself,

I felt my heart would break when she flew

I felt the fear of the lives I had seen ruined

Cast their shadows over her future

I mourned my love for her, my blinded love

That forbade me from shackling her dreams

When she was dreaming

All I could see was the path she took

Was the path not chosen by me

And it was a path less travelled,

A path less known,

And a path I had little faith in.

And I had not the confidence my princess

Would cover the distance she chose

But somewhere something nagged me

The fear that a wrong decision she made

Would show badly on how I brought her up

So I took back what I gave her,

The confidence she had in my faith

The conviction of her choices

The beacon of her dreams

But at least my doll is with me now

A bit bruised here, a bit bruised there

But at least she will be safe in my embrace

At least she will be happy in my gaze

To measure up, to show off and to love unconditionally again

2009-10-13T10:54:00.000+05:30

There are a number of thoughts rising up like bubbles in boiling water. But surprisingly I don't have any questions for anybody. I am sure everyone has reasons for everything they do. I have a lot to think about. I am looking for clarity, for a footing on which to place myself so that I like what I see. Right now, there is a bruised soul, confused beyond redemption, shrouded in self-doubt and self-deprecation, waiting to see the light of day. But as a Russian joke had it, has recession forced God to switch off the light at the end of the tunnel?

2009-10-05T10:24:00.001+05:30

There's rain outside and rain within

Random thoughts

2009-09-30T00:43:00.000+05:30

I am not convinced. About some decisions I have taken. They seem to have been taken by others and imposed upon me. I want to break out of the shackles binding me and scream out, yes there's a voice that's hidden within me. It's not the voice of somebody cracking arbitrary, meaningless jokes or intelligent comments. It's someone who has had a dream, who strangled that dream and now is afraid to dream again. I am scared to move out of this doldrum. If I take a step backward, which is where I want to go, I have to break bonds with so many things that have held me, nurtured me and nourished me since childhood. If I take a step forward, I would have lost the right to dream forever. Not because I have woken up from this one, but because I still don't know why I have woken up from this one.

There is a candle burning in a corner of the room, but the last person to go out left the window open. A strong wind is trying to blow out the flickering flame. Will the wind burn out the light? Or will the flame burst forth and set the whole room ablaze, so that the smoke can reach out to the heavens with renewed faith?

2009-09-24T22:44:00.000+05:30

Sabse khatarnak hai sapno ka mar jana. Par sapne dekh kar fayda hi kya hai, jab unhe sach karne ka himmat hi na ho.

Pujo shuru

2009-09-24T22:18:00.001+05:30

Shubho Mahashashti to all. Had phuchka and egg roll at CR Park. :)

Twit-ter Twit-ter

2009-09-23T15:53:00.000+05:30

What is with the journos? Why can't we let a man tweet in peace? There's a ridiculous report in an agency saying Shashi Tharoor is complaining about his workload. There are a number of people following the junior minister for external affairs and most of them may be journalists waiting like vultures to prey on his words.
First the cattle class and now this. Why are we going overboard about his tweets? He has a right to his opinion like everyone else doesn't he?
Guaranteed that he must exercise restraint while replying to comments such as the 'cattle class' remark, but all the criticism surrounding that can also be taken with a pinch of salt.
So much for the holy cows all around us. There are politicians out there doing much worse and here we are following his tweet with an eye for a blooper.
Is it really that big a crime or even that newsworthy if a minister says he has a 'ridiculously full schedule'? At least one thing is clear, a lot of twits, unlike Tharoor, have a lot of time on their hands — to make news out of every twitter.

2009-09-22T10:35:00.000+05:30

Do dreams really reflect what you are yearning for? Or is it just because I've been reading about Carl Jung that I've been consciously dreaming what I think I should be yearning for?

Else it would be difficult to explain a series of dreams in one single night where I have made up with people I'm having a strained relationship right now. Maybe it's just a sign of how complicated I have made my life.

Like one says Love Happens, I can't really say complications happen, no? Am sure there's some amount of agency in love as well as complications in life. We are ultimately responsible for our own joys and sorrows.

Why then is it taking me so much time to get out of this? And why don't I see a way out? Am I not looking in the right direction or am I not looking with the right attitude? Either way, I need more effort to soothe the hairs I have ruffled. Get to work with right spirit.

Faith

2009-09-21T11:18:00.001+05:30

Hola Mohalla, 2008

Pushkar, 2008

Eid at Jama Masjid, 2009

Monday, September 21, 2009. Eid Mubarak. Jama Masjid.

Feeling the power of thousands of people praying together is a humbling experience. Being a part of the crowd of devotees, watching them stand, sit, bow and rise as one sends a thrill down the spine. It triggers a streak of faith among atheists, togetherness among strangers and solace in a crowd.

Oblivious to shutterbugs, rolling cameras and pesky journalists, with ears trained only to hear the holy words booming from the microphone, the devout visit the Jama Masjid to celebrate Eid.

Despite being warned about 'selfish' crowds that would steamroll those ahead of them, I found the Jama Masjid fairly organised. Yes, there were crowds. But nothing unmanageable. Awe-inspiring but definitely nothing intimidating.

This was different from the crowds I encountered at Pushkar during the camel fair last year and the sea of turbans at Hola Mohalla/Anantpursahib last Holi.

Don't ask me what was different. I'm still thinking about it. At Pushkar, the crowds were channelised through narrow lanes and bylanes, jostling cattle, beggars and more. The roads were dirty for the most part. But there was a sense of chaos. Yes, that was absent at Jama Masjid today.

At Hola Mohalla, though it was not chaos, the crowd was overbearing. Just the sight of people wherever you turned your eyes was exhausting.

Maybe the space at mosque made all the difference. But whatever it was, it has got me hooked just the way Pushkar enticed me to return. I hope to go back to Jama Masjid for Eid next year, too.

Till then, may the power of faith keep us going through life. Ameen

A swim, a step and a lesson

2009-09-19T13:39:00.000+05:30

What's age got to do with doing what you love? Nothing, probably.

At least two people I have seen have inspired me to just give life your best shot and not bother about results. Both are in their late seventies and move about with the aid of walking sticks. They look like any other ageing people, who have lived their life and are now ready for the final journey. But something makes them different.

I saw one of them participating at a Shiamak Davar Institute of Performing Arts summer funk event. He was dancing with youngsters at least one third his age. His agility, spirit and moves out-shadowed those who performed that day. The flourish with which he took a bow with the other dancers in his group just sent the message home. When you are doing what you love, that's what matters most. The rest will fall in place. And mind you, he didn't touch his walking stick till he came up on stage to be introduced to the audience.

And the other person, I saw today at the pool. He was quite overweight. But that did not interfere with his strokes. He just swam with ease and pleasure. When I saw him leave the pool premises leaning on his walking stick, I couldn't help but decide that I would not give up till I reached my target of one kilometre today.

They probably will never know they have inspired somebody so much, but that only adds to the charm of what they do. For they do it for themselves.

I hope I can learn and imbibe this spirit of living life to the fullest, on my terms and living by example. My salute to both of them.

The Power of One

2009-09-19T10:16:00.001+05:30

Where there's a will, I guess a way finds itself. After an attempt to swim one km and falling shot by 400 metres on Thursday, it was a momentous pleasure to have achieved my target today... Of course, it helped that the body behaved by not cramping my dreams. Now, it will be a time-bound target. From one km in 65 minutes to faster and faster and faster ever more.

Pushing the limits, and pushing myself to the limits. May the spirit triumph.

Train to austerity derailed?

2009-09-17T10:12:00.000+05:30

Is the Congress taking the country for an 'Austerity' ride? Pranab Mukherjee's concerns about the economy may be well-placed, and his suggestions at austere measures may stem from genuine concerns about the country's treasure chest But isn't the party and the media going overboard with the whole campaign?

One wonders if all the hullabulloo about austerity is actually proving quite costly for those involved... The casualties are extending far and wide.

Austerity, ironically, comes at a price. Sometimes, you may end up spending less, while dealing a blow to others around you. At least Rahul Gandhi's train ride from Delhi to Amritsar on a Shatabdi will leave the Indian Railways thinking twice about hosting such elite guests in future.

When Rahul and his PR managers were planning his 'track' record, they may have made room for press photographers taking shots of him, but not arbitrary mischiefmongers taking potshots at him. And least of all, would they have given them credit for such good aim that broke windows of the air/conditioned train.

Now, the railways is stuck with a criticism of the security it provides to passengers, a bill for a broken window pane and some unasked-for publicity.

Some passengers who travelled on the 'un/fortunate' Shatabdi may be gushing at having been able to shake hands with Congress's Prince Charming, but many others may have just been put off by the delay caused by increased security checks, the surge of security personnel at an always crowded public place and so on and so forth.

The Congress may or may not have given much weight to Rashtriya Janata Dal president and Lok Sabha chief wit's comments on a return to the Gandhian way of travel -- and no, here we are not talking about the Gandhis of 10 Janpath, but about travelling general like the Mahatma. One just hopes the party gets over its need to express solidarity with the masses -- or as Shashi Tharoor may put it, the cattle classes -- in this way.

In fact, it may just benefit by practising these measure and not talking about them too much.

May be everyone will take more kindly to the austerity drive if it is not so in-your-face and overhyped. May be this will also fulfill some security requirements of the SPG, which has been having a tough time with Rahul's 'public display of affection' -- expressed sometimes by travelling in the Metro and at others by breaking security cordons to pet a crying child, or simply by taking the Shatabdi.

After all, if you have a price to pay for fame, you also pay the price for austerity instead of making the taxpayer pay for it. And limited publicity to the austerity drive, though it seems like PR harakiri at the outset, may go a longer way in helping the Congress connect with the common man and the common good.

YSR and after

2009-09-14T01:09:00.000+05:30

Scenes of outpourings of grief after the death of Andhra Pradesh chief minister Y.S. Rajasekhara Reddy (YSR) were indeed moving. Men, women, children, of every age and hue lined up in thousands to be part of his funeral procession. People committed suicide, said some newspapers. Many others died of shock. An overwhelming personality YSR must have been to have commanded so much power even in death and after. But the politicisation of grief is another genre altogether.

The Andhra home minister Sabita Indra Reddy went to pay her respects to YSR at the spot where his chopper crashed about a fortnight after his September 2 death. The gritty lady trekked four hours into the dense Nallamala forest to reach the crash site. She apparently went there, paid floral tributes to a portrait of YSR that was especially ferried there and shed copious tears in his memory. To keep her company were some hapless security personnel and government officials.

I seriously wonder what these people think when they do something as unnecessary and avoidable as this. I mean, if she really felt so strongly about going to the site of the accident, she should have just taken off on her own. Or better still, have convinced herself that YSR's spirit would be easily accessible in Hyderabad as in the hillock in Rudrakonda.

What a waste of resources, time, personnel and energy to escort her there, bear testimony to her tearful farewell to her leader and bring her back safely through the forests that are famous Naxal strongholds. Really!!

Such outpourings of grief at the cost of public servants and public funds is a pity.

Better than this seems building temples to honour him!

Villagers in several districts of Andhra Pradesh have come forward to donate money and build temples to worship YSR. Not a surprise, seeing that this is a country where we deify even the living -- after all Amitabh Bachchan and Rajnikanth have temples to their credits.

But the most ridiculous bit of sycophancy was to follow. A Tirupati Tirumala Devasthanam board member said, for Andhra, there is no God other than YSR.

Am not disputing the devotion the people of the state may have for YSR Nor am I criticisng their hero-worship. But I'd like to know what all the millions who travel miles to pray to Lord Venkateswara at Tirupati every year -- including the Ambanis and Bachchans of this world -- have to say to this TTD trust board member's comment!

May YSR's soul rest in peace, unaffected by and indifferent to all the tamasha being carried out in his name.

Amen

Electric moon

2009-08-04T10:17:00.000+05:30

An electric moon casts its beams over a sleeping world.
Its soothing rays exude the confidence of a guiding light.
A little child wakes up to a nightmare,
Sees the shining beauty and goes back to sleep reassured.
Lovers find a spot under a shady tree whose branches keep their secret safe from the electric moon’s snooping gaze.
A thief treads cautiously, keen to avoid its glare
But fails to escape its roving eye.
He feels let down by the miserable replica of the queen of the night.
He picks up a stone and throws it with a curse at this enemy of darkness and his personal nemesis.
A watchman gives chase just as the electric moon whirrs and splinters.
The illusion fades behind the clouds of an angry man’s revenge.
The still night reigns again.
A moonless sky mourns the loss of its companion of a few minutes.

30.07.09

Inspired by a night on a terrace with a very dear friend. A power shutdown ensured that the world around turned to nature for respite from the heat. Fanned by a gentle breeze, spurred by a Halogen bulb flickering on a distant terrace, this night and this poem changed life in more ways than one. The optimist in me hopes and prays that it changed only for the better. May God bless you.

Choices

2009-08-04T10:14:00.000+05:30

A word most often heard, most often ignored and most often blamed. Let our choices defend themselves.

We make our choices, we do what we want,
We overlook the barriers, forget that we can’t
Loved ones may be hurt by the decisions we take
Storms may brew because of the choices we make.
But remember this friend, this life is ours.
For joy or for sorrow, be aware of your powers.
Listen to your heart, you will be satisfied
At the end of the day, you’ll be glad you tried.

26/8/01

The Unspoken Word

2009-08-04T10:13:00.000+05:30

Time flies
And as it flies, it takes along with it
Winged memories;
Of days spent in togetherness and joy,
Of words of wisdom
That you have imparted to me,
Of lessons taught,
And things you have made me see.
Of secrets shared,
Both moments of pleasure and pain.
Today, as I send you birthday wishes,
The gift of this day dawns on me.
At the same time, I realise,
“Sweet songs are those that tell of saddest thought”
And behind the smile and joyful greeting,
Tears stalk the distance.
Your silence leaves me uncomforted…
The unspoken word reigns!

12.09.00

Misunderstood

2009-08-04T10:11:00.000+05:30

Again and again I stand accused of the same crime
Again and again I am judged by the same standards.
I try to explain my position
And am accused; of not compromising or compromising too much.
I move on, with Damocles’s curse hanging over my head;
A garland woven out of shreds of your heart
Weighing heavily around my neck
I bow to ease the pain.
You think it is a sign of shame.
You think I plead guilty to your charges.
I know the pain of losing a loved one’s trust for no justified reason
I know for this is not the first time.
Either way, it is a defeat for both of us
Either way, we are both scarred for life.

Thus spake the hills of Ladakh

2009-03-13T17:04:00.001+05:30

“The hills are alive with the sound of music”, or so I always thought. My visit to Ladakh changed that perception forever. The ear-splitting silence of the brown, rugged mountains echoed throughout the journey, opening my eyes to a lot more than the snow-capped peaks in the distance, the lush green patches of grasslands around Thikse and horses strutting along a crystal stream near Pangong Lake.
I was meant to visit a sister lost in her calling helping special people cope with the rigours of existence in the mountains. But from the moment the Jet Airways airplane touched the tarmac at Leh and the pilot announced the altitude, the cold morning breeze that passed through me was full of a message... here was something that would change my life.
After a rest that seemed to stretch into eternity more because of my excitement than the prolonged three hours, the hot gur gur chai (a pink tea with salt and Amul butter that makes a gur gur sound as it is made!!) pulled me back to my feet. With utter disregard for the blazing July sun, I set out to explore the house. Now, that was some fun. What with a ‘sun room’ (with what else but access to bright sunshine on a cold afternoon), bright, pretty flowers, wooden walls and a nice well-kept garden, it seemed like a house out of a picture book.
The first day was devoted to the neighbourhood, because of what my sister claimed could be an attack of altitude sickness. And then, there was no stopping us. We walked around the city of Leh, meeting her friends, sipping gur gur chai where offered and licking softees at other places. The quaint homes, the view of the mountains no matter where you stood, and at nightfall, the dense carpet of stars spreading across the universe — every step was a revelation.
But what was most disquieting at first, and which I grew to love by the time I was ready to leave, was the silence.
The people, though, were far from silent. The shopkeepers greeted tourists, particularly foreigners, with a friendly ‘juley (hello!)’, loudspeakers blared rhythmic chants, drivers blew horns as they sped through the narrow zigzag roads. But despite that, the mountains seemed to have enveloped the whole world in a shroud of stillness.
At night, the old fort in the middle of the town sent off eerie lights, as if twinkling with the reminiscences of the lives of kings and queens long dead and gone.
When we went visiting villages in Ladakh, there was more thand the scenic beauty to be enjoyed. There were some lessons to be learnt as well.
I met a differently-abled 10-year-old who had to be carried to and fro her house and school by her brother, until the students decided to get together to make it easier for her and her parents by building a path across the intermittent streams and the stony slopes.
I visited a village where people had to hike four hours across a mountain to reach any semblance of civilization. Loads of wood on their back only contributed to the strength of their spirit. I miserably failed when it came to transporting my little knapsack on the same journey!
I also met a man who had lost all his limbs when he was a child. For a living, he made paper packets with his mouth; and for life, he taught others to do the same with a smile on his weather-beaten face.
(Today, Ka Iqbal is one of the recipients of the CNN IBN Real Heroes Award for his role in helping make physically challenged people self-dependent. http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/111527/handicapped-ladakh-man-seeks-new-challenges.html)
I met children who carried huge buckets of water day in and day out from a stream almost two kilometres from their house. I also met people young and old, travelling on foot, no matter whether it was hot or cold. And through it all, they smiled and sang, in a language I tried hard to relate to. But probably, the comfort of an urban upbringing had dimmed my vision and closed my ears.
Watching over all this, were the huge, barren mountain ranges, towered over by azure skies, each more lifeless than the other. Yet, each seemed to be belittled by the power of human courage, which had strived not just to survive the difficult terrains and weather, but also to live a meaningful life.
Oftentimes I wonder if I am insensitive to not want to go back to Ladakh and serve these Titans of courage. Then, a voice calls out from the depths of my existence. Every time I crib about the heat or the pollution, about a headache or a muscle pull, I give silent thanks to the almighty spirit of humanity that I do not have to trek across an endless mountain with a huge bundle of logs on my back to return to the warmth of a gur gur chai and a cozy bukhari.

(Written some time between my Ladakh trip in June 2002 and August 2006)

On the way to hyderabad — second sunrise of 2009

2009-01-21T22:40:00.000+05:30

Ball of fire, can I hold you in my palm?

Red, round and brilliant —

Why don't you climb down from the horizon

Wade through the sea of fog

And step into my heart?